Having spent the last few years’ holidays cruising the west coast I thought I should devote 1966 to my local water in case I forgot the way through the Solent or into Poole. There was a rally in Southampton Water on Whit Sunday so on the Friday evening I battled my way through the heavy traffic southward to Christchurch with my old fourteen footer Jady Lane under the clear sky of a welcome anticyclone.

The journey was tiring so when I had launched and parked the car and trailer I walked up town and indulged myself in a restaurant supper, then rowed back to my sleeping bag. The sun was soon shining again but as I finished my breakfast and prepared picnic lunch the wind grew strong from the east and I knew my chances of reaching the Solent were grim. I let go about 1100, which gave me the best chance of crossing Christchurch Bay and passing Hurst Point. I sailed down the harbour and used my Seagull to assist me through the narrows at Mudiford. Once outside, the struggle began. For the next two hours I bashed against a strong head wind covering my tiny ship with water. I tried a mile offshore, and I tried along the beach, but always I was bailing my bilges. Half way across the bay I realised that it was taking so long that I could not reach Hurst Point before the tide turned and that my attempt had failed. I was reluctant to give up because my attendance record was not good. Of course, I could have gone by road, but I do like to arrive at a rally afloat. When she came round to face westward, suddenly there was peace, little noise, no spray. My boat and the elements were in harmony, only the disappointment of another black mark at the rally spoiled my contentment.

There was no time to attempt the passage the next day so I sailed past Hengistbury Head and on across Bournemouth Bay to Poole. Inside the harbour the sun was warm and I sailed quietly along the west side of Brownsea Island seeking shelter from the east wind and a place to sling my hook for the night. When I had selected my spot, I lowered my canvas and brewed my afternoon tea; after dozing for a while, I assembled my coracle and rowed over to the island. The last time I did this I trespassed. This time it was good to know I had a right to walk among those beautiful trees and listen to the busy chatter of so many birds. True, I had not paid my two bob, but I had not seen the warden. After a splendid supper of stewed steak and fresh vegetables I was glad there was no pub to go to for that evening was a wonderful sunset; and where better to watch it than over Dorset in lounging position in a cruising dinghy with a mug of strong coffee and a tot of Scotch.

That night, which had started so peaceful, became most uncomfortable when a slight shift of wind exposed my anchorage. A little choppy sea danced along the bilges while the coracle crashed alongside at irregular intervals. I took every action I could think of without getting out of my sleeping bag but none made any difference. Since that night I have been studying suggested methods of holding dinghies "off". The alternative, if you can’t forecast a calm night, is leave the creeks to the birds and get tightly tied to some town quay.

The morning sun came to stay for the day but the wind was cool, strong and from the east. I had never been to Wareham and since this looked a good day to crawl a ditch I sailed westward on the morning flood and by midday was buried between the high reeds of the narrow river. Sheltered from the wind the sun was hot and I began to wonder why I was not outside enjoying the open sea. Then I remembered my struggle of the previous day and contented myself to laze and drift. Any fears I had about sailing down river against the wind disappeared with the ebb for I was quickly swept back to the wide mud flats now rapidly appearing each side of the Wareham channel.

The wild coast around Gold Point looked attractive with some swimming, some fishing, some skiing and all happy so I dropped my hook and enjoyed my tea. Later, and on the last of the ebb, I sailed slowly down to Poole Quay with its filthy water and crowds of yachts but with all ‘mod cons’ and guaranteed shelter. The big boats moor here three and four abreast and I have often found I can lie comfortably between the bows of one lot and the sterns of the next. I make fast a long line to one outside boat then paddle myself back to make the other end fast to the next outside boat, with a line stretched from one to the other I then pull my little ship to the middle of the line and secure it bow and stern. The old quay has more charm than can be hidden by the whelk stalls or the coal handling gantry. Its not every cruiser’s idea of a mooring, but I always enjoy a night there. Of course I get the “you can't tie that thing there” look from the owner of the big boat but after I have spent a quiet hour in the privacy of my folding cabin with my supper, he accepts that I will be no trouble and by morning I am one of the family.

Back to Christchurch was my plan for the next day which started bright but became dull about noon as I motored out into the harbour with all my sails at the ready but not hoisted. At Sandbanks I was straight into a fresh wind and at low water I had to pick my way between the mud banks. Even throttled back, the choppy little sea was covering her with spray and I had doubts about my chances once outside. Under the lee of North Haven Point I ran the carburettor dry and set a little sail. In a flash I was rushing across towards Brownsea Castle and had my hands full to get her sorted out to start tacking through the entrance. The tide was slack and only the chain ferry had my attention. Once clear of the peninsular I chanced the shallows and steered easterly. This is the shortest way onto Poole Bay but Hook Sands puts up a little rough when encouraged by a southerly at low water and into this I pounded. The thought of smoother water beyond encouraged me to ride it out and I was rewarded for the next eight miles was grand sailing with waves just deep enough to move the coast from my sight but smooth enough on top to keep her dry inside. I lunched at the tiller and dropped a hook inside Christchurch Harbour in time to brew my afternoon tea. The wind held to carry me up to the club mooring and I unfolded my cabin to close a good day's sail.

Things to do ashore delayed my next day’s sailing until 1600. It was a beautiful evening and the tide and breeze were set for Wight. So beautiful was the sailing in Christchurch Bay that I set a course for the Needles to make the passage longer, but as I approached the banks of shingle which guard Alum Bay, the wind died, leaving me five miles from Yarmouth and only one hour to my supper. I drifted along the west side of the Shingle to keep clear of any ship and used the engine through Hurst and round to Yarmouth, while the sun set big round and red. To save time I managed to get the sail stowed and lots of the little jobs required to convert an open dinghy into a comfortable place to eat and sleep, while the Seagull chugged me into the Solent. After nosing between two boats which appeared unoccupied I tied the bow to the new pier by the bridge in Yarmouth Harbour, made fast the stern to a buoy and disappeared below. There was just time after washing up and making my bed to row ashore for a last drink.

The morning forecast was f4-5 from the west, my plan was to sail through the Solent, an area I had neglected for several years, but the tide was inconvenient and the wind made it too easy; instead I sailed out past Hurst bound for Poole. This decision was either a brainstorm or a search for revenge against a similar headwind that had robbed me of the Whitsun rally a few days before. Whichever it was it proved one of the toughest days I have spent at sea. To Hengistbury Head conditions were reasonable and she carried all but one reef in the main. Before Southbourne I rolled the mizzen away to reduce weather helm which had grown too strong, I was also getting tired of baling, which had increased to about every half hour. The sky was clear but everything around me was soaked. The sea increased and more of it came over green and more of it seemed to find its way under the cover I have over my upturned coracle, and which is intended to keep 'em out. I was divided between reducing sail and increasing the time, or sticking it out as fast as the old lady would go. In mile-long tacks I passed Bournemouth, and when the hotel on Sandbanks peninsular was ‘conspic’ I knew I had won the day. I lowered a sodden foresail and stuffed it below, then relaxed in comparative calm. She now had only a part of her main left flying so the crossing of the Hook Sand was a slow job. Once round the corner, the going up Poole Harbour was easy except for a sharp look out for the mud, because one can’t have a favourable tide across Poole Bay without finding the harbour empty of water. I tied up at the town quay and soon had the primus roaring, steam must have poured out from the cover but my bed was dry and I slept a sound night.

The wind stayed fresh and westerly the following day, so my return to the Solent was no trouble. I passed too close to Hengistbury Head for comfort forgetting the sea that this wind can create over the Beerpan Rocks. For a few minutes the waves that followed my little boat were frightening. Each appeared high enough to swamp me, but every time I closed my eyes her stern rose to the crest then roared down the leeward slope.

As I approached Hurst the wind strengthened and before I entered Yarmouth for the second time a rough night was brewing. By morning there was a full gale and as I walked along the harbour wall towards the town to shop I could see the Solent boiling with white foam and not a sail in sight. For forty eight hours I was pinned within the sheltering walls of Yarmouth harbour, for it was afternoon of the next day that I hoisted a little sail to cross the Solent to the Beaulieu entrance, where I dropped anchor to wait for the flood before sailing up past Gypsy Moth IV and on in the evening sun to Buckler’s Hard where I tied up alongside a member’s boat that moors in that beautiful part of the river.

Before I left on the next clear and bright morning I checked over the cruising dinghy I had laid alongside. All was secure, so I let go on the ebb and sailed slowly down river and out into the Solent past the bird-infested Beaulieu Spit. If I had one good day’s sailing before me for every gull on the Spit I would be content, for there is not room for one more nest.

Across to Egypt Point and round Old Castle Point the sailing was fine and I was bound for Wootton Creek. Avoiding the incoming car ferry I rounded the outer beacon and tightened my cloth to make my approach. My last visit to this delightful spot was several years before but the master who was active in his dinghy remembered my boat as well as I remembered his sun-tanned face. There had been changes, the ferry ramp had been improved and a sailing club house had been built but the mooring and the friendly welcome had not changed. The pub had improved and the club house provided telephone and water.

Time was running short and after a swim and a sailor-size breakfast I cast off west bound to Cowes to shop. For the first time in my many visits to that sailing centre I found the public slip. It is at the end of the promenade, and how I had missed it on previous occasions I don't know. Re-loaded with stores and after a picnic lunch I sailed towards Gurnard Bay and into a fresh wind I made a good tack to Lepe then turned to return to the isle but the tide was growing eastward and on that clear sunlit day I tacked to and fro across the Solent getting nowhere but enjoying some grand sailing. It was not the first time I have tried to sail against the wind and the Solent tide and, like the other times, I failed.

As the evening sky grew red I made for Newtown Creek for a quiet supper and sleep. I motored up and then down a line of moored boats and selected the largest available space for the night. Before I had a hold the skipper of the next boat was appealing for room to swing. This I thought unreasonable, but I offered to move and kedged a few yards away then disappeared into my instant cabin. My reluctance to argue may have reflected on my neighbour’s conscience, because halfway through my evening meal he rowed across in his dinghy to suggest that I might be over a dangerous stake and to advise me to move a little closer to his boat. Politely I thanked him for his help and before crawling into my sleeping bag dropped back to the spot I had first chosen.

The next was my last day and Jady Lane slipped out into the Solent in a light sou’westerly under a grey sky. Pulled high up the shingle near the Newtown entrance was a dinghy close to a little tent, a dinghy cruiser if ever I saw one but I could see no sign of the Association burgee and only my reluctance to stop a boat with her sails full of wind prevented me from landing to sell him a membership.

The course to Hurst Point was too close and I had to settle for the Keyhaven direction, this I held until way past the Castle then tacked for open water. The tide was right and she was quickly through the narrows and bound for Christchurch. It was one of those rare occasions when, with the tiller lashed, she would sail the desired course alone. Having got everything set I climbed on to the fore deck and lent out over the bow looking back at my empty boat carving her own way across the bay. Fascinated by what I could see I continued to suspend myself from the forestay until suddenly I realised I had no life-line and that should I go in I would have no chance to regain my boat which, if she missed Swanage, was all set for the Channel. Hurriedly, but with great care, I returned to the cockpit, settled on the floor to shelter from the wind and opened a can of beer before my picnic lunch.

I like my last day to be a good sail and this I had had. I had devoted my holiday to my local water and had enjoyed it as much as any to which I had trailed many miles: the sea is the same and if the area is suitable for small boat sailing I often doubt if it’s worth wasting time towing a trailer.