After a number of years of sailing, one gradually runs out of new places to sail that are reasonably close to home

One must go further afield, to find again the interest of the new. Often a change of boat, usually to a larger size, will extend the range and the kinds of experiences, but as time passes it is possible to find the limits of first freshness for most craft.

I thought that I had sailed the East Coast, based as I am on the River Deben and have visited all the popular places on several occasions. It was therefore a bit of a surprise for me to discover a large extension to my sailing when I was drawn by a DCA meeting, to take my 13’ Torch to the River Swale in Kent. My sailing guide for this area is of course Jack Coote’s wonderful book East Coast Rivers. I am on my second copy which I see I purchased in 1979 for £3.65. When one reads the pilotage notes for the Medway and the Swale there is an undeniable impression of industrial scenery. It speaks of ‘the tall chimneys of the oil refinery’, ‘the flame of waste gases being burned’, ‘the massive buildings of the new power station’ and of the ‘dock being purely commercial to serve the paper mills nearby’. I am sure that I have avoided sailing the area due to my bleak mental picture of the place.

Having actually sailed there now I can say that whilst it is true there are prominent industrial landmarks, the majority of the scenery is rural. My revised image is of a wide, flat landscape, with huge skies so similar to the southern estuaries in the Netherlands. A Dutchman would feel very much at home here. If any kind of large industrial unit is built in a flat countryside it is bound to be obviously visible for some considerable distance It is the same in Holland as it is on the North Kent coast, but a large part of the scenic impression is in what one chooses to see. One can look at the banks of the Swale and see only the lines of electricity pylons marching away in the middle distance, or instead, one can focus on the immediate shore where sheep graze and oystercatchers gather in animated, strident groups. Much depends upon where you allow your eye to dwell.

The nature of the industrial installations is helpful in extracting them from the picture. They are in the main, unbelievably ugly with no attempt to disguise their naked pipework concrete and steel finish, or the ascending columns of what we hope is steam. They are so extreme as to be become unreal. They stand apart as abstract sculptural pieces, separated and clearly isolated from each other within the landscape. Their harsh, manufactured colours and their hard-edged vertical qualities are directly opposed to the low-lying, horizontal warmth of the greens and browns of the natural scenery. One has the choice of looking at them and examining their intricate forms or of ignoring them entirely and seeing only the vast and ever changing cloud formations moving across the mighty sweep of the sky. One can also spot and study the small more natural details of plants and animals within the windswept expanses of the surrounding marshes. I am pleased that I approached my visit with reservations about the industrial landscape because this meant that I was not visually shocked by it and my pleasure at discovering so much that is rural and natural was enhanced.

We had chosen an excellent weekend on which to sail. The forecast included mention of a force seven and I think that there was an international football match on the television. We had the place to ourselves. Being only three dinghies together, but sometimes sailing alone, we saw no others. The only yachts we saw were fairly distant and in the main were using engines. This added to the impression of the wide open space and personal isolation. We sailed cautiously with reefed sails, but for most of the time we saw little more than force three. We managed to run from Conyer Creek up to Queenborough on one day and then capitalise on a forecasted wind change to run back again as far as Harty Ferry on the following day.

At high water the waterway was surprisingly broad, rather like the midsection of the River Blackwater around Osea Island; at low water there was still plenty of room for a dinghy to sail. The main channel had well defined, almost steep-to edges, that allowed sailing close in without the risk of being enticed aground. Its special quality was its length, for it was possible to run for mile, after mile, after mile and still be in relatively sheltered water.

The unique attraction of the West Swale for me was the Kingsferry Bridge which, depending on the state of the tide, requires that the mast be lowered, unless you intend to wait for the raising of its centre section. Casually considering this process of mast lowering whilst on land is quite different from executing the actions whilst afloat, unrehearsed. It is a thought provoking exercise not usually found on salt water.

Queenborough which reminded me in parts of a miniature Harwich, was kind to us. Our small boats were easily able to enter the totally sheltered little creek behind the old port to tie up alongside the craft moored at the Town Quay. This gave us access to the hospitalities of the shore. We found everyone to be positive, helpful and even actively interested in assisting us.

The most interesting nautical feature at Queenborough is a long, long causeway which snakes out across the mud to allow small craft to be launched at virtually all states of the tide. It seems to be about the width of one car and its lower reaches are covered in slippery weed. I wondered. If one drives down it with a trailer how does one reverse back up it? (or visa-versa?) It costs £5 to launch from it, but I would want paying much more than that to set off down it with a vehicle. Perhaps it isn’t quite as bad as I imagine, otherwise its course would be littered with the rusting wreckage of cars and trailers that didn’t quite make it and slipped off the edge. I couldn’t see any.

If Queenborough was the town, then Conyer was the country. Green and sleepy, tucked right away up a narrow, winding stream, it had all those fascinating craft to ponder upon that one finds cast up in muddy, drying marinas at the heads of creeks. Boats with window boxes and hanging baskets, yachts with 20 year wheelhouse conversions, concrete craft with diamond-leaded windows and ancient steam tugs that only need several new hull plates welding on and a total engine rebuild, to become valuable antiques. Conyer was just as generous to us as Queenborough, with all charges being waived for the DCA, room to park and a key for access to toilet and showers. It was interesting to find the Yacht Club notice board in the Marina’s toilet.

I realise now that the selected industrial mentions I saw in Jack Coote’s book, which kept me away for so long, might have been of lesser importance than the part where he states that this area affords good shelter in its many creeks and anchorages. It is a good sailing ground in its own right. This is fortunate for me, for I still have the rest of it to explore.