It had been a long and miserable winter, and Grasshopper needed to feel again the call of the wind and the freedom of the water. What better time than Easter? We would try a venue new to Grasshopper and largely unexplored by her crew. So Maundy Thursday found Pat and me rigging Grasshopper on a slip in the Cattewater, in Plymouth, the tensions familiar to the first sail of the season mounting. Had we stored everything: spare sweaters, sufficient food, water, waterproofs? Had we put in the drainage bung, or would she just gurgle to the bottom?

We should have trusted our advance planning, for everything was on board and in its accustomed place and, as we sailed behind Drake’s Island, the prospects for the weekend looked exceedingly bright, not least because the sun was shining from a blue sky dotted with occasional fleecy little white clouds. The north wind, however, tempered our pleasure somewhat!

Up the Hamoaze we headed on the tide. The day was almost spent, and dinghy cruising at Easter is essentially an exercise in survival; we had to find shelter from the bitter northerly wind. I usually navigate unknown estuaries on Ordnance Survey maps, and our map had already shown us that a good lee could probably be obtained under the north bank of the Lynher River. So, combating the urge to sail under the Tamar Bridge, we turned to port. Antony Passage we decided to pass, as the creek at Shillingham seemed to be what we needed. Having entered, we had plenty of time to admire it, as there was still not enough water. How pleasant to relax and study the shore for a suitable stopping place. A pair of swans stood out gleaming white like an advertisement for soap powder in the evening sunlight, but when I suggested joining them Pat threatened mutiny. In vain I pointed out that they were tucked into the prettiest corner of what had now become an extremely attractive inland lake, and that Grasshopper would fit in there so well. Well aware that the quality of the evening meal depended upon the chef’s goodwill, I gave in, and we nosed into a tree lined creek on the western arm. As the tide was still rising, we were able to select a spot where we would dry out in comfort and, with bow anchor out, I rowed Grasshopper into position. Very soon the tent was up, and our evening meal was cooking on the primus whilst we sipped at our gin and tonics… Later, in the gloaming, we wandered through the fresh green grass of the fields surrounding the creek where, save for the occasional train, all was quiet and peaceful. We had left the cares of civilised life behind and the old romance of dinghy cruising was back.

The next morning we determined to sail as far as possible up the Lynher River. Therefore, after a short exploration of Shillingham creek by water, we set all sail against the tide up the river. We were in no hurry, for it was clear that we would run out of water and have to wait for it to come back. We grounded in the lee of Erth Hill, which was fortunate at first because the wind was from the north east. Of course, seeing us firmly aground it backed smartly and blew its icy blasts from the north-west straight down the river at us. Oh blessed tent! We sheltered there for about four hours and had our main meal of the day. When the water came back we packed the tent and headed up river again, now using the outboard motor. Under the viaduct at St. German’s we went, carried by the current at a prodigious speed. I knew it was wrong to travel at 4 knots in shallow water, and then Grasshopper proved it. We know not what she hit; the centreplate lifted over it, but the poor old rudder did not, and in stopping Grasshopper, bent in the trunking. I knew about the risk of rudder damage to a Drascombe Lugger, I knew what to do about it, but it does not make it any easier when it happens. And, particularly for a non-swimmer like me, diving under a lugger at Easter to attach a line to the rudder is not the most desirable pastime. Having achieved our object, we rowed out into deep water, removed the tiller and the rudder dropped to the mud below, to be retrieved by means of the line I had attached at so much personal inconvenience. It was now quite late and the tide was almost full, so we motored into the creek at Sheviock Wood and dried out on the saltings there.

Until we could have the rudder straightened we were rudderless, and thus had to use an oar to steer when sailing, or steer with the outboard if motoring. We elected to use the oar and sails to start Saturday’s travelling, and lunchtime found us once more at the entrance to Shillingham Creek where we had noticed herons nesting in the trees along the western arm. With our reduced mobility we agreed that this would make an interesting night stop. Once more we had our main meal whilst dried out on the mud at the bottom of this creek, but when the water came back we remained at anchor for a long time. Because of the shape of the river bottoms, the current runs fastest when there is little water, and we did not intend to hit any more underwater obstacles.

Another careful selection of our night stop resting place left us with a first class view of many of the birds in the area, but most of all our interest was centred upon about twelve herons coming in to their nests at late twilight, a fascinating sight which we will remember for many months to come. We knelt in silence, peering out of the tent at them, and never once thought of lighting the Tilley lamp.

Our final day was a complete anticlimax. By the fearful look in Pat’s eyes when I proposed doing the gondola act with the steering oar out on the Hamoaze and Plymouth Sound, I was convinced that it would not be in my best interests to attempt it, so we merely motored round Drake’s Island and back to the Cattewater, where we picked up a mooring off the Hooe Point Sailing Club. Once more we fell into the old routine, putting up the tent and making the main meal whilst waiting for the tide. Then ashore, to be given a hearty welcome and to have the bent rudder straightened by Gordon, the very helpful mooring officer. Then back on to a mooring for the night, a totally different berth from the previous ones, but nevertheless comfortable, albeit somewhat noisy.

At high water on the Monday, we hauled out and took stock of our weekend. It must be remarkable as being one where we sailed the least distance but found excellent night stops and relaxed. An eventful non-event perhaps?

As we approached our own home later in the day Pat summed it up as she said wistfully, “You don’t get many herons in Downend!”