Few rallies have a better start. We’d woken to a clear blue morning, rain the previous day giving the air that special transparency when the hills look flat and close enough to touch. The wind was NW 4 to 5, ideal for our plan to follow the coast eastwards. As we rigged up, a Hercules banked low over the Tamar, beginning a Battle of Britain display. Twelve paragliders trailed smoke and formed a perfect vertical column above us.

The only problem with this rally was that nobody seems to have come. It was the week of the petrol famine, which probably explains it. Aidan de la Mare (gentleman that he is) phoned to say his car was being repaired. But of course, with DCA rallies you can never be quite sure. Did anyone arrive late at the Drake’s Island rendezvous, then go their own way? If they did they didn’t phone before or after. Tom and I considered the question: can one boat constitute a rally? We decided it could and headed out.

We sail the Gull Orca, only 11 foot, but still with the faded PH114 from being a professional fishing boat (so someone thought she was seaworthy). Tom, 16, is my son, and much the better sailor, thanks to Optimist training and the admirable Devon Schools Sailing Association. We are day-sailors really, as the Gull is too small to sleep, but the prospect now of a longer voyage was too good to ignore.

In the sound you only know the sea state once you are past the mile-long breakwater. Today it was slight on top of a long, lazy swell from the west, on a broad reach giving that agreeable, surging sensation of surfing. In no time we were passing the Yealm, our previous longest excursion from Plymouth. Next the beautiful wooded valley of the Erme. Then the entrance to the Avon, almost hidden behind Burgh Island, now joined to land by a narrow spit of sand. We know and love this coast from walking the coast path, but seeing it afresh from the seaward side was a revelation. We finally landed on the beach at Hope Cove, since the small harbour was dry, having covered 16 miles in little over three hours.

Sitting on the quayside, we washed down a late lunch with a pint and considered our options. At this rate of progress we could certainly reach Salcombe. But there’s little refuge from Bolt Tail to Bolt Head, committing us to a window between crossing Salcombe Bar at too low a tide and nightfall. The best plan was to stay here overnight, and tomorrow either return to Plymouth on a fairer wind or to press on. The Harbour Master proved to be a kindly man. He lent us a trolley to pull Orca across the sand, recommended a comfortable B&B, and relieved us of £8.00 fee.

On Sunday we woke to more sunshine, the wind still moderate but backed to the south of west. So it would be feasible to sail back to Plymouth, but a slog against the swell. Much more enticing was to head on for Salcombe, even if it did mean recovering Orca by road.

On local advice we gave both Tail and Head a wide berth, so we approached the entrance to Salcombe later than we hoped, almost at mid-tide. We expected the swell to sharpen going over the bar. In fact it peaked well before, level with Starehole Bay, beginning to make foam. Wind against tide or not, at such times it’s comforting to have wind in the sails and control over the boat. To be there and becalmed would be uncomfortable indeed. As it was, we surfed the crests and stayed on the exhilarating side of panic.

Of all the sailing centres in the southwest, why is Salcombe uniquely fashionable and popular? That it is is confirmed by the proliferation of clothes shops and ‘no mooring’ signs. Certainly it’s fringed by startlingly white sandy beaches, and on one of those we stopped for lunch. Then we headed for the muddy dredged channel into Batson Creek and to the dinghy park. Hence to home and everyday reality, though with a little secret glow of achievement. John Cole