No-one was preparing to sail when Mike and I arrived as visitors to the Royal Windermere Yacht Club early one summer’s morning last year, and perhaps that should have been our warning. So keen were we to realise an adventure which we had dreamed up the previous winter that we rejoiced at the empty jetties and gaily set about rigging our Seafly dinghy Swift. Our plan was to sail from Bowness Bay to the south of the lake, down the river to Newby Bridge, enjoy a leisurely lunch at the Swan Inn and return — a journey of some fifteen miles. Our only constraint was to be back by 7pm when we should meet my parents for a meal, but 7pm was hours away.

A blustery onshore wind made Swift reluctant to leave the jetty, but with some encouragement she forsook security and we beat out through choppy water into the bay. Looking north the fells were shrouded in swirling grey, but the sun was shining in the south and we thought how fortunate we were that that was our direction. We decided to take a reef in the sail just in case and, avoiding marked rocks, quickly found ourselves alongside Belle Isle, a long and wooded island which runs parallel with the shore. Suddenly, the surface of the lake became silky. The wind stopped and so did we. We shook out the reef, turned this way and that, but hardly moved. We sat in disbelief that Belle Isle could so shelter us from the wind that what a moment ago had been a stiff breeze demanding all our skill and energy was now only a fluky zephyr. Little puffs appeared from port and from starboard. I visualised being stranded in the path of the Windermere ferry which was plying to and fro just south of us but eventually we bobbed quietly past the tip of the island. Thankfully the breeze then increased and we sailed beautifully between the ferry and the land, earning a few greetings and perhaps an envious look — or maybe I imagined that — from car-bound passengers. It felt superb to be sailing again and we made good time as we reached successfully southwards with a wonderful view all around and the lake, just whitecapping, to ourselves. This is what ‘quality of life’ means, I thought, as we used our skill to direct the boat and revelled in the speed, the noise of wind and water and the sudden heavy drenching of warm spray over the foredeck. We worked to keep Swift on a plane whenever possible and surged ahead concentrating hard, reacting to frequent strong windshifts which struck without warning, and co-ordinating our movements perfectly.

If sailing is good fun, it is also fun to make a landing on the way so we beached on the west shore amid solid oak trees and sunny fields and tethered the boat. Amazingly, on this windward shore there was no hint of the wild conditions on the water. We admired the dappled reflections of waves playing jauntily on the mainsail, then set sail once more.

Soon Lakeside appeared on our starboard bow and we wove between moored yachts to gain the lake’s outlet, the River Leven, which runs some six miles to the sea. Now the journey took on a different character. The map indicated a meandering, reed-bordered and fairly wide course before a weir at Newby Bridge so we reckoned we could navigate as far as the inn. If we had concentrated hard on the lake, our concentration doubled as we reacted to windshifts, though more gentle now, coming from every direction at each bend in the river. Added to this, shallows reached out and instant tacks or gybes were forced when silvery shingle appeared through blue water. The fickle wind swung the boom to and fro but we slowly made way passing graceful willows, tall reed beds and languid pools and, after an hour or so, we glided up to a grassy bank beside the inn. We made a gentle landing, tied up, sat at a window seat and enjoyed a meal.

Perhaps the window seat was not a wise choice. The view of the river showed a fast flowing current against which we would have to sail, and were the leaves really fluttering less? With such thoughts it was time to go.

We untied, raised the sails and slid easily away. Where was the wind? Quick, take advantage of every puff! We held the sails first one side, then the other, to catch every breath. By thus coaxing the sails we crept forwards, and sometimes backwards, over the shallows, across the pools, past the willows and at last out into the open lake.

But something was different. The wind had swung to the northwest and, rather than an easy sail home, we realised we would have to beat every inch of the way. What was more, it had strengthened, heavy grey clouds obscured the sun and intermittent strong gusts promised a long trip back.

We tacked from one side of the lake to the other in an attempt to weave back through the moored boats but strong windshifts hampered progress. Finally we cleared the last boat and an open lake ahead meant that we could decide our own course. The sky had darkened further by this time and, looking northwards, the surface of the lake was a wild tapestry of green and grey laced thorough with rough threads of white. We barely noticed the haven of our morning’s stop as we fought the sudden gusts, spilled wind from the mainsail, leaned horizontal over the side as far as we dared in order to balance the boat and hung on. It felt as if we were going at a hundred miles per hour, and twists of wind on water ahead made me shout a warning, “It’s coming!”, as yet another burst of wind arrived. We were tacking furiously, but gaining little ground. Suddenly a wild surge of wind hit the sails and I found myself standing on the centreboard casing, with the mast horizontal upon the lake, and with a long “Oooh!” I fell forward onto the sail and into the water.

Now, believe it or not, I had never capsized before — we had always meant to practise but had never got round to it. Now it was for real. Mike, a practised capsizer, thinking that I was swimming for the shore — which I wasn’t, just gasping for breath — shouted to me “Stay with the boat!” and, remembering textbook instructions, I grabbed the jibsheet and swam around to the centreboard where Mike was already righting Swift. Up she came, sails streaming with water, and we set about preparing to scramble in, but wind and waves were pushing us shoreward all the while and the mast was nudging the tops of the trees before we were aboard. We had landed.

All was well: everything had been stowed. I bailed, Mike held us steady and we were none the worse. I confess that at this point I did think of clambering up to the road and taking a taxi home, but supposed that, as with horses you have to get on again. So we reefed the sail and, encouraging ourselves that this would placate the wind’s fury, had another go. I didn’t dare look at my watch — 7pm would arrive all too soon and we were soaking wet and miles from home.

We cautiously sailed out into the lake but now luck was with us. The gusts seemed fewer and the waves gentler. Indeed, the wind direction had turned westerly affording us long exhilarating reaches and we raced past familiar landmarks and soon had the ferry in sight. Unlike my experience of sea sailing, it seemed that every condition of water may be experienced in different areas of a large lake at the same time. We were at first relieved to see the waves lessen but now they ceased altogether. We had sailed into the wind shadow of a hill and within seconds we were drifting past small islands on still waters ruffled only by stray wisps of wind. Once past the hill, however, the breeze collected us up again and took us steadily over the ferry and on to Belle Isle. It was now funnelling between Belle Isle and the land but the yacht club was in sight and with a burst of speed we crossed the bay to the jetties. “Down with the mainsail!”… and we were in. A member of the club appeared and informed us dryly that all racing and sailing for the day had been cancelled due to weather conditions. We were not surprised; though blistered, bruised, tired and wet, we were jolly pleased we had ventured out!

And yes, by 7.15pm we were calmly sitting inside the best restaurant in Bowness telling our tale — and it was only slightly swaying to the imagined movement of the boat.