(15’ x 6’2” clinker. Iron plate 40 lb. Water ballast 80 lb. Gunter & mizzen 135 □ft.)

Hronrad was at Thurstaston on two anchors, waiting for good weather. She had waited all through June and July, and boat and warps had acquired a smelly coating of barnacles, in spite of TBT antifouling. I did my best with a hoe, but could not reach under her flat bilges as she lay on the mud. Green weed grew on her waterline — altogether she looked shabby.

On 25th July the midnight coastal waters forecast was force six southerly, later becoming four. It was a blustery morning, but the wind direction was right, offshore along the Welsh coast from the Dee to Anglesey, so I hoped the forecast of four later was right, and set off at half past eight across the banks making straight for the Point of Ayr. It was rough on the banks, but I kept full sail as I knew I should have much flatter water once I was round the point. The wind was south-east, still four or five, and I set a compass course for Great Orme's Head. It was still quite hard work steering — not a relaxing day.

At 1045 I passed the Earwig bellbuoy, and was interested to see its new green colour. Before midday I was at Middle Patch Spit, and could see the Orme emerging from the mist. The 1355 forecast was force 5, 6, or 7. The wind became more southerly and strengthened. I had all I could take with full sail, but I kept going fast past the Orme and across Beaumaris Bay to Puffin Island, which I had passed by four o'clock — more than 4½ knots average from Thurstaston, a distance of 35 miles. After that, of course, I had the usual light contrary winds as I tacked against the tide up to Beaumaris. I anchored off Gallows Point at 1930. On the shore nearby I found my old 18-footer, Eolet, covered with barnacles. Her present owners don't seem to have fitted her out this year.

On Saturday 26th July I was off at 0730 to row and drift up to Menai Bridge. I was at least half an hour too late for slack water, but I had an easy row through the Swellies with just enough tide in my favour.

As I passed Plas y Deri I had a look at the Welsh Sports Council centre from which the July dinghy cruise had been planned. There was a fine new broad slip, and a number of dinghies were ashore under covers, but no one was about.

Then I crossed the straits to the Anglesey shore and sailed along Foel Swatchway to anchor not far from the Mermaid Inn. This is one of the best-placed pubs on the North Welsh coast, and it was missed when, for several years after a fire, it stood derelict. However, on this Saturday I anchored at a distance, as a terrible row of loud speakers and crowd noises was coming from there. It turned out to be a game of ‘Its-a-Knockout’ held throughout the day in aid of RNLI funds. I think there must be a less noisy way of collecting in a good cause.

On the following morning I rowed across to Caernarfon, and tacked against light airs out between Abermenai Point and Belan Fort. As I continued to row and drift out towards the Bar, I was surprised to see the worst rollers I have known there, in these calm conditions, with just a breath of onshore wind. I must nearly always have been here in offshore winds. These glassy, steep breakers were quite considerable enough to keep me to the official channel, although it would have saved about two miles of hard rowing to have cut across the banks.

When at last I was clear of the bar at 1300, the wind came at last, but variable southerly so that I could not lay a course for the coast of the Lleyn Peninsula. In a force four and a slight sea, I had by 1400 a slightly better wind direction, which let me point towards Trefor, where I wanted to go. It can easily be identified from out at sea in reasonably clear weather as it lies at the foot of the Rivals, the distinctive looking hills which are a main feature of the north coast of Lleyn. They are not really so fine as hills as they appear from the sea, but all the same they give Trefor an attractive setting.

I sailed in to Trefor bay at 1520 and anchored well out. The beach is stony except close to the old stone jetty with its warehouses and deserted harbour buildings, relics of a slate port. Behind the jetty is a harbour for small boats, very crowded, mostly with small motorboats used for fishing. There is a possible launching site here, but there is a gate across the approach road, and I am told it is usually kept locked, so that one has to ask for, and no doubt pay for, the key. Holiday visitors now use the cottages here, and the village, just inland, has made itself attractive to them with cafes and craft shops. A Drascombe cabin boat came in and anchored near me, one of the few sailing boats I saw on the northern Lleyn coast. It was not a very peaceful anchorage, with a constant slight swell in the onshore wind. With more wind one would have to squeeze into the harbour to get any shelter.

Next day I sailed on along the coast to Porth Dinllaen. I set out on the last of the flood, using a fairly good easterly to help me against the tide. By the time I reached Porth Dinllaen, about midday, the ebb was well under way. I made the silly mistake of remaining too far out, misjudging my distance by wrong identification of buildings on the headland. I was looking at the end of it, not the eastern side. Too late I tried to sail in and found that the tidal stream was setting me out from the bay. The wind was now very light and southerly, so that I could make no progress. I refused a tow, and so I was very glad when a northerly air came and carried me in to an anchorage just outside the low tide line, among the moorings.

Porth Dinllaen is a place I have been meaning to sail to for years — a group of cottages, a pub and a lifeboat station, reached along the sands at low water but cut off at high tide, with no public road access. Holiday visitors occupy the cottages, and at midday when people come along the sands from Morfa Nefin beach the Ty Coch Inn becomes crowded. In the evening, however, it is a pleasant place; the telephone in the bar can be overheard as coastguard and lifeboat men report incidents. Most of the people there are from boats in the bay.

There was a memorable hot day when I first arrived. After that, Summer 1980 returned to form, with torrential rain and constant forecasts of gales or at least 6 - 7. This was no good for my next lap, through Bardsey Sound, so I enjoyed several days in this very pleasant bay. The long headland of Trwyn Porth Dinllaen gives reasonable shelter, and a stone breakwater makes this more secure, so that if one gets close to the shore this is a safe anchorage — the last before Abersoch.

On the first of August I sailed at 0620 with the last of the ebb, with an ideal wind 3 - 4 SE. I meant to gain a few miles using this wind while it lasted, and wrongly imagined I should be able to lose hardly any ground as I rode out the flood. I should have taken great care to get inshore where I could anchor for the flood. I was several miles offshore when the wind became light and contrary, so that in tacking back inshore I lost ground. Then I continued to lose it in a pointless effort to tack on against the tide. Although I had reached a point north of Penrhyn Colmon by 0850, at 1300 I was back off Towyn. Conditions were easy: I was able to light the Primus to brew up under way, and the sun shone most of the day. As the flood slackened, progress improved. I was passing through the confusion caused by Penrhyn Colmon at 1520. I tacked on along the rocky shore, meeting small races at each headland. By 1645 I was past Carreg Alan and close to the impressive cliffs and caves of Braich Anelog. This is a magnificent coast, but only in light weather can one enjoy it: I rowed hard to avoid being carried into the race around the Tripods, a mile north of the coast. At 1730 I rowed into the race off Braich y Pwll, the corner beyond which lies Bardsey Sound. There was no wind and a calm sea, but the steep and rather confused rolling breakers were the worst through which I had yet taken the boat. The ebb was still running of course, but had I waited until slack water I would not have been through the sound before the flood ran against me.

The worst of the seas only lasted five minutes or so, and then I was rowing in only fairly confused waters without as much help from the tide as I had expected. An inflatable powerboat asked if I wanted a tow, which I was able to refuse quite confidently. I unfortunately made the mistake of going inside Carreg Ddu where the ‘young flood’ was beginning to be felt sooner than I had thought. This slowed me down a great deal. In the deep bays and clefts along the cliffs a number of boats were anchored, fishing or tending lobster pots. This must have been a very favourable day for such activities. I had to row hard all the way to Pen Cil, the last headland before Aberdaron Bay. After Carreg Ddu I kept out to avoid the ‘young flood’ along the shore. I cannot have encountered a really contrary current, against which I could not possibly have rowed, but familiarity with the complicated tidal conditions would have enabled me to make better use of the ebb. I drifted into Aberdaron Bay with a faint southerly, and anchored off the beach at 2055. The three miles from Braich y Pwll had taken me nearly three and a half hours.

Aberdaron Bay is not a safe anchorage. Any breath of southerly wind sets up a scend on the beach, and even force five can be hazardous. All local boats are pulled out. While I was at Porth Dinllaen I had noticed that high tide by the shore seemed to be an hour later than my tide tables made it, and this made me very uncertain in tidal calculations. One has to consider inshore counter-currents, the ‘young flood’, HW by the shore, and of course the main tidal streams along the coast. The hour’s discrepancy was later explained to me, by a local, as a ‘stand’ at high water, but at this stage it merely made me doubt my perfectly correct tide tables. I discovered next day how vital it is to be absolutely sure of a favourable current in these waters.

I decided to set off with the last three hours of the ebb, as the forecast was southerly 4, later becoming 6. The coastal waters forecast promised 4 later, and I should have believed it and waited until HW slack, when I should have had six hours of fair tide. As it was, the good easterly breeze took me out beyond the Gwylan Islands, where I saw seals, a puffin and a porpoise, and as far as a point well out south of Porth Cadlan. There is an anchorage of sorts at the head of Porth Cadlan, behind the rocks, but it is no safer than Aberdaron, and I wanted to get clear of this south-facing coast. However, by the time the flood began to run I was totally becalmed. I rowed, and thought I was holding my own, but I was being carried out south and west. I realised what was happening at 1100, and tried to get back into Aberdaron Bay, but too late. The strong set out of the bay and the sweep of the main tide into Bardsey Sound were far too much for me. I was inexorably swept towards the race off Pen y Cil, and then through it, taking a good deal of water on board. Next I could see the race dividing round Carreg Ddu like the bow-wave of a fast liner. I had to row hard not to be carried onto the rock, and I was swept through the sound between Carreg Ddu and the shore. I decided to try to get close in to the rocks, perhaps into some bay where I might anchor, and I did eventually find that a puff of wind along the rocks of the shore, and a few feet of slack water there, enabled me to get back as far as the point opposite Carreg Ddu. Then I was swept back again, and had to repeat the performance. This went on for some time. At one point I got into a niche in the cliffs, but this was not a good idea, as I was lifted on and off the rocks by even the slight swell of a calm day. I got out again, and for a panicky moment thought I had lost my rudder, which had unhooked itself, but of course it was tied on. The tiller came out, though. I fitted the spare, and then saw the original tiller on the next circuit, milling around alongside, so I recovered it, luckier than I deserved.

I knew that I had only to keep going for an hour or so more, and then the slackening tide would let me get back to Aberdaron. However, some people whom I could see on the cliffs from the outer point of my circuit saw me and phoned the coast guard — in fact, they saw my red sails, and reported a Mirror. It was in search of the Mirror that a small motorboat came out from Aberdaron, and when we had decided that it must have been my boat that had been sighted, they insisted on taking me in tow. It was then 1400. I could not pretend I was sorry to be saved another hour in the race and then another long row in the calm, which still prevailed.

On the next day there was a gale warning. I sailed out beyond the Gwylans and lost sight of them in the mist almost at once. The seas were becoming large, even here, and off Trwyn Cilan they would have been far too much. This and the poor visibility decided me to turn back — one of my more sensible decisions. I returned to Aberdaron Bay, where a small motorboat asked me to stand by while they fitted a new drive spring. I sailed about in the bay for a while, and then went over to Porth Meudwy, which is supposed to be more sheltered than Aberdaron beach.

Porth Meudwy is a cleft in the cliffs on the west side of Aberdaron Bay. A track, not open to cars, leads down a little valley from the road, and a number of boats lie pulled well up above the beach, from which they are launched by tractor. I anchored in the cove, and although an uncomfortable anchorage it remained safe while I was there. My anchor held firm in spite of pitching and rolling in constant swell. I grew tired of the sound of the breakers shooting high against the rocks which seemed much closer to my stern than they actually were, as I watched them through the opening of the tent. Going ashore through the surf, and still more getting off again, in the toy inflatable, could rarely be managed without getting wet. Various people on the shore looked worriedly at my position. One said I could be pulled out by tractor if it blew from the wrong direction. Another said he'd find ten men to lift my boat out if the wind went south. All were very friendly and helpful, but made me feel I should get clear of Aberdaron Bay as soon as possible.

After waiting for two days, on Wednesday 6th August I decided to try for Abersoch. My radio was only working spasmodically, and I missed critical parts of the forecast. However, I did hear the gale warnings, and there were none for the Irish Sea. At seven o'clock I had to row out as there was no wind, but I reefed, as I could see that there would be plenty as soon as I left the shelter of the cliffs. It was about force 5 in Aberdaron Bay, but past the islands in big regular seas it seemed lighter, and I set full sail. The wind gradually backed to east of south, so I had doubts about weathering Trwyn Cilan, which was invisible in mist and rain. A yacht on the same tack as myself was inshore and astern of me, making about the same rate of progress. At 0845 I sighted Trwyn Cilan and saw that I would have to tack round. I did quarter-hour tacks out to sea, nil visibility, and then sailed in to sight the shore. The cruiser did likewise, but got round in one less tack than I took. The seas became very large and I needed full sail to make progress, although it must have been blowing at least five at this stage. The cruiser came close as she overtook me — I must have been visible on the tops of the waves, otherwise partly hidden. They asked if I was all right. “I think so,” I said, visualizing the impossibility of getting to windward, and the unpleasant nature of the shoreline of Hell’s Mouth into which I might be driven. After this the wind became much stronger, and I had to reef. The seas were not only large but also irregular, and they came in over the lee gunwale in quantities which meant constant bailing. The throat parrel came loose, and I had to make a temporary lashing. All this confusion, together with total ignorance of my position relative to the invisible headland, and solidly driving rain to add to the general excess of wetness, was not an enjoyable experience. The one thing in my favour was the tide, but as it was neaps I was not sure how much help it was giving me. To my enormous relief, at 1030 I sighted Trwyn Cilan to leeward, and the St. Tudwal's Islands also down wind. I could free the sheets and run on a rather awkward gybing course through St. Tudwal's Sound. I kept reefed main, jib and mizzen, although really I had too much sail for comfort — but I simply wanted to get into shelter as soon as possible. I could keep stern on to the seas by hard work at the tiller.

As I cleared the sound a motorboat approached and asked whether I was from Aberdaron. Hearing that I was, he told me there was a search out for me! The yacht must have reported me. I replied that obviously I was now all right. Next I met the inshore lifeboat, which stayed alongside me for the rest of the way to Abersoch, where I anchored just outside the harbour. On that same day this lifeboat had gone out to a Westerly off Bardsey Island, which was abandoned and her crew winched off by helicopter. I heard that the lifeboat crew agreed with my own thoughts, that if I could get round in a dinghy there didn’t seem to be any need to abandon a Westerly. As I dried out on Abersoch sands, I became an object of curiosity, some of it informed and interested. I was very wet, it was still raining solidly, and I had to pump out all the water which the Trwyn Cilan seas had put on board. I had little chance to dry the gear properly in the weather of the next few days, and no improvement was promised. Partly because there was Bulletin material waiting to be dealt with, I went home by bus, leaving the boat on two anchors on the sand just inside the line of the harbour breakwater — an area used by windsurfers and by the firms which hire out small motorboats, launched as required by tractor.

I returned on August 13th, and on the 15th had at last a reasonable forecast, light variable winds and rain. I sailed at 1000 out through the racing fleets with light favourable airs. I set the big genny which used to be set from Eolet’s bowsprit, and had a splendid sail in gradually freshening wind, apparently going fast all the time. There must have been more tidal set against me than I had expected, as I only averaged two and a quarter knots.

I was making a compass course for the vicinity of the Fairway Buoy, where the Glaslyn estuary runs out near Harlech. I knew that its position was not quite the same as that on my old chart from the Anglesey Pilot, but I spotted it just south of my course at 1530. I reached it at 1550, but could not then see where the channel into the estuary ran. I thought it must open up if I went nearer the shore, but I was wrong. I should have gone due north — the sketch chart in the pilot is of course long out of date. I found myself on Harlech Spit, and had to get out across its steep breakers to reach the channel, and by now with only just enough wind to be able to steer bows-on to these fairly alarming rollers. At last I saw the channel buoys well to the north and west of my position, and soon I was crossing the inevitable rough little bar and following them up against the last of the ebb. I dried out near buoy 8, itself well aground. If I had known the course of the channel I think I could have got in, in a dinghy, at low water. The tide was near neaps. As the tide ran I sailed and rowed the last mile or so to Borth-y-Gest, and anchored out of the channel among the moored yachts. It is a good anchorage, handy for the village which runs along the bay, and would be well-placed for exploring the estuary. I had blustery weather and very low neap tides, and I only sailed about in the vicinity of Borth y Gest itself while I was there. There was no day left of my holiday in which I could have set out across the bar bound for one of the ports to the south, all of which are entered over much worse bars than that of the Glaslyn.

On August 20th I rowed up to Porthmadog, through the very crowded harbour, to pull out at the good slip there. It cost me a pound, an uncertain proportion of which was the semi-compulsory contribution to the RNLI which the collector of dues extracts by not having any change. There is a free slip at Borth-y-Gest, but it cannot be reached at neaps. Porthmadog is worth a visit, in any case — an early nineteenth century harbour scheme, in which the poet Shelley played a small part, now revived as a yacht harbour.