We sailed out of Helford two weeks behind schedule, holiday delayed owing to continued bad health, June 12th, 1970.

The first objective was Penberth Cove, near Porthcurno and Lands End, but we had to put into Mullion after rounding the Lizard because of head wind. Pat was knocked about quite a bit here, alongside the harbour wall with a run of sea coming in. After two days the weather moderated and I crossed Mounts Bay to Penberth. Here amongst friends again, pulled up the cobbled slipway by electric winch, Pat and I settled for an indeterminate period.

After some two weeks my health improved and I decided to cruise North Cornwall. I had all the charts and sailing directions.

We rounded Lands End in thick fog and tacking against light airs. The tyfon on the Longships was creating a terrific din, but the lighthouse could not be seen. I was tacking out into the fog, back to get a glimpse of the cliffs and rocks, until the wind died completely and I had to use the paddle to get round the western extremity of Lands End. The fog began to clear and I could look back and see the Longships, whilst a light breeze sprang up and I could set a course on one tack for Sennen Cove. Glancing astern, the big black fin of a shark was trailing about 12 feet away. The brute, no doubt only a basking shark, was definitely following Pat, either for company or in hope of some edible jetsam. I entered Sennen Cove harbour about half flood, and went ashore to telephone the coastguard of safe arrival. Saved the trouble, as just then the coastguard drove up in his car and told me he had been watching from the cliff top my brief appearances out of the fog. I had been keeping pretty close inshore in shallow water to avoid being run down by something like the Torrey Canyon!

Old Mr. Nicholas, the harbourmaster of my visit ten years earlier, had died and his son had succeeded him. I had an introduction to Mr. Pengilly, the lifeboat coxswain (brother-in-law of my friend the lifeboat mechanic at Coverack), so was soon amongst friends again.

A bit of tummy trouble and I was told that the doctor would have his surgery that day at Sennen Chucktown up the steep hill. Nothing seriously wrong. “Come out to my car,” he said, and opened the boot to reveal an assortment of bottles of all shapes and sizes and colours, picked out one for me, and that certainly cured the trouble. The fishermen had to make their standing joke that you get the same medicine for all complaints but the colours are different for variety.

Off again, I set a course for St Ives or Portreath or possibly Newquay, with a fine broad-reaching wind and a spring-tide current of some two knots. The harbourmaster, out with his big crabber, saw me weathering the Brisons and was concerned about the tide setting me on them. I knew I had sufficient sea-room, but came up a point or so in answer to his urgent shouts.

Avoiding the race off Botallack Head and rounding Pendeen, I set course for Newquay, tearing along at some 6.5 knots in these favourable conditions. I left the Stones whistle-buoy so far to starboard that I heard it but did not see it, past the landmarks of Man and his Man and Carters Rocks, and decided on the River Gannel just before Newquay; no harbour dues and a snug berth in the upper expanse like an inland lake. We went in close to the rocky shore of Crantock Bay to avoid the great Atlantic rollers coming in over the bar most of the way across. I saw a tiny motorboat in the rough water and its helmsman shouted to me about avoiding some rocks, but, as I told him, I knew the entrance from ten years back. He had been as surprised to see me as I was to see him in these hectic conditions; later he said I appeared to be sailing a Minisail as all he could see was the sails and me!

The joy of coming into smooth sheltered water! As the river opened out I rounded the big M.G.B. Ada and was greeted by old friends aboard.

I had to leave the Gannel at high tide, as this is the only time it is normally possible to do so. Around to Newquay, and we anchored at tiny Tithy Cove just outside the harbour, to await low tide for the next leg to Padstow or beyond.

Again I had a fair wind and tide, and made good time to Trevose Head, from where it was a run to Port Isaac or Boscastle. I ploughed along ‘wing and wing’, almost planing, intent on avoiding a gybe or broaching to. The Ordnance Survey showed a tiny cove, Port William, between Port Isaac and Boscastle, so I decided to see if it was possible to land there. Actually, there is no such place as Port William here: I have not yet sorted out why it is shown. I went in to have a look at a narrow cove which appeared to have a few boats and had to go in too close for comfort on a lee shore, deciding it could not be done.

Tacking out again in rough water below the cliffs (near Tintagel) I thought I heard, faint in the distance, three maroons fired. I immediately thought, “I hope they are not sending the lifeboat after me.” Well, in about half an hour, there was the little inshore rescue craft circling me; three yellow-oilskin clad occupants, one obviously in radio contact with the shore. I told them I was not in trouble, but thanked them for their solicitude. It seems that the Port Isaac coastguard had been concerned about my safety, watching me through the glasses in the turbulent sea, and then a local resident on the cliff top had seen me disappear from his view under the cliff and had phoned the coastguard. I should have sent up a flare if in trouble, but learnt the lesson that one should not only keep out of trouble, but also keep out of even the appearance of being in danger. The rescue craft continued circling at a distance, loathe to leave me, then came back and asked if I would not like a tow into port. I replied that it would look rather bad to go in towed by a lifeboat. However, thinking quickly, I realised that I was really keeping them out there, and that on my own I should have a hard beat and arrive after dark, so I accepted their kind offer.

Arriving in Port Isaac, I found the harbour and cliffs lined by people viewing the gallant rescue: at least they got their money’s worth in their holiday! Three stout fishermen said they would haul me up the harbour beach, started to heave on my anchor warp, but only strained the polypropylene. Again, I found friends amongst these genuine fisher-folk.

Out from Port Isaac and headed for Boscastle, rounding Tintagel Head. The entrance, around Great Meachard Rock and between Willapak and Penally Point, was a seething cauldron of tumbling white water with the onshore wind. I knew where the entrance was from chart and pilot book, but going in close could see no break in the solid cliff face. I could not chance going further onto a lee shore in case I might be wrong, so tacked back through the boiling entrance to a fisherman dropping crab pots. He raised his arm and pointed exactly where I had been, so I returned, and when it seemed I was almost touching the cliff, the narrow channel opened to port. I came to rest inside the inner breakwater in utter peace and calm. Pat settled gently on soft kelp as the tide ran out.

I found that Bude harbour was closed owing to rough weather, so Lundy Island was definitely out. I should have needed some two knots of spring tide to do the 35 miles in one hop, and it being around neaps, we would have arrived in the dark.

So it was ‘Homeward Bound’. I had fancied putting into Hawkers Cove, Padstow, as there is a narrow channel from Stepps Point between the Doom Bar and the cliffs which had a few feet of water at low tide, and I should arrive near low tide. I had to tack up this channel till it narrowed too much for tacking, and I had to get out the Seagull for the last hundred yards or so.

There is no sailing club here as stated in the pilot book; that departed with the R.A.F. depot at the end of the war. Just a disused lifeboat house and a row of ex-coastguard cottages with one well kept crabber in the cove.

From Hawkers Cove, tacking again in rough seas and wind gusting from force 0 to force 8, we rounded Trevose Head after losing the burgee staff overboard when it broke. Still adverse and unstable winds and breaking seas, and Pat opened what had been a slight leak around the C.B. case. I decided to put in to Newquay Harbour, but, arriving at low tide, had to anchor off till the tide made. I veered sufficient warp to swing to a M.F.V. also waiting to get in, tied up and went aboard. What a relief to get out of the foot or so of water in Pat and into the shelter of their half-cabin. My alarm clock had fallen into the water in the boat, and the sloshing water had searched out every nook and cranny except where things were tied securely in heavy plastic bags or under the decks in hammocks.

I beached Pat at the top of the tide in the sandy harbour, amongst throngs of holidaymakers. Then the harbour was closed because of rough weather, so I could not get out for three days.

When pleasure and fishing craft started moving again, I used the Seagull to take me once more around into the Gannel, to the dismay of local fishermen, who thought the weather still too rough for this tricky bit. The old outboard performed faultlessly for 1.25 hours, mostly against a strong headwind with spray flying in my face and Pat slamming her forefoot down on the water. I had everything set to go over to sail quickly should the plug oil up, as in Crantock Bay we should have a close and rocky lee shore.

Once more in the peace of the upper Gannel, I prepared to work on the leak. Nearly all gear was stowed ashore under a tiny tent on the old quay, bottom-boards were up, black varnish was scraped away to the bare wood, glue and everything were ready. Then the Aerolite powder was solid from seepage, although the lid was tightly closed! I raced across the tiny footbridge exposed at low tide into Newquay (a mile each way) and came back with more glue, then repaired the leaks. But due to the delay the tide came in before the glue was properly set and I had most of the work to do again next day.

Waving farewell to Ada, we set out for Portreath or St. Ives or possibly Sennen, with a very light following wind past St. Agnes Head to Man and his Man, where the wind died. Slatting about in the confused sea, the forestay chainplate parted, so I had to get on a lashing with nothing to hold onto. Just in time too, for gusts of wind broke out from ahead, making it a dead beat to St. Ives. I had a worrying time tacking in these unsteady winds with the sails bellowing out due to the slack forestay. One tack was taking me straight for Portreath, so with a little more tacking just off the harbour entrance in fluky winds we got in between rocks and pier with the tide swirling out and the wind blowing out.

As the tide receded, Pat was left in temporary safety, settled amongst a litter of boulders. I hung the anchor on an iron ladder and went ashore for milk. With the flood, I went on into the middle harbour, and with the help of the men of the only fishing-boat I tied-up across the corner of the harbour. The weather outside deteriorated, with groundswell coming in, so fishermen moved me to the inner harbour, loaning their own 180 ft. of mooring-rope the length of the harbour, and finally rolling down a rope-sided ladder with a heaving-line so that I could get ashore. I am making them an R.D.F. set for the larger crabber they have just bought, which is now here in Lelant harbour a long way astern of me, whilst they fit out and prepare to lay-up for the winter.

Towed out of Portreath by the crabber, they left me in very light air, but, unfortunately, in a counter-current, so that I made no headway for several hours. I finally got out the faithful Seagull, with assorted curses whilst untangling it from under the bed, and motored around into Hayle. We had to go through part of the race off Godrevy Lighthouse, which had built up due to the delay. I had a job locating the two small black buoys marking Hayle Bar; the chart shows them as barrels, whilst in fact they are double-cones. I followed a fishing-boat into the channel against the late ebb and tied up a few yards from the busy A30 road through Hayle.

Next day I used the engine to go out and around into Lelant harbour. I fell in love with the village, its tiny white railway station nestling amongst trees at the water’s edge, its little train doing the scenic trip to St. Ives (for 2/3d. return) in nine minutes.

Here Pat has folded her wings and come to rest, already amongst friends. Lelant harbour is a nature reserve, the responsibility of the Wildfowl Protection Trust.