Last summer a kind friend who is a marine biologist invited me to stay for ten days in his flat, part of a Georgian House in a fascinating part of old Plymouth. His work at Plymouth’s magnificent marine biology laboratory was nearly finished and his wife and family had returned home to Scotland. My family was in Italy, so we could revert to bachelor days!

We had agreed to meet at the flat at 1800 hrs on the first evening but, as I did not know the city at all, I arrived at noon, located the flat and had a pint and a sandwich at a nearby pub; then, bearing in mind the old army maxim “Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted”, set about trying to find a suitable berth for Bee, my Wayfarer dinghy. By 1500 hrs I had arranged with a typically kind west-countryman to moor Bee alongside his pontoon, for no charge at all “as she is only a dinghy”, and this only four minutes walk from the flat. Next I took Bee to the public launching slip and left her there while I went round to make the acquaintance of the secretary of the “Royal Western”. I received a most courteous welcome, as indeed we did whenever we called in during our holiday.

So it was that my friend found me at 1800 hrs. sitting in my caravan car outside his flat, reading and indulging in a gin and tonic, in which latter occupation he joined me for a while before we went off to launch Bee and take her to her berth. It was a lovely evening, and my friend turned out to be an excellent cook and my bed supremely comfortable. Life indeed was good.

Plymouth certainly affords some very varied sailing. The comparative shelter of the Sound kept us occupied for a couple of days, H.M.Y. Britannia at anchor affording an extra interest. Cawsand we found a fascinating port of call with adequate beaches and a good little snack restaurant at the top of the main one. We had a few anxious moments avoiding bathers at times, and here particularly we appreciated the value of inflatable rollers.

Our first venture outside the breakwater took us eastward past the Mewstone and a very little way up the Yealm River. We had visited Newton Ferrers the evening before by road and had an excellent meal at the hotel overlooking the lovely anchorage off Ferry Point, so we did not want to indulge in any fighting of wind and tide — besides, there were hundreds of little pilchard eggs up at that laboratory about to hatch any moment and needing my friend’s care! So we turned back with the tide, and how it does rush in through the gaps in the breakwater; the difference in the level of water between inside and out must be a good two feet at times. There was a positive rapid, preceded by quite a steep swell, as we sailed, just making headway, through the gap in the ‘obstruction’ between Drake’s Island and the Mount Edgcombe shore — quite exciting.

Two days later we set out for the River Erme. It was a perfect day and with a light southerly wind and flood tide we slipped along quite fast, staying close inshore. The coast scenery was very lovely and we noticed a number of little beaches ideal for bathing, but quite deserted. The entrance to the Erme is really most picturesque and we noted it for visiting if possible next year; this time alas we could not stay — next year I’ll fix any little pilchard eggs on the day that I arrive — and we had to motor out, for there was no wind in the river. There was precious little outside, but we did manage to sail back to within some three hundred yards of the east gap in the breakwater, with the aid of the spinnaker. We had to motor again over the strong ebb in the Sound and having just got through that gap by Drake’s Island we ran out of fuel; desperate refilling of its tank got the little Evinrude going again only just in time to avoid being driven back on to the great blank East Vanguard Buoy. Snugged in to our berth a few minutes later, we reckoned it had taken us about three and a quarter hours to get to the Erme and about five hours to come back, and, by the course we had taken, we must have covered some thirty miles.

One misty, blowy morning we set off to explore up the River Tamar. The first part of the journey was full of interest on account of the variety of naval vessels around Devonport Dockyard; interest in one of these, in fact, led to my receiving a crack on the head from the boom and the loss overboard of my cap; however, after earning a just rebuke from my crew on lapsing into ‘very ancient British’, we managed to rescue the cap and proceed little the worse, except that I had to keep my waterproof hood up, and I always dislike anything that interferes with my hearing. The sun had by now dispersed the mist and the wind had eased, so we thought we would digress and go a little way up the River Tavy; but alas, I had discarded my releasable forestay in favour of a fixed one, and we dared not risk contact with the railway bridge. Barely avoiding getting stuck on the mud, we came about and continued up the Tamar as far as the little quay by Pentille Castle. The scenery up here was lovely, though there was quite a lot of weed and driftwood in the water, and we would have liked to have gone on much further, but we hoped that H.M.S. Fearless, with my nephew, her communications officer, on board, would have arrived in the Sound in the course of the afternoon; so we turned about and made our way with a steady breeze on the starboard bow downstream. The tide had started to flood when we reached the new Tamar Bridge and we had quite a job getting through; it was gusty below, and when we got into the Sound it was blowing quite hard. Fearless was there, and we finished our day with quite a wild sail round her and back — too much wind for any communication! However, we made contact later by phone, and my nephew joined us for dinner that evening at the ‘Royal Western’.

Next day, with hot sun and a fine full mainsail breeze, we took a Dutch friend from the laboratory and met my nephew at the little harbour by the Yacht Club. He had Fearless’s Bosun dinghy and an enormous packed lunch, so we sailed across to Cawsand, over-ate and slept awhile in the sun. Rested, we sailed out through the west entrance and along towards the Mewstone before coming in again at the opposite end of the breakwater. The wind was fairly strong and gusty and our Dutch friend had a nasty habit of trying to make the mainsheet fast round the tiller when I let him take the helm! — I had lent my friend as crew to my nephew.

That evening we went aboard Fearless, taken out by Liberty Boat rather than sailing in Bee, for we feared the effect of Naval hospitality on our navigating abilities on the return trip! Before dinner we had a personally conducted tour all over the ship, which was a remarkable experience — the communications officer’s equipment alone is valued at three and a half million pounds! Two things stick in my mind particularly: the size of the enormous kind of marine garage, which seemed to constitute most of the central part of the ship, and the bridge, which was so high that one felt a sitting target for any enemy within a hundred miles! However, we were made most welcome, perhaps partly due to the excellent Dutch cigars which our friend brought with him.

On our last dry we went out for Looe, having made a ‘recce’ of the entrance and harbour one wet day previously. It was another glorious day, but the wind was very light, southerly, so we motored to the breakwater; however, off Rame Head we were becalmed, so we rowed into the little cove just east of the head and had our lunch. Perverse as ever under such circumstances, the wind piped up again as soon as we started to eat, so the meal was hurried and we rowed out again and went on our way. The beaches in this direction were much more extensive and quite crowded, except below a rifle range. The flood tide made itself felt while we were still short of Downderry, so we decided to sail gently home, Looe being out of the question by now. We called in at Cawsand for a farewell visit and a meal, and as we left a cheerful little wind got up, so we went a little way up the Tamar before taking Bee to her berth for the last time. Here we met a cruising Cat whose sole occupant appeared to be a man lying asleep before the cabin; seeing our looks of horror this figure lazily raised its hands which held two rudder lines — all right in a Cat I suppose! Half an hour later we were walking home in the moonlight.

Two things in particular I learnt on this holiday: first the value of a drum for the anchor warp, and, secondly, the fact that my little 3 h.p. Evinrude stows, with a minimum of inconvenience, clamped beneath the thwart, shaft alongside the centreboard casing — a most satisfactory arrangement, and never a sign of a leak.