August 1972 was one of those months when England’s weather atones for its past sins. The Solent’s diurnal wind pattern sets in, force 3 gusting 3½, wisps of soft cumulus populate a blue sky, and we cowards of the cruising fraternity sally forth.

Alicia is a traditional gunter-rigged clinker dayboat — spruce on oak and ash with teak joinery and, rather oddly, mast and spars of bamboo. At 15’ 6” (excluding bowsprit) with a beam of 7’ 2”, she sits very much on the water rather than in it — spacious, but not exactly a racer going to windward. Measuring her for the Solent Old Gaffers race, we discovered she carries 170 square feet of sail, which in practice means she goes like a train in force 3 and capsizes in force 4 — three rows of reef points are fitted.

The annual fortnight’s freedom was this year timed to coincide with the start of the Tall Ships Race from Cowes, Alicia’s skipper having just returned from 2 years on such a vessel. The start was on the Wednesday, and on a windless Monday evening the faithful Seagull pushed Alicia across the Solent ebb in company with a friend’s thirty footer, Matahari. Yarmouth, of course, is well known, perhaps too much so in high summer, when the over-patient harbourmaster works a kind of magic in squeezing them all in. In the autumn, however, peace begins to return, and it seems on meeting the people the island is very much ‘another place’. On a fine day, take the bus to Freshwater, and then walk across Tennyson’s Down to Alum Bay — the view puts the Solent in perspective.

Tuesday dawned fine and clear, eyes blinking round the harbour from hatches wet with dew. Coffee, toast, a row ashore for stores, more coffee and away. The new flood set us gently east as we hoisted sail to cruise in company to Cowes. Strangely, the wind was north-east, but it was all pleasure as we tacked back and forth with the flood beneath, so that by eleven o’clock we had Gurnard abeam and were soon sampling the new marina’s convenience.

“This’ll never do,” said John on Matahari, after a lazy lunch. “We can make Newport on the tide in Alicia.” And so off we went, the northerly continuing, so that within the hour we found the Medina’s peaceful upper reaches, and Cowes with all its plastic might be a million miles away. And yet, along this peaceful waterway, what next should we see but a 200 ton coaster, for one forgets that Newport is the island’s capital and that almost everything on the island must arrive by sea. We vacated the channel, and with the wind now a zephyr, drifted quietly into the little cut almost in the heart of Newport. There we shared a fine cobblestone quay with but one other yacht, and he a Frenchman from Cherbourg!

Disused warehouses shadow the quay, there is the old railway viaduct, and through the arch one of those broad streets where coach and horses on the cobbles were once to be heard between those terraces of integrated architecture that seems to echo England’s history from Elizabeth’s time. Here, obviously, was once the centre of Newport, now just a peaceful avenue along which we strolled to cream teas and a browse in the local bookshop.

The people seemed to have more time, but we were to take the ebb, and soon Alicia was drifting gently in the direction of Cowes. Miraculously, a puff of wind from the south now appeared, and goose-winged we drifted slowly in the peace of late afternoon, past the Folly, down through the moorings, and back to Cowes on the eve of the Tall Ships Race. The big schooners and ketches had taken over the outside of the marina; the immaculate little brigantine Black Pearl captivated spectators; tripper launches were bustling to and fro, and the majesty of the Gorch Fock lit overall seemed a fitting presence in the road. We joined the throng, ate, drank and slept.

Next morning we watched the marina empty, but unfortunately fog was decreed and spectating afloat not — we did nothing (not a bad pastime) till opening time, lunched and bade farewell. John was to stay at Cowes with Matahari, and Alicia set a course for Beaulieu River. Soon, however, the wind had other ideas, being once again in the north, and rather than argue with her propensities to windward, the helm was put down for Ashlett Creek, as yet unexplored. Rounding Calshot there was that great pleasure, a weather shore and no sea; we tramped up to the entrance buoy, and with the echo-sounder (alias centreplate) working overtime, beat up to the mill house under, as they say, all plain sail.

The pub here, of course, is most conveniently situated, and there too was the harbourmaster. How nice, after Cowes, to be told one can stay for three days and he’ll keep an eye on the boat without money’s demand.

Two days later, with girlfriend now to crew, we slip away past the great tankers and round Calshot to find the wind in its customary direction — SW. However, a few shapely pounds of ballast does wonders to windward, and soon we could lay Beaulieu entrance. Familiar territory, this, so the skipper has a laugh at a stranger aground on the spit; graunching sounds from below, and girlfriend has a laugh at skipper aground on the spit! How useful that centreplates can be raised, and soon we’re on the mile beat up to Gin’s Farm, the birds watching unperturbed from their sanctuary on Needs Oar. Round the corner, and the peaceful reach up Lord Montague’s river to luff up at Bucklers for tea. Trippers here now of course — not like it used to be. However, the expansion of the Maritime Museum from the little house seems very worthwhile to us, perhaps, and we browsed among the many excellent models it contains. A peep in the little church, then slowly we wander back to the water’s edge.

“We can just make Lymington for supper. The tide’s right, the wind’s right, and if we nip through the swatchway at Needs Oar...”

The wind had gone round off the land now — a run back down river, through the swatchway, and once again a reach in the land’s lee: Bucklers Hard to Lymington Quay in 2 hours 50 minutes! The evening breeze like a firm caress, and the sails, the rigging, taut yet willing — a wind machine at work. The setting sun crimson in a sky of clearest blue, the old boat charging across the water, spray sparkling in the evening light and tingling on our faces — the time when you know what you came for.