Pottering on the east coast in a Skipper 17, GRP twin c/b boat with cuddy

I have always been fascinated by the Waltons — not John Boy and his American TV family renowned for their smiles, their generosity and the length of their ‘goodnights’, but the seaside town of Walton, with its pier on one side and the Backwaters behind to the north‑west.

Sailing as I do from Mersea, I know that once I reach Walton pier, I’m best part of the way along the 20 miles or so of iron bound coast and shelter is nearby should the need arise. Coming back, it’s the other way round. As I round it and head Bubbles into the usual south-wester with a weather-going tide, I wonder just how rough it will be before I reach shelter at the other end. I regularly take a deep breath and pray that the forecasters have got it right. More than once they haven’t, but that’s another story. It’s really the Backwaters that have held the greatest fascination for me and I looked forward to another trip there in June last year.

Bubbles and I set out from Mersea at 1245 one Friday with a force 3 from the west to carry me over the remains of the flood. By 1530, with the ebb under us, I logged that she was going like a train. It’s almost 7 miles between Clacton and Walton piers and I made it in 70 minutes, so you can see what I mean. I was helped by the ebb, but Bubbles still deserves a medal.

From there on it was a different story. The wind died and became a variable zephyr. It took another 3 hours and 40 minutes before Bubbles was anchored inside the Backwaters. The later it got the less water there was over Pye Sands and the further round I had to sail to get in. Of course I could have cheated using Growler, my 4 hp Mariner, and nipped across the sands earlier, but I reckon he’s only there for emergencies.

The next day, I picked up my crew from Titchmarsh Marina but instead of sunny gentle conditions — ideal for exploring the narrow creeks — that the Friday forecast had promised, we had a raging force 5, sometimes 6, blowing from the south-west and kicking up a fearful jabble where it met the incoming tide from the north-east. Bubbles pounded, bounced and smashed her way to windward and surfed in the downwind stretches. She had two reefs in the main and only a scrap of jib — bra and panties rig, my wife calls it. Despite this, we had to ease the main on several occasions as she was blown over further and further. We both ended the day covered in salt from the spray. It was an exhilarating sail.

After dropping him off at the marina, I anchored in a delightful spot known as the Dardanelles — don’t ask me why! — to listen to the forecast for Sunday. South-west or west, possibly becoming north-west for a time, 4 or 5, possibly 6 at times it said. “Take your pick out of that lot!” I thought. Well, if it wasn’t going to be any better tomorrow, what about going tonight, I wondered. The wind usually drops as the sun goes down. So immediately after my meal, I hauled in the anchor and sailed Bubbles out of the Backwaters, still in her bra and panties. I noticed she was making 5 knots in the relatively smooth waters behind the Naze headland. There was obviously some weight in that wind and, as always when we rounded the pier, I took a deep breath but this time I prayed that I had got it right.

I had! Shortly afterwards, I unrolled more jib, then one slab came out of the main, followed by all the jib rolls, and finally, just before it became completely dark, the last slab from the main. We arrived back in Mersea in a gentle breeze just as dawn was breaking at 3.30 am. I took to my bunk until 9 am.

By contrast, there was a weekend trip to the DCA rally on the Stour in early July.

There was very little wind, so although I was aboard early, I saw no point in going before the ebb started running at 8.45 am. While I having breakfast, the light airs were from the north-east, but before I finished they had gone round to the south and then, by 8.40 am when I left, there was a gentle breeze from the south-east. Bubbles tacked out of the creek and headed southwards towards Sales Point. The wind then backed easterly, so instead of a clear fetch along the coast as I’d expected, we had to tack all the way. Although Bubbles was only making 2 or 3 knots, she was outperforming most of the sail of her size on the river. We passed one boat of about 19-20 feet, coming up from well downwind, passing through her lee and out the other side and to weather of her. You could almost hear the gnashing of teeth aboard her as we passed.

By 1100 we were abeam of Colne Point and here the wind dropped, with the result that it took until 1325 to reach Clacton pier — 4.5 miles in 2.5 hours in other words. And since there was probably about a knot of tide under us we obviously were not going very fast! I resolved to carry on until the tide turned and if I hadn’t made enough progress, to give up, turn, and run back with the new flood. But the wind rose a little just after Clacton, luring me on. It still took until 1640 to reach Walton Pier however — 6 miles in just over three hours — an improvement! Altogether 20 miles in 8 hours. Thank goodness for the tide under us.

With Walton pier behind me I looked forward to a good reach northwards to Harwich, but I was treated cruelly by the wind. It gradually backed further to the northeast and left Bubbles close hauled again. But every cloud has a silver lining or two. The wind rose considerably and gave us an exciting duel with a 19’ Seawych. We were to leeward of her and astern when we left the Walton Ledge, but long before we reached Harwich at 1830 we’d left her way astern.

Eventually of course when we turned the corner into the Stour, Bubbles had a romp westwards with a quartering breeze and the flood under her, and she loved every minute of it. We finally anchored in 2.5 fathoms at the edge of Holbrook Bay, in Gallister Creek at 2025, after a fruitless search for a group that was supposed to be in Holbrook Creek. Sorry Anne — next time perhaps. This passage must have ranked among my slowest ever. Average speed for the 35 miles, including that last leg where I had wind and tide with me, was only about 2.5 knots.

In the morning, for the return trip the fresh north-easter was still there but the sun was shining and it was warm. The forecast said we’d have a force 4-5, possibly 6 at times. It wasn’t that strong when I left, but to be on the safe side I put one reef in the main and left a few roll in the jib. Bubbles was underway by 0815 and ran up to Manningtree on the last of the flood, arriving an hour later. The tide turned and we started our return journey. The Stour is a particularly beautiful river. I’d recommend it for a weekend. You’ll be able to get up the Orwell as well and while this river isn’t quite as beautiful it’s well worth a trip.

Bubbles reached Harwich, turned south and cleared the breakwater by 1145. The 10 miles, close hauled were done in 1.75 hours, which isn’t bad. But with the freshening breeze on her port quarter, she began to show me just what she could do. We bounded from crest to crest across the rolling ground, that area of confused sea where the south-bound ebb from Harwich meets the north-bound ebb from the Thames, and it was sometimes difficult to hold her on course. I unwound the full jib to keep as much wind in the fore triangle as possible as this eased the weather helm and the tendency to round up. Later, past Walton pier, I was able to goosewing the jib as we ran dead before the breeze. This helped the weather helm greatly, changing her from tiger to pussycat — well almost!

I was much too busy to look at my watch when we passed Walton pier — I think I was holding my breath at the time, but we’d reached Clacton pier by 1405. That meant that the 13 miles from Harwich breakwater had been done in 2 hours 20 minutes which is over 5 knots. Considering we were now sailing against the ebb, I was well pleased. I’d been mesmerised by the log as she surfed along, seeing it climb into the 6’s and hang there for what seemed an eternity. The highest I remember was 6.9. I’m not sure just how accurate these devices are, but there was little doubt that she was sailing hard.

After another hour the wind eased considerably, the tide turned in our favour and we jogged gently back to Mersea by 1630. So many contrasts in so few miles.

I heard it said once that some people have a thousand different experiences during their lifetime, while others have only one — but go on to repeat it a thousand times. I’m not sure where you put sailing in that. I reckon you can sail the same boat over the same stretch of water and have a thousand new experiences. Perhaps that’s why I love it so much.