29th to 31st May — at last!

Until the Friday night, the forecast was all nice quiet southerlies and we rejoiced. Then the wind suddenly went round to the northeast. Alan Glanville and I, Jim Vallis and his crew sat in Ilfracombe harbour, in a Ness Yawl, Tideway and Westerly Nimrod, respectively, and fretted at the forecast, as everyone knows that you don’t go to Lundy in a northerly.

Next morning, Jim looked at the cold 5 am sky and called it off, but Alan and I said ‘stuff it’ and went. It was 20 miles from Ilfracombe harbour mouth to Lundy, and we snored along before the wind, making 7 knots over the ground on the GPS. Alan’s Ness Yawl surfed off the seas, her rudder throwing up a great plume of spray. In only 3 hours we were off the sheer black cliffs of Lundy in the drizzle. The wind-driven rollers broke hard on the only landing beach, and there was no landing to be had. As we mooched about in the seas, the MV Oldenburg steamed out of the grey mist, circled the bay with a cargo of holidaymakers bound for Lundy, took one look at the surf and steamed straight back to Ilfracombe with them all still aboard.

Eventually I risked a landing in a gap in the waves, but ended up swamped on the beach with waves breaking clear over my stern. It was a devil of a job to bale her out and get off before the tide stranded me there. With centreboard and rudder temporarily jammed up by shingle, I steered with an oar through the beginnings of the race off Rat Island, while the drizzle turned to a vertical downpour and lightning struck the sea all around. The only shelter was Clovelly, a good 15 miles away. We sailed off into the rain storm, steering by compass and GPS, and the lumpen shape of Lundy was quickly swallowed by the grey curtain. In the 2 hours we had spent off the island, I had spent less than 5 minutes ashore.

Soon Alan’s Lowly Worm vanished. Visibility was about 25 yards. I steered on the arrow of the GPS, nursing Baggywrinkle through the seas. The wind was perhaps a Force 4, and a broad reach — but the seas were on the beam, and every so often broke green aboard. It was a lonely task, sailing in the rain with only a liquid crystal display for company. But at length the cloud lifted somewhat and the light on Hartland Point gleamed on the starboard bow. Somehow that was comforting, and I reached for the thermos and smiled as a weak sun broke through the clouds and glistened on the wet varnish.

Clovelly was lovely: a beautiful and restful haven from the rigours of the Bristol Channel. Immediately after we sailed into the drying harbour, we spent a good hour chatting to the various fishermen who came down to look at our little craft. They were very keen on the Ness Yawl, whereas Baggy looked just looked like a varnished version of every other wooden fishing boat in the place. We were invited to the party in the pub that night, but we retired early to our wet berths and the noise of revelry could not wake us.

We chilled out for 24 hours in Clovelly, departing late on Sunday afternoon for the fairly easy beat to Appledore. Whereas Lowly Worm could leave Baggywrinkle for dead off the wind, upwind it was different, and I had lost Alan completely by the time I sailed into the wide Taw estuary. We spent the night in widely separated anchorages, and when dawn broke I could not see Alan anywhere.

I left at half tide, and the swift ebb took me quickly out over the bar. Then it was a blissful sail in a light offshore wind up the coast and around Baggy Point. I did not intend to risk the race off Morte Point until slack water, so I sailed into a sheltered bay to wait for the tide. And there was Alan, anchored in the same bay, with the same idea, looking very studious in glasses, reading a book under the shelter of his bow dodger.

Even at low water slack, the race off the point was taxing. The waves were steep, curling and vicious. It seemed to go on and on for ever as we pounded due north into it, hard on the wind. Every so often Baggy would bury her bows into an oncoming sea and then shovel it aboard. Lowly Worm was lifting half her keel out of the water as the seas threw her upwards. And it was only a Force 2. Heaven knows what this place is like in anything of a wind. As it was, it was the most demanding sea I have ever experienced in a dinghy, and I don’t intend to go through it again. Next time I will round this point a good mile off shore. The final beat up the coast to Ilfracombe was in glorious bright sunshine, with the PS Waveley steaming up and down alongside us, and the coastal cliffs etched against the blue sky. So we sailed into Ilfracombe and rejoiced. We had done it! We had sailed to Lundy, and returned safely home! Even finding that North Devon District Council had fined us huge sums for parking our trailers in the harbour car park, hardly took the edge off our elation.