Bill Steeds & grandson no boat Colin and Jayne Firth Cruz Jenya David Evans Family 14 Sona Tim Roberts Kittiwake Koriana Ed and Len Wingfield Dockrell 17 Goosander Bill Jones, Rachel Ryan Cruz Arion Mike & Margaret Jones Shipmate Senior Dabchick Colin Passe no boat — crewed Goosander

Friday — Lindisfarne is connected to the mainland by a causeway, which dries +3hr > -2hr HW. During the afternoon the flotilla gathered by the Ouse, the harbour at the eastern end of the island. The harbour is a delight — a strictly commercial inshore fishing harbour, with a few moorings for small yachts, and all the associated trappings of fishing — nets, pots, boats, piles of spars and rusting fisherman’s anchors; and, of course, the famous huts — upturned herring boat hulls which inspired Dickens in his creation of Peggotty’s houseboat in David Copperfield.

The flotilla was interesting. Ed’s Dockrell 17 is a heavy, ballasted open 17-footer, ideal for the northeast. Tim’s Kittiwake is a delightful little yawl, based on the Falmouth Quay Punt, exquisite in photographs and remarkably good on the wind. David’s Family 14 is a little-known but very handsome 1950’s design, a classic serious varnished clinker dinghy he has owned for a good many years. The Shipmate Senior of Michael Jones (former owner of Goosander) is a sweet little centreboarder with a tiny cabin. Finally the two Cruzs of Bill and Colin represented that distinctive cat-ketch dinghy class which attracts increasing notice in dinghy cruising circles — light but capable boats with impressive safety characteristics.

The weather was reasonable, and gradually participants sorted themselves out. Ed’s boat was already dried out in the harbour, sailed up the coast from Newcastle by the intrepid Len, by way of squalls in the Outer Farnes and tranquillity in the lovely and empty Budle Bay. The rest of us were rigging our boats and contemplating the logistics of launching in a tidal harbour which made no concessions to pleasure boating. The Kittiwake was launched; Tim and Ed sailed her for an hour around the low-tide sandbanks towards the causeway.

The evening saw the first planned gathering, The Ship providing an excellent base for evening meetings, food and drink. The landlord made us all very welcome (the word having got around that a curious association of small boats had gathered), and a series of excellent evenings resulted. The topic for this first evening was of course the weather for the next day. The forecast was not good; we had to wait and see what the midnight-thirty and early morning shipping forecasts would tell us.

Saturday dawned, and the forecast F6-8 was pretty unnecessary. The wind, driving horizontal rain and low scudding overcast were enough to tell us there would be no sailing that day. Ed and Len had spent the night very uncomfortably afloat in a windswept harbour, with Goosander sheering about in the strong winds and the driving rain inexorably finding its way under the boom tent. Members scattered to find some activity out of the rain, and the organisers bit their fingernails with anxiety, only too aware of the publicity we had given this ‘the northeast’s first rally.’ Some of us drove the short distance to Bamburgh, where we visited the Grace Darling museum. The museum is tiny but very good, and, astonishingly, the rowing coble Grace and her father launched in the rescue of the survivors of the Forfarshire has itself survived and is there to examine.

The evening in The Ship was lively but there was a sharp sense of the weather as an antagonist — a vicious low over Humber had totally wrecked Saturday’s sailing programme. Would tomorrow allow us to set sail for our own particular Hesperides — the Farne Islands?

Sunday, and I awoke (in a comfortable B&B, in sharp contrast to Ed and Len) to bright sun, warmth, and blithe birdsong. As I listened to the 0655 local inshore forecast the landlady cheerfully interrupted me, saying, ‘You don’t need to listen to that — it’s going to be lovely — can’t you see?’ I was irritated, but… well, actually, yes — I could see. It was glorious. The forecast confirmed it: light north’easterly, sea state moderate, visibility good, forecast good.

At the harbour at 0930 (HW 1000) the flotilla was in varying stages of readiness. Ed’s Goosander with Colin Passe as crew was just clearing the harbour wall; Koriana was launching on the beach, with Tim and Len as crew. The rest of us helped each other launch, and set off for the Farnes, sharply silhouetted on the horizon some seven miles away. Solar halo failed to fulfil the superstition of imminent storms. Each member of the flotilla set-course — either for the offshore Longstone, or the Inner Farne, and sailed roughly southeast past Budle Bay and Bamburgh. Each of us returned some hours later with differing passages made. Colin and Jayne (Cruz Jenya) headed for the Longstone and then sailed round the island group; in my Cruz we sailed to the Inner Farne and hove to in the lee off the cliffs, drinking coffee while surrounded by thousands of puffins — quite unafraid of the boat — as well as guillemots, shags, gannets, kittiwakes, fulmars and many others. Other boats were sighted from time to time as we climbed and descended the long, lazy, big swells left from yesterday’s storms.

Sailing back to Holy Island the wind had backed a little, and we were close hauled but with a very nice lift from the north-going ebb. A porpoise was sighted off Budle Bay. Gradually the fleet gathered in the harbour, after punching a strong ebb at the entrance. Crews began telling each other of their passage-making over tea and wine-boxes. A couple of us (Arion and Goosander) lay off the harbour wall afloat as the tide fell, and at low water, led by Goosander, an evening sail was made around the sandbanks inshore of the island, where we had the wonderful experience of sailing slowly on the dying breeze through some 300 Atlantic grey seals, who inquisitively bobbed up around the boats to observe us, then plunging with a huge splash back into the channel. We felt, for the second time that day, that we were specially privileged for a close encounter with nature’s abundance.

In The Ship that evening there was animated conversation about the day — the objective of the rally had been achieved for most of us, and those who had joined the evening drift among the seals had an additional stunning experience to recount.

Monday dawned a breezy, showery day. Len, single-handing Goosander, was sighted punching the tide in the offing on his way back to Newcastle, where he would arrive two days and several adventures later. The rest of us sailed inshore, and those who had not sailed yet or who had not visited the seals launched and sailed in the vast area of high-tide water between the island and the mainland. Ed sailed with Arion, while Dabchick and Sona explored the seals in the strong breeze and dappled sunshine. At lunch time, just after high water, we retrieved our boats, collective pulley-haul helping to overcome the difficult slipway. We sat around in the sunshine, reluctant to leave. Eventually we packed up and prepared for the return across the causeway to everyday life, now enriched by the experiences on this magical island. Bill Jones

The organisers of the rally invited skippers to write up their experiences of the rally. The following are by Tim Roberts, Kittiwake Koriana and Colin Passe, crew, Dockrell 17 Goosander.

A Kittiwake Among Kittiwakes: by Tim Roberts

Approaching Holy Island in any weather conditions never fails to impress me. The island is absolutely soaked with history, real history. Cut off from the mainland at half tide, with Lindisfarne Castle rising out of the low ground straight from a Robert Louis Stevenson novel, it is a place of beauty and solitude. For those of us who try to carve out some pleasure from sailing on the northeast coast, Holy Island holds a special place in our hearts and minds. With various safe mooring options, for those on a passage between England and Scotland it is the place to call into en-route. For those of us who cruise dinghies it does something more: it gives us a leaping-off point for one of the most outstanding areas of natural beauty in the country — the Farne Islands.

Having only just joined the DCA, I was keen to make the most of a rally taking place in my area. In fact, it’s that close to me that I over estimated the time it would take to tow my boat there, and consequently arrived just after the causeway was vacated by the falling tide at lunch time on Friday. I needn’t have worried, there was already a DCA member rigged and ready to go! Ed and Bill, the organisers, arrived not long into the afternoon and I followed Ed around like a lost puppy until I had wrung every ounce of useful advice from him. With the tide receding all afternoon, the opportunity to launch my Kittiwake 14, Koriana, using the slip, was lost. On closer examination, however, with the assistance of some more of the DCA team, we floated her off using the postage-stamp sized beach at the side of the slip. With Ed dressed for a remake of Scott of the Antarctic, we sailed out into Holy Island Sound.

At low water lots of sand bars rise out of the water, like Pacific atolls. There is a navigable channel within the sound that from the air looks like the Brands Hatch circuit, and, with Ed piloting, we set off round the course. Half way round and you are suddenly there, live, in an episode from The Natural World. A colony of over 200 common seals were waiting for us on the other side of a sand bar. On our approach they hit the water in a great wave, like surf smashing onto the shores of an Atlantic coast. I almost felt guilty about disturbing them… almost. Sammy the Seal they are not, and they kept us at a healthy distance, diving below the surface once we entered their exclusion zone, but reappearing a moment later to check on our position. With faces like Labradors, it is easy to identify with them; they are just wonderful. We completed our circumnavigation with huge smiles on our faces, and took Koriana into the Ouse to lay at anchor for the night.

What a difference the next day brought! Heavy rain, having arrived just before dark the previous evening, signalled its intention to outstay its welcome, and was accompanied by strong winds. Both combined to necessitate the introduction of Plan B. Kitted out for a transatlantic crossing, we climbed into our cars and crossed to the mainland to glean more of the maritime history of the area. The Grace Darling museum in Bamburgh, run by volunteers and owned by the RNLI, gives a graphic insight into an act of extreme bravery by the Longstone lighthouse keeper and his daughter one night back in the late 1800s. It also goes a long way to show just how easy life has become for us today. Grace was to die a month before her 27th birthday.

With the cessation of the rain, a lightening of the skies (and was that the wind easing?), we bolted down our bar meals and raced back to the island. The wind hadn’t really slackened, but once again, with one reef in the main and Ed’s father Len as crew, Koriana showed her spirit and nosed out into the sound. Prudence soon dictated that we give up any idea of another circumnavigation, and so we dropped the main and screamed back into the safety of the Ouse.

Both Friday and Saturday night ended with a solid meal and good ale in The Ship. Holy Island, although not the quietest place at low tide during the day, becomes a quiet sleepy little hamlet as the waters lap over the top of the causeway. There is limited accommodation and no camping other than aboard your boat below the high water line. There is no queuing to get a drink, and always a table available in the restaurant. Oh yes, Northumbrian food portions....large! Wow!

What a day dawned on Sunday morn. Blue sky and a fair north’westerly. See those skippers scrambling to get to sea! Koriana and Ed’s boat Goosander set course for the Farne Islands. Escorted by a pair of porpoise, we made good time to Inner Farne and anchored within a sheltered lagoon known as The Kettle. Nothing quite prepares you for this experience. Anchored in shallow waters behind a reef of black dentine rocks, with the crashing surf, the cries of skuas, puffins, straight out of an Enid Blyton ‘Adventure’ book, and seals, I have never experienced such exhilaration. The memory will last forever.

After lunch, Ed set sail to round the Longstone Light, whilst Len and I made our way back to Holy Island. Time had run out for me. I needed to be back at the slip with enough tide to get back onto the trailer. My weekend was over, my family commitments demanded a halt to this self indulgence.

For adventure, scenery, wildlife and company you’re going to have to work hard to beat this, the only NE Region DCA rally this year. If you weren’t there, then I’m sorry, it was your loss. Bravely done Ed & Bill. Well met all those others who turned up and waited patiently for the weather window. For the rest, think hard before dismissing the next NE rally; they are worth the effort.

Doomed, doomed, we’re all doomed I tell ye! by Colin Passe

It was an awfully early start, five thirty out of the house for the drive down to Lindisfarne. And an uncertain forecast, the shipping people talking about force five and occasional six, the inshore forecast was for fours and fives, and the local radio suggesting threes and fours, all agreeing that the best of the weather was going to be early, with blustery showers more likely later. Still, just to be going was a bonus. Work (the curse of the sailing classes) had cut the available time for the weekend from a possible three days down to two, then none, and now back up to just one short day; grab it and don’t complain. Madog was left at home; this was going to be a guest sail with whoever would have me. Madog’s only been out once this year, and with no further chance till September, she’ll sulk, poor dear.

Arriving at the harbour at 07:30 revealed a couple of likely-looking boats, but absolutely no sign of life, though a few minutes later a fellow appeared from under a blue tent cover on a grounded dinghy. “Hello, are you DCA?” is always rather a stupid thing to say when you can see the burgee, but how else can you do it? The newly-hatched sailor turned out to be one of a pair of Wingfields, and after the compulsory bit of confusion, I had my crewing place for the day. The boat was a Dockrell, 16’ 9” tip to toe, sloop rigged with a roller jib, named Goosander. As soon as she floated on the rising tide you could tell that she was a really solid and reassuring boat — you could actually stand up and move about without being tipped into the ocean. No slouch in a breeze either, as I found out as we reached off the beach through the assorted moored small craft before gybing back. As the day was really rather good, and all forecasts agreed that the best weather was going to be in the morning, it was decided that adventure was in the air.

Assorted craft were going to go down the coast to the Farne Islands, a round trip of around 10 NM. As communal organisation is not a strong point with DCA members — I’ve only been on one DCA meet where all the boats agreed where they were going, at what time, set off together and didn’t stray off on their own, and that meet was attended by only one boat — though four boats were going in the same direction, only two sailed in company. Goosander sailed with a rather fine Kittiwake gaff yawl, skippered by Tim Roberts and crewed by the senior Wingfield. With a following force 2 to 3, the initial dead run was enlivened by experiments with the spinnaker, which eventually proved successful, and Goosander led the way south east, with the Kittiwake showing off (flashy birds, I always say) with a genuine topsail. Oh, all right, bonus points for class to the Kittiwake.

At about this point the junior Wingfield on Goosander — their combined age well in excess of 100, incidentally — spotted the halo round the sun. Prosaic souls will know that it’s produced by reflection in a film of ice crystals high in the sky, and often heralds an approaching warm front. Never ones to let science blind them to the truly romantic nature of their hobby, our intrepid mariners speculated on the meaning of this portent. “Arrgh, it do mean doom, Jim Lad,” was the general consensus, reinforced when a bright light was noticed flashing from the Kittiwake’s mast head. “Saint Elmo’s Fire! We’re sailing with dead men!” “Be that a gannet or be ‘ee an albatross, Mr. Mate?” A few minutes later, a single line of cloud was observed crossing the entire milky sky, from north west to southeast. Another portent of doom no doubt; we were looking for mermaids with combs and glasses in their hands by now!

Despite all this high drama, the sailing was quite reasonably rapid, and very enjoyable. We reached the Inner Farnes, and anchored in the calm of The Kettle for an early lunch. The Kittiwake moored to a convenient buoy. Later the Kittiwake headed back to Lindisfarne. We turned south to circumnavigate the island group, with a bit of motor assistance, and crept past the rocky cliffs of Wideopens, Staple Island and Brownsman Island until we rounded the Longstone, the outermost island, apart from odd rocks further out. There are loads of wrecks under the clear waters here, and dive boats abound on a decent day, so we had to keep a sharp lookout for divers as well as seals. The journey back to Lindisfarne was really rather exhilarating, the wind came round to the north and, as it became freer, Goosander picked up speed, swooping over the sea swell in fine style.

Despite keeping a sharp lookout we didn’t see the Kittiwake at all on the way back, and only one of the two Cruzs that were on the meet. We also totally overestimated the size of Michael Jones’ Shipmate Senior in the distance, it is really only a DCA-sized thing, but we had it at around 30 feet. It just goes to show how big even a relatively little bit of sea is. Briefly reunited back at the jetty, the flotilla broke up, the Kittiwake pulling out to go home, Mike Jones aground on the mud, deliberately!. The two remaining boats had one more sail planned for the evening, around the shallow low tide leads that drain Holy Island Sands and Fenham Flats. One of the locals, in a lovely clinker built gaffer, sailed round clockwise, while we went round widdershins in the light breeze. The idea of all this complicated manoeuvring was to gentle the seal population along the channels from one set of boats to the other, so that the newcomers to the area could get a good view of the seals. It certainly worked, as the boats closed with each other there must have been about three hundred seals within a hundred yards of us. As the winds were so light, and the boat speeds were so slow, the seals showed no sign of distress at all, and politely escorted us off their territory after we had passed. Quite a show!

The next day I waved from the aeroplane as it flew over Edinburgh on the first leg of a journey which eventually ended in the semi deserts of Katchch in India. I didn’t see anyone wave back; perhaps they were all doomed after all?