I have just come across a delightful book called The Widening Thames by Robert Goodsall, published in 1963. It is a good natured and rather old-fashioned look at the London River by a man who was then about 70. This extract is a reminiscence of an occasion sometime before the first world war, and as such is interesting as well as entertaining…

Opposite the Hundreds of Hoo and Grain, across the Medway, lies the isle of Sheppey. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for the outlier of the county since my school days one summer when with four friends of my own age I set off from Whitstable on a boat and camping holiday. Our equipment included a 12 foot dinghy, an ancient bell tent (none too watertight), an oil stove, provisions and sundry articles, including a dog. We planned to be away a week. Because of the limited carrying capacity of our craft, the Swale crossing from Seasalter to Harty had to be made twice. The first went according to plan. Two of the party, plus the dog, the tent and some stores, were put on the shore and I rowed back to The Sportsman to pick up the other two and the rest of our gear.

Unfortunately we miscalculated the time the crossing would take and the consequent state of the ebb tide. On nearing the island as dusk was falling the boat was brought to an unexpected stop by grounding on the mud half a mile from the shore. No amount of shoving with the oars, which just disappeared into the soft bottom, would refloat us. We were truly and properly stuck, with the prospect of several hours’ wait before the flood tide came to our rescue. Fortunately it was a still and warm night and we had on board a large tin of Huntley & Palmer’s biscuits and several jars of ginger beer with which to appease the pangs of hunger and thirst. But during the hours of waiting we were rewarded by a remarkable sight, one that I shall never forget.

The whole surface of the water flowing down the Swale on the ebb was covered by a skin of phosphorescence, transforming it into a sheet of vibrant light which rose and fell in gentle undulations. An oar dipped into the water would break this into a multitude of rippling points of sparkling light, and when lifted there would be cascade as if a shower of diamonds was falling from the blade. On no other occasion in English waters have I seen an effect so magically beautiful, although from experience I know it is not uncommon in more southern seas.

We had planned to circumnavigate the island, but our commissariat arrangements broke down badly, and when we got as far as Queenborough we were mighty glad to indulge in a good schoolboy ‘blow out’ at one of the ‘locals’! Thereafter, and perhaps providentially, we decided not to complete our journey into the Thames and along the island’s northern shore. Inexperienced navigators as we were we might easily have got into difficulties off Warden Point if the weather had turned bad. Instead we decided to return leisurely the way we had come, down the Swale — something of an anticlimax to be sure, but we enjoyed every moment of our mild adventure.