It began like most cruises seem to, by being too ambitious. It was to have been to Copenhagen via the Eider river and Kiel Canal — in the wake of the ‘Falcon’ and with a little of Riddle of the Sands thrown in — but ended by being a cross-channel jaunt in the wake of many a more mundane sailor than Knight/Childers. The only really interesting thing left about our proposed trip was the boat — an 18’ Drascombe Lugger Witch of Endor, the fibreglass version from Henner Marine. She had been finished by myself, and now boasted an increased sail area (including spinnaker), tent, folding hood just aft of the main mast, full navigational gear and all home comforts, including a cooker in gimbals. The only fault the Witch has, in common with many boats her size, was that she can be rather slow, especially to windward. So, with our time limited to a week, we were prepared to use the outboard to keep up to schedule — and out of trouble, should the weather deteriorate rapidly whilst at sea. We were, after all, in an open boat.

Provisioned and somewhat nervous, we left Weymouth on July 5th at 0600, motoring out of the harbour but then quickly setting all sail, including spinnaker, to the light north-easterly wind. We were away, and because of our boat we felt that this was a cruise out of the ordinary, and indeed expected cheering crowds en-route, never mind when we arrived!

The day passed pleasantly enough, after clearing the Shambles with the hard west-going tide carrying us down Channel until Portland Bill was directly astern as it disappeared into the haze. Course was for Cherbourg — unknown waters to us both. The wind gradually eased and headed, until by 1500 we had to resort to motor, having made only one mile in the preceding hour. We had kept the spinnaker going on the close reach but this undoubtedly set us down to leeward more than anticipated, for when land was sighted at 1730 at about 15-20 miles distance, we were well downwind of Cherbourg. I then compounded the error by changing course for the land to try and positively identify it, and then altered course again when I realised where we were.

We were now some 5 miles offshore and it was getting dusk, the pencil slim light of Cap de la Hague sharp against the sunset. With the wind still a light easterly and the tide now ebbing, we decided to conserve fuel — which we felt might be needed later — by sailing as well as we could to try and stem the tide; something the Witch managed to do, staying in one spot relative to the land while we kept watches and brewed up on the stove. It was a cold night enlivened only by the usual coaster dodging. The tide changed at midnight and we began to make towards Cherbourg, but unfortunately the wind also began to rise fairly quickly to force 5-6 easterly. This against the tide produced a vicious short sea, and progress towards the light of Port de l’Ouest, faltered as we reduced sail and sagged off to leeward.

The point was reached when the Witch would no longer go to windward effectively, and we started the Penta. Then followed a precarious three hours whilst we made our way across the tearing seas, lit by the fitful rising moon, the crew pumping out the crests that broke aboard. It was too difficult to change the helm, so for those three hours I sat there, steering blindly for our refuge, avoiding as best I could the breaking seas, one hand gripping a gunwale that repeatedly submerged itself into the strangely warm sea.

We made the entrance at last, plunging into the relative shelter of the Rade de Cherbourg, where I thankfully changed places with my pumping crew, and bent on our Q flag and courtesy ensign. The crossing had taken 22 hours.

Cherbourg that morning looked delightful. The sun was up by the tine we had found a space between two yachts on the pontoons and erected the tent. British yachts seemed to predominate — no doubt partly due to the duty free. We utilised the excellent facilities at the yacht club to shower and rinse our clothes, were quickly dismissed by the plump customs officers, and returned to find another large yacht trying to elbow between us and our neighbour and assessing loudly that “there’s enough room there for the Queen Mary.” Although small, I didn’t like the Witch being used as a king-sized fender, and said so. We ended up with a few inches between our gunwale and his side, and one of their large fenders bulging into the tent!

Other people though were very kind, and we received varied advice on our next stage to the Channel Islands. First though we spent one night in Omonville, just grounding a little on the shingle as the tide fell, but a lot more sheltered than the wildly steering yachts moored further out.

Next day, Tuesday, we cleared at 0700 under motor round Cap de la Hague to reap the full benefit of the tide through Alderney Race. Sark, Guernsey and Alderney were all clearly visible as we cut through the overfalls close inshore and hoisted sail to the force 3 south-westerly. Close reaching, we managed to hold off two of our French neighbours from Omonville, but as the wind gradually headed and fell light they drew rapidly ahead. Such are the virtues of the modern mast-head rig!

To save our tide for Sark we motored until the island was about 5 miles distant, then sailed again as the wind freshened from the south. Adlard Cole’s excellent Channel Harbours and Anchorages piloted us around the outlying Burons and ‘Boues’ — rocks just below the surface — into Creux harbour under all sail. Navigation in these waters is not nearly as formidable as would appear from the chart, especially in the clear sunny weather we were enjoying.

We returned from a walk along the island’s dusty roads — and dainty tea at the pleasant hotel — to find Actaeon and the other large ocean racers that had been at anchor off the harbour entrance gone, but the actual harbour rapidly filling up with French yachts. Most of these were small bilge keel boats which dried out with us, but one which came tearing in at dusk was a converted fishing smack with reefing bowsprit, which was very promptly reefed as it hit the harbour wall! Much shouting and endless lines ashore, anchors out astern, and paddling in French inflatables which look like updated coracles. We felt snug in our quiet corner, watching the last trailer-load of tourists leave and the sun gradually slip away from the rocky cliffs towering above this lovely harbour. Earlier on we had joined the shouting, splashing school children for a swim. The water was beautifully clear but icy cold — my brother (the crew) tried to get the best of all worlds by paddling around on a lilo (his bed on board, incidentally) and nearly drifted at great speed out of the entrance — testimony to the considerable range of tide here.

Next day we extricated ourselves rather late from the maze of French knitting and motored in a real ‘Harry Flatter’s’ calm around the southern tip of Sark and up towards the Passe Percée between Herm and Jethou. Both islands looked delightful as we swept through the pass, carefully discerning the leading marks, although with our draft we could — and did — take shortcuts. We had intended making straight for the new marina on Guernsey, but as the tide had now turned in the Little Russell channel we made, precariously close to the overfalls and leading marks, to St. Peter Port.

Our centreboard and lifting rudder enabled us to beach the boat in a quiet corner of the harbour, there to work on the outboard which had been faltering, and go ashore to visit the Royal Channel Island Y.C. As the tide turned outside, we made our way up the channel to the marina on the north-eastern tip of Guernsey, blasted — amidst much political controversy — from an old quarry. The entrance was easy to find, the buoys marking the ‘channel’ giving a good indication of the fierce cross tide. Later on we watched Carillion leave — straight over a large patch of rocks, obviously well submerged as she continued on her way unscathed! The marina is a pleasant stopover, with no worries about drying out in this very ‘tidal’ area, but rather far from town. Still, walking is what most sailors need after living cramped on board a small boat, and the bus service to St. Peter Port is adequate.

All day on Thursday whilst we were idling in town, getting our duty free from the salubrious establishments that abound there, the good south-westerly blew, scudding the broken cumuli across a blue sky. On Friday, however, we left at 0500 in a dead calm and motored fast with the powerful tide under us for the Swinge passage between Alderney and Burhou. I chose this exit from the islands as being the easiest; after all, it was only marked with ‘overfalls’, instead of the ‘heavy overfalls’ scattered everywhere else on the chart. ‘Overfalls’ were enough for us, the boat plunging through steep, uncontrolled, but mercifully unbreaking seas. The Drascombe Lugger is magnificent in a seaway, her flaring bow turning away all but the worst seas, and the crew at pumping stations was not needed.

We motored on, hoping for wind, but getting instead sea fog and drizzle and the endless traffic of the Channel to enliven the scene. Gannets swooped across the low swell as the watches changed and the log dutifully read. Had we known it, that spanking sail off Sark had been our last this cruise, for we eventually motored into Weymouth 15 hours out from Guernsey, navigation impeccable this time, and feeling battered by the noise of the outboard. Threading our way through the fishing lines, we brought up by the Custom’s quay, to greet on board a heavily booted officer who peered carefully under our tiny cuddy and bellowed in a voice to put fear into the bravest illegal immigrant, “Anyone else down there?”

Next day it blew force 7 from the southwest, and we were glad to be ashore. It had been a cruise of contrasts, as most cruises are, but with one constant: the steadfast ability of our boat to look after herself at sea and delight those who sailed her.