Pottering without a tent

Salt marshes often form in the area of foreshore between high water neaps and high water springs. They are generally referred to as ‘saltings’; the result of erosion of fresh marsh or of the colonisation of mud flats by salt tolerant plants. This ‘foreshore’ is sometimes private but normally comes under the jurisdiction of the Crown Commissioners who usually allow the public access. The advantage of using saltings during neap tides for one who has now given up boom tents is that a light boat can be pulled up close to a proposed campsite. The long trek ashore over soft mud with camping gear is thus avoided.

It is important to remember that this area is a nursery for young water birds during the spring and early summer and is often adjacent to sea walls where many such birds nest; disturbance is therefore not to be considered. This means that saltings can only be used in the summer after the first two or three weeks of July. To make sure you will have a dry night you have to ascertain at what height of tide the salt marsh just floods; normally about midway between springs and neaps. Of course, if the marsh floods, you can wait for the tide to recede before you settle in for the night; it will be much wetter, but make sure you wake up early!

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With such a summer as we have just experienced I decided to try neaping, and for good measure, do without the land tent as well. Some ten years ago I purchased a Gore-Tex sleeping bag cover which I hadn’t used and it seemed that its hour had come. I proposed using Maisie Lou, my Swampscott Dory, for transport. She is not a ‘cruising dinghy’ in the accepted sense of the term, having no decking of any sort and nowhere in her that one can lie down. Nevertheless although having rounded topsides she does have a narrow flat bottom and weighs only 170 lbs in spite of her sixteen feet of length. Both of these are assets where pushing over soft mud is required.

Accordingly I launched from a creek on the south shore of the Medway estuary one day last August. I sailed and rowed out into the Thames estuary, round the outside of the Isle of Sheppey with sheets eased and into the East Swale with a leading wind. On the northern shore of the Swale is Windmill Creek with extensive saltings on either side. I had my eye on a level bit of marsh with a narrow runnel entering it. I placed myself nicely so that I could drift in later, threw over the hook and settled into coffee, whisky and the Proms on my Walkman. Then over the side in my waders to plant anchor and grapnel. I took ashore just my sleeping bag and cover together with a closed cell foam camping mat. It had been some years since I had slept under the stars without even the canvas of a tent above me and it was a great pleasure for this urban man to see the milky way unobscured by the loom of street lights. The springy plants of the saltings made a very acceptable mattress and I was lulled to sleep by the contented cries of waders settling into their roosts not far away.

Come the dawn I was awaken by that ‘warden of the marshes’, the redshank whose shrill piping was no doubt stimulated by this odd creature lying among the samphire and sea lavender. I lay gazing up at the heavens listening to the cries of the wildfowl that were flighting about me. I was in no hurry to get up and continued to enjoy the cool air brushing my face and bringing the scents of harvest from the other side of the sea wall. Finally I rose and removed my galley box from the dory which was lying against the edge of the saltings. I cooked a leisurely breakfast while watching the soft brown water creep slowly over the mud towards me. All was quiet on this summer morning; nothing but the call of birds and the hiss of the approaching tide.

After tidying up I pushed the dory down the mud bank to save the last of the flood. This carried me to the west and helped avoid the eight hours of east-going tide that occur in the western end of the Swale. The day passed as pleasantly as those summer days of boyhood. A visit to Minster for an ice-cream; swimming in water warmed from flooding over sun soaked mud and sand; mugs of hot tea and buttered buns; then sunbathing while admiring Maisie Lou lying afloat offshore. At last it was time to be on my way. The wind had now increased somewhat but I managed to hold on to the whole sail and after a trip across the Thames estuary to visit first the wreck of the ammunition ship Richard Montgomery and then Southend pier, I returned to the southern side seeking the gutway across the mud to the entrance of Yantlet Creek. This creek at one time connected up with Colemouth Creek on the Medway forming a short cut for small craft and making the Isle of Grain a true island. Now it is obstructed by the sea wall among other things about a mile inland. Nevertheless it forms a useful overnight stop for a small yacht which doesn’t mind taking the ground and there are some holes which hold water even at low water springs. Outside is the ‘London Stone’, a stele which marks the seaward limit of the Port of London Authority. It was my intention to use the saltings as before. The babble of fowl was different here and I could hear the quack of mallard, high pitched calls of teal and even the whistle of an early migrant widgeon as the evening drew in.

In the morning I was roused from my slumbers by the call of geese. Unlike the Swale the northeast breeze here was fresh and salty and straight from the North Sea, unsoftened by the land. The approaching tide was different too and in place of the sibilant flow was a hoard of chattering wavelets, that ran at me to shatter against the stem as I rowed out against them. In the deeper water the waves were bigger and I could take them on the beam as under sail I set off for the mouth of the Medway.

I had not yet come to the end of my Utopia as I would not be able to reach my mooring till that evening. I still had the marshes and wildlife of the Medway to enjoy and I idled the day away with book and binoculars. Eventually that night I slid up to my launching point in the dark; with phosphorescence trailing away in my wake and accompanied still by the cries of birds. For the best part of three days the only human being to whom I had spoken was the ice-cream seller.

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A month later after a spell of unsettled weather had passed through I was in the Solent. Once again I was setting forth without a tent to sample another way of cruising a dinghy —using bed and breakfast accommodation. I carried neither bedding nor cooking gear although I did take my whisky and a thermos of ice cubes. This time I launched from a marina in the Hamble. After a visit to Beaulieu I sailed across to West Cowes. Opposite the Royal Yacht Squadron I furled my sail and rowed along the waterfront deciding where I would leave Maisie Lou. Various notices advertise the charges for yachtsmen but I hoped to do better than the £12 which seemed the cheapest offered. In due course I negotiated a satisfactory rate and made her comfortable against a pontoon with OPFs (‘other peoples’ fenders’ — found as flotsam). Then I went in search of accommodation for myself. After one or two enquiries I rang the doorbell of a neat terrace house. A solemn boy of about 10 explained that his mother was seeing to the baby but politely showed me the room and explained the terms to which I agreed. After a freshen up I went in search of a drink and chat. Taking advantage of my membership of a yacht club and the reciprocal hospitality offered I checked in at the Island Sailing Club. Here I fell in with a shipwright retired from Clare Lallows. We commiserated with one another on the collapse of wooden boat building but he gave me valuable hints concerning the leathering of oars. Afterwards on his recommendation I dined at the Italian restaurant up the High Street; also on his advice taking their speciality, the trout with almonds — very tasty.

In the morning after an ample breakfast cooked by the man of the house, I visited a take-away where I bought sandwiches and had my thermos filled with coffee. Then I finally set off for a leisurely potter westwards along the Solent. Oh what pleasure to be sailing there mid-week. The natural run of the seas was not broken up by the continual wash of power craft and even the prevalence of ‘Solent Rig’ (engine and mainsail) amongst the sailing yachts was much reduced. My small spritsail was able to give of its best without having the light breeze knocked out of it. Wind and tide finally decided that I should spend my next night in Yarmouth. No less than three speedboats carrying the title ‘Harbourmaster’ welcomed me cheerfully but my goal was the river above the bridge. It is no trouble to lower the unstayed mast in my dory even when afloat, and in due course I found myself a beach with access to the town.

For some reason bed and breakfast vacancies seemed difficult to find but one fully booked landlady kindly rang a neighbour in case she could help out and this is where I ended up. My hostess was a not unattractive widow who quickly made me welcome. A brisk shower and I ventured into the town, first to the Royal Solent Yacht Club for a noggin and natter and then to a pub well known for its fresh seafood. Upon my return to my lodgings I was invited into the sitting room for coffee; I contributed my Jamesons whisky… and so to bed.

I was aroused in the morning by a gentle voice — “Good morning Captain, a cup of tea for you.” Having grasped the fluted rim of Minton china I leant back on the soft pillows. The sun glowed through the colourful chintz curtains; the room was filled with the faint aroma of potpourri; the tinkle of cutlery and frying pan came up to me from below. Would I willingly return to the lonely saltings? Well — not yet…

Outside the harbour I unfurled the sail. Next stop ‘Pompey’, where I was to prove that Camper and Nicholson’s can also be hospitable to mariners in open boats.