The church at Topsham stands high above the river Exe. Just below the stone retaining wall of the churchyard is a little bay which dries to mud at most states of the tide, but for a short time around high water small boats can moor up to its diminutive quayside and step ashore to explore the narrow streets of this attractive little town.

When we moved from the north of England to Somerset late last year, our first sail in our new home waters was a day out on the Exe. On a grey and chilly November day we launched at Exmouth, took the tide up the estuary to Topsham and landed in this very bay. Other than little Baggywrinkle and a few swans, it was cold and empty, and suddenly I felt nostalgic for the unpretentious camaraderie of the North-West region DCA rallies: I imagined that Devon bay crowded with a motley collection of friendly craft, the familiar blue, white and yellow burgee fluttering at each mast head, and their crews swapping yarns of small craft on high seas and wet nights in remote anchorages.

Reader, that day I vowed to organise some rallies in the South-West — and here is the report of the first few rallies in the new South-West region.

River Exe 27th - 28th April

John Balmer had sent me exhaustive details of the slipway at Cockwood, which he reckoned was the best on the Exe. He even sent me a photograph of it, but I was feckless and left it behind. When I arrived at Cockwood I found the cutest little harbour you ever did see, with a narrow stone slipway ending in soft mud. John’s description of it as an ‘all‑tide slipway’ was a trifle optimistic I felt, but then what did I expect from a West Wight Potter owner? I off-loaded Baggywrinkle from her trailer onto the mud and repaired to the pub.

There is a pleasurable anticipation in waiting for the tide, when your boat is all geared up and the day is ahead of you. As I sat in the sun sipping my ale and looking at the boats in the dry harbour, I heard people on nearby tables admiring Baggywrinkle as she sat on the soft mud, and saying gratifying things like “there’s a nice little boat,” — and the world was good.

But slowly doubts began to set in. It was getting uncomfortably close to high water, and the tide was taking an inordinate time to cover the mud. It was neaps, but I could not believe that the boats in this harbour had to wait for a spring tide to float off — soon though it began to look as if that was indeed the case. And what was that, by the trees on the other side of the harbour? I went to investigate and found another slipway — a slipway I had seen a photograph of — a slipway that led down to a nice firm shingle foreshore…

I ran back to the car and reversed the trailer smartly back down the first slipway. But as I winched Baggywrinkle back onto her trailer, its wheels promptly sank up to their axles into the mud. I will not go into the heaving and hauling with ropes that followed, the way the car got stuck as well, the crowds of helpers I called in from the pub and then spattered with mud, and the succession of people that leant over the harbour wall and asked why I hadn’t used the other slipway in the first place.

So it was well into the afternoon before Baggywrinkle finally sailed into the bay below the church at Topsham, over an hour late for the planned rally rendezvous, to find that the bay was as empty as it had been that cold November day: if other boats had turned up, they had long since departed. I hung around disconsolately on the off-chance, but no little dinghies came plugging up the river against the ebb. Eventually I decided to call it a day, and set off back down the estuary to find a suitable place for a night afloat.

Long after I had given up all hope I saw her — and they are unmistakable, even from afar. No other boat sits on the water the way a brick doesn’t. No other boat has a foredeck that slopes the wrong way. No other boat has coffins on each quarter. And as no one else goes in for those pugnacious buoyant Roamers, no other boat is so unequivocally owned by a member of the DCA. This had to be someone coming to the rally!

The Roamer was called Tai Tai, and she and Baggywrinkle had an enjoyable mini rally together until we had to part, Tai Tai to pick up her new mooring at Topsham so Alan and Chris Stapleton, her crew, could return home to their beds ashore, I to the estuary for a night afloat.

It was a rather bouncy night to spend aboard a boat, and the vagaries of the tide meant that I did not even manage to get ashore to the pub, or to meet John Balmer who tells me he was watching me from the shore as I lay at anchor. I turned in early, but my sleep was disturbed by the swell and the trains on the adjacent Great Western mainline. Early the next morning I took the ebb out of the estuary and sailed a little way along the coast to Budleigh Salterton for a snooze in the sun, as there was plenty of time to catch up on some sleep before I had arranged to meet a fellow Tideway owner, back in the Exe off Starcross at three.

But I was late again. While landing at Dawlish Warren on my way back, the centreplate got jammed with stones. After struggling with it for a while I enlisted the help of the crew of a Devon Yawl to haul Baggy over onto her beam ends so I could lever the plate out with a screwdriver. So when I finally started beating my way back up the estuary into a strengthening foul tide, the boat was full of sand and I was grumpy. I had just sighted the other Tideway far in the distance and was making all speed towards it, when I heard someone hailing me. I looked round and saw the faded sails of an elderly Mirror.

“I’m Jim Vallis,” said the helmsman. “Perhaps we’ll meet again at one of the next rallies — give me a ring.” With this brief greeting and a wave, he turned his craft and slipped away down the estuary, and I went back to the business of catching that other Tideway.

After tea and a chat at the Tideway’s home sailing club, I returned to Cockwood to find a friendly note from John Balmer tucked under my windscreen wiper. Next time I’ll attend closely to what he says, even though he owns a West Wight Potter.

Bristol International Festival of the Sea 24th - 27th May

The weather was wet and the event was heroically badly organised, but it was the real thing — a vast boat festival on the French model, with everything from three masted barques to coracles, all crammed together in the basins of the Floating Harbour. The quaysides were a forest of masts and gay with flags, music floated across the water from impromptu bands and professional musicians and thousands of visitors lined the quays and watched the fun. The centrepiece of the festival was a replica of the toy-like vessel in which John Cabot sailed from Bristol to (re)discover the American mainland, and name it Newfoundland. Rumour has it that the replica sails like a pig and rolls like a camel, and everyone felt much sympathy for the glum-faced crew who had volunteered to sail her across the Atlantic.

Among the more seaworthy craft was strong contingent of DCA boats: Hugh Clay in his legendary Eel, John Balmer, his daughter and a friend in their West Wight Potter Windbelle, Aidan de la Mare slept in his thirties’ motor cruiser and could be seen most days rowing about in a Nutshell dinghy, while Fred and Angela Winstanley graced the water in their pretty clinker 14 footer Frejala , and from time to time the grizzled features of Gizmo McClellan would peek out from the cabin of his Potter Water Mouse. Helen and I took both Baggywrinkle and our little 7 footer Bridget, and had a wonderful time pottering about the harbour and renewing our acquaintance with people we hadn’t seen since the big festival at Brest, four years before. In the crowd and the crush I do not think I managed to meet all the DCA members who attended: my apologies then to anyone who has not been mentioned — I promise that next time you come to a South-West rally you will be given star billing!

The open water that remained between the hundreds of boats was too constrained for any other than little boats like ours to go sailing in, but as always one of the most pleasurable aspects of these boat festivals is simply to sit in your own vessel, proud in her ownership, and while away the time talking to the owners of the other boats in your raft-up, to meet new people and old friends, and revel in the special ambience created by the sheer numbers of attractive vessels of all ages and sizes.

Particular memories? — The Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra playing in torrential rain accompanied by computer controlled fountains that squirted in time to the music (undoubtedly one of the weirdest sights I have ever seen); the little tank engines fussing up and down the quays bringing visitors in to the festival from out-of-town car parks, (Park and Steam, they called it); the improbable gun battle between a Thames barge and one of Square Sail’s barques, that covered the harbour in smoke and set the ears singing, and the memorable words spoken over the tannoy by a representative of the Newfoundland government, that closed the festival: “Eat British Beef!”

On the last day of the festival some of the larger boats were just about hitting passers-by on the quaysides with belaying pins and bundling them into their fo’c’sles to make up their crew numbers for the race from Bristol to Bantry Bay. A sudden madness came over me and I shipped aboard the smack Golden Vanity as Mate. So at midnight of the day after the festival I found myself aboard a 90 year old gaffer, locking out of the floating harbour into the tidal Avon. By 2am we were in the Bristol Channel, sailing watch on watch and bound west into forecast gales. What happened next is however another story.

River Dart 15th - 16th June

Everyone and their dog seemed to be planning to go to Keith Jones’s meet on the Fal, but my phone line did not exactly hum with people interested in this rally. I had intended to sail from Brixham, but as I was probably going to be the only person to attend the rally, on an impulse I launched at Teignmouth instead. I regretted this decision as soon as Baggywrinkle emerged from the Teign on the last of the ebb, to be instantly becalmed broadside to the waves breaking on the bar. Luckily a zephyr appeared just in time allowing me to dodge the first rollers and tack slowly out into the smooth water beyond. Then I had a rollicking sail in a rising wind across Torbay and Berry Head, on a reach all the way.

The entrance to the Dart is a dramatic narrow gorge guarded by a castle built at the foot of the cliffs on either bank. Baggywrinkle came storming down towards it on the wings of a stiff breeze, planing off the crests of the waves and keeping pace with a rather surprised 40 foot Westerly. We stopped briefly in Dartmouth to buy some provisions and as we sailed back out into the middle of the Dart estuary, Baggywrinkle was joined by a little red vessel with a rather stumpy Bermudan rig. It was John and Linden Kuyser in their Westray 16 Rachel. She was designed with a gunter rig, but the Kuysers have dispensed with the yard and simply set a small triangular mainsail from the gunter mast. I pulled in a reef so that I would not overhaul Rachel, but regretted my hubris as she immediately started to slip away ahead of me. Indeed for the rest of the weekend I had to work hard to keep up with her, even with my genoa set. They’re slippery craft those Westrays.

Our destination for the night was the head of Tuckenhay Creek. We sailed and rowed in company right up to the head of navigation at Bow, where the creek becomes a narrow stream rippling over rocks. The low evening light glinted through the trees and the scenery was drop dead gorgeous, but we were not impressed by the quantity of midges, so we dropped back down the creek to a likely-looking beach just below Tuckenhay to dry out for the night. It was one of those perfect golden summer’s evenings, in which everything becomes infused with colour from the setting sun, and a perfect end to a lovely day’s sailing.

The next morning we sailed back down the estuary to Dartmouth together in rather fluky airs, and landed for lunch in one of the cafés. John and Linden had launched at Totnes and intended to return there on the evening tide, whereas I planned to sail back to Teignmouth round the coast. They invited me to sail up to Totnes with them, and to be towed by their outboard if we lost the wind, then they would give me a lift back to my car, but I was determined to get back the hard way, and set off out of the Dart entrance into a rather windy English Channel. I began the hard beat round the corner, keeping close to the cliffs well inside the Mew Stone, so to be out of the worst the foul tide — which had a couple of hours to run.

Gradually the wind dropped almost to nothing and the overfalls became tedious. After an hour of getting almost nowhere, I called it a day and fled back into the Dart. The high cliffs of the entrance intensified the wind, and soon Baggy was screaming down the waves again. We came thundering into the narrows off Dartmouth Castle just as the huge white cruise liner Song of Flower came steaming out, filling the entrance. We just about managed to squeeze past her and slipped inside. Then Baggywrinkle drifted up the estuary in light evening airs, and I kept a sharp look out for the Kuysers, but they had long gone. Eventually the wind dropped altogether, so the day ended with a row into Stoke Gabriel. I beached the boat on the little slipway, caught a taxi, then the train back to Teignmouth to collect my car and trailer.

There had only been two boats, but it was an excellent rally in lovely scenery, with exciting sailing, clear blue skies and good company — so who can complain about that?

Fal Estuary 20th - 27th July

I subcontracted the organisation of the Fal Rally to Keith Jones, and then I skived off from going to it because of jet lag from Brest ’96. He tells me that untold hoards turned up and I missed a boating binge, so there you are. This is his report:

The Fal Rally Week 22nd - 29th July by Keith Jones

There was a god gathering from all DCA regions for this rally, which was held in excellent weather for both holidaying and sailing. Trethem Mill campsite was again extremely good, though busier than last year as, by popular demand, we had chosen a school-holiday week. Pascoe’s boatyard was as genial as ever.

Present for all or part of the time were:

John and Linden Kuyser Westray 16 Rachel John and Win Brookes Lugger Sandpiper Mike and Yvonne Denham GPI4 John, Elizabeth and Jo Cannon Wayfarer Cariad Elizabeth Baker Cormorant Tessa Peter Glover 12 footer Moshulu Aidan and Ruth de la Mare Tideway Brian and Kath McClellan West Wight Potter Water Mouse Ken and Mary O’Halloran-Brown Otter John and Babs Deacon 14 ft yawl Jady Lane John Buckley Kestrel Keith Jones West Wight Potter Kaipara

As we pulled out, Richard and Carol Allen, who first suggested the campsite and boatyard, appeared to start a fortnight with their Lugger.

After the final launchings at St Just on Sunday we made a short shakedown trip en masse to the Pandora pub in Restronguet Creek, where we had a good natter and discussed what we should during the week. In the event, with such a variety of boats and interests, people formed their own groups to do the things they chose, and we yarned afterwards at the camp and boatyard. Almost everyone had one or more moments of interesting adventure, tempered with the odd minor disaster. However it emerged at our end-of-rally pub meal at the Roseland Arms, Philleigh, that everyone, in their own way, had had a jolly good time.

John Brookes, sometimes with Mike Denham and Graham Wadeson, was our farthest voyager, enjoying good meals at remotest Helford and Portscatho. He unfortunately suffered from balloon-tender syndrome, as did the writer last year, which terminated when his propeller shredded his inflatable.

John, Elizabeth and Jo Cannon had an enjoyable week in Cariad which had been ingeniously detuned for cruising by substitution of a Firefly mainsail for her own. It balanced well, sailing satisfactorily on all points.

Peter Glover overnighted throughout the stay on Moshulu whom he had found in a distressed condition and rescued. Rowing her, he could keep up pretty well with WWPs under power and when the wind was favourable he displayed her most original junk cutter rig. He explored many creeks and overnighted in most of them.

Aidan and Ruth de la Mare, ‘born-again dinghy sailors’ and DCA members for two weeks, were based on a splendid traditional motor-boat to which their Tideway acted as tender. They led an expedition — their Tideway and Kaipara — to the head of navigation of the Restronguet Creek, the Norway Inn at Perran Quay. Formerly a significant waterway, it is now much diminished, but includes a lovely, narrow stretch of water through fields and parkland. On the return an overhanging oak branch felled Kaipara’s mast. Tessa, following later, left it all too late and spent many hours on the mud. Aidan and Ruth and motorboat subsequently disappeared in the direction of the Tideway rally at Plymouth, whence tales of the slowness of WWP’s have filtered back!

Liz Baker had just taken delivery of Tessa and she had a very satisfactory week trying her out. They are both inveterate creek-crawlers and reached the head of the Ruan Lanihorne and Tresillian Creeks, as well as the Restronguet referred to above. Before the arrival of the bulk of members, Tessa and Kaipara spent a super night at anchor in Ruan Lanihorne Creek, which is really lovely when the water is in. Tessa is not yet motorised and Liz did a fair amount of rowing; however Kaipara is motorised, and Keith did a great deal of decoking a choked carburettor. Take your pick!

The two Potters, Water Mouse and Kaipara, trogged around as Potters do, towing their. bosomy tenders. Their high-point was a glorious night sail from St Just to Channals Creek, the bay to the south of Trelissick House. There was a warm NW wind and a lovely moon with a clear sky for the two hour trip. Needless to say Tessa did it in one hour. Still, so what?

We were delighted that John Buckley, the O’Halloran-Browns and the Deacons all managed to pop down for one or two day-sails. Jady Lane became mother ship during a delightful afternoon in Channals Creek. the Kestrel and the Otter are fast boats and they ventured a long way from St Just in the course of their brief visits.

It was Peter Glover who pointed out that Moshulu was a sailable rowing boat as opposed to most of the others which were rowable sailing boats, excluding the Potters which are pretty clearly motor-sailers. Well, this extraordinary fleet and its crews all mucked in irrespective and had a most enjoyable week. The Fal is a super area.

Finally for those interested in Grande Vitesse cruising, we were visited at St Just by an 18 ft catamaran which quickly sprouted an igloo tent on its trampoline. Surprisingly snug it looked!