“Is there anyone in the house?” I called to the man with the private half-decker across the cut as I tied up Windflower (Otter 206) at Geldeston Lock. “No,” he replied. “Susan died last month and the place is up for auction.”

Geldeston is a sort of non-place. In the last century it had a function in that the tidal river from Yarmouth and Norwich met the canalised Waveney, which was then navigable to prosperous, farming Bungay. The Wherry Inn by Geldeston Staithe bears witness to trading days. The Locks Inn stands hidden in a clump of tall willows a mile away in the marsh and water-meadows.

It was the Locks Inn by the derelict lock that became a place of attraction for many, including myself. Three miles upriver by quiet, wooded turns from sleepy Beccles, it was a genuine bargee’s ale-house, virtually untouched since new. ‘Grumpy’ Morris, the previous owner, left it to his housekeeper Susan, and old Susan ran it in her own inimitable way, alone, for the past twenty years. Susan was outside the Law (and the Law loved her, and was indulgent). Thu pub was open when she opened it, and shut when she shut it and retired to her bed. When floods allowed, supplies of drink reached her by the road over the marsh, finally having to be trundled over the footbridges in a hand-barrow. The river bailiff obliged by ferrying stores and water from Beccles.

Old Susan had a mind as clear and sound as a bell, and to talk to her was a treat. No jukebox was needed in her candle-lit parlour (not ‘bar’!). Young Jenny and I had often had this pleasure in our Maytime cruises, and it was Susan who admitted Jenny to a pub at the tender age of ten. She had the ability to talk with children without talking down.

Geldeston in its flat, cattle-grazed valley, empty of all modish attraction, is to me the sort of place I can think of and retreat to in my mind at any time when things get tedious, and ever since I first had Windflower, I have looked forward to sailing there. I tried in 1972, after the other weekend at Hickling, and got as far as St. Olaves, where I lay pleasantly, gale-bound for the rest of the week.

This year, as soon as the goodbyes had been said at the end of the Hickling meeting, I set off again. The first stop was Womak Dyke, where one can lie sheltered from a SW blow. That evening, I strolled round the river bank and followed the Coldharbour Lane — its hedgerows massed with creamy cowparsley — to Ludham, to phone home and to take a glass in the garden of the King’s Arms and watch the swallows swoop over the lawn and the nearby, pantiled roofs.

Next morning I was ready to sail by 9.15 because I wanted to be at Acle in good time to catch the ebb. The wind was just east of south, a nice breeze which allowed crisp tacking over the tide. After re-stepping the mast at Acle, I set my self-acting jib and headed for Yarmouth. It was a gloriously sunny day. The addition of the jib to my usual, main-only rig certainly increased the sense of drive, particularly when a bit off the wind, and it self-acted more smartly than a crew when going about. But in its then experimental form it would not point as high as the main without flapping, and that disturbed the main. I was at Four Mile House in good time, so I dropped the mud anchor to have a biscuit and a think.

The tide table had been emphatic that low water at Yarmouth Yacht Station would be at 6.40 pm, but that looked a bit early from the appearance of the river. A passing river inspector said 7.30. All this meant that I might just cross Breydon to the south rivers that same evening to take advantage of the favourable wind direction. However, there is a very fast ebb at Yarmouth, and one should not attempt Breydon before the tide starts to make. This made the timing a matter of concern.

I put away the jib and set off again, reaching the yacht station at 5.30. I wanted to go under the bridges on the last of the ebb to ease a long bit of rowing, so I dropped the mast and proceeded.

Emerging into the main harbour, I thought there might be less ebb on the Cobholm side, so I rowed across to anchor. This was a serious mistake, for when I did get there the ebb was going out like a millrace. My small anchor would not hold, nor was there a chance to recover it and row back for fear of being swept under the pilings. I was able to grab and make fast to a ladder on the jetty, and there was nothing for it but to sit and watch the tide boil by and wait for the slack. I re-stepped the mast, got everything shipshape, lit the primus and made my supper of corned beef and mash with peaches and coffee to follow.

By 7.30 the river was still ebbing fast but not so fiercely. I reckoned there might be enough breeze left to carry me over the tide, so I cast off, rowed back to the north side, anchored, and made sail. As I hoped, Windflower was able to run slowly over the ebb onto Breydon. Here a left turn brought us onto a fast reach and, as the estuary opened out, there was less speed in the ebb.

The evening was overcast and hazy, and I had Breydon to myself apart from two fishermen ell-picking with forked spears at the edge of the mud. As we proceeded at a modest knot or so in the faltering breeze, it gradually became darker, and after nine o’clock it was just possible to tell the red markers from the black. By ten, I was navigating on past knowledge — and it was now necessary to tack, as the course was fully south. Tacking in the dark is a fine experience if you know your boat and can sail it by feel. At 10.30 I ran in between the last of the channel markers below Burgh Castle and dropped anchor in the mud in about a foot of water. My mud anchor was tied to the bower for good measure.

It was now pitch dark save for two distant looms of light in the sky, one south over Lowestoft, and the other west over Norwich, and I put up the canopy by feel. In a few minutes, however, the little hurricane lamp was making a cheery glow inside. I brewed up a coffee, laced it with rum, and turned in.

At some early hour, a clippety-clop of little waves on the hull said we were aground on the mud. A bright moon gleamed on the foredeck and made reflections bounce on the canopy. I went back to sleep. By the time breakfast and toilet were all done, there was enough water to float us, and I rowed back into the channel to hoist sail and set off up the Waveney with the young flood.

The sun soon came out, and there followed a day of sailing like the stuff of dreams. Lovely! This is what dinghy cruising is about: not racing anybody, but enjoying the going. The Waveney is not a pretty river like the upper parts of the Bure, but it has an air of sincerity, and the miles of tall reeds, enlivened by alternate gleams of sunshine and shade, give it a mysterious air that appeals to me. By midday there was a dozy, summer heat that made the few other people moor their boats and lie out in the sunshine. But I still had the tide with me and a southerly wind, while the mares’ tails overhead told of a hard westerly to come on the morrow. At 4.15, as I passed under Beccles bridge, the tide turned, but now the river would trend NW and I would have a fair breeze to carry me over the ebb. And so it was, though in a few spots between trees there was nearly a dead balance between tide and wind. But soon after six I came out of the trees and sailed free through a half-mile of meadows to tie up under the willows by the locks at Geldeston.

Wind and tide having speeded me to my destination, I spent the rest of the week lazing about, sketching in the water meadows, and socialising at The Wherry. Thursday morning, early, three miles by foot and three buses took me back to Martham in time to find the last of the weekend Otters about to depart. On Friday noon I sailed round to Rowan Boat’s yard where car and trailer were parked, and hauled Windflower out.