- a day on the northwest Wirral coast in a Lark (13'4" by 5'5"), 13th October 2001. HW 0840 8.1 m and 2100 8.6 m, LW 1515 2.4 m.

A misty October morning, nine o'clock. Quiet, except for a man walking two golden retrievers on the promenade, who stops to watch. The weather, unseasonably mild with the Irish Sea forecast fair, wind variable up to force 3 - this seems to be shipping forecast code for calm. And it was calm. To rig the boat required a degree of optimism to expect to sail around the northwest Wirral shore into the Dee estuary on such a day. My spectator thought so too and said as much.

To do so at anything other than HWS requires a considerable detour around the East Hoyle Bank from my point of departure, the Dove Point slipway in Meols. Meols is a quiet commuter neighbourhood joined to the small town of Hoylake, but Meols is the original settlement, Hoylake having grown up around the railway in the nineteenth century. The East Hoyle Bank encloses a sheltered lagoon, with drying mooring in summer for several dozen yachts and a few fishing trawlers, and fills like a horseshoe with the rising tide from the east.

The lagoon, to which the slipway gives access, is all that remains of the now silted up Hoyle Lake, for centuries a significant haven for shipping sailing in and out of the ports of Liverpool and Chester, providing depths in the mid-nineteenth century of between fifteen and thirty feet even at low water and home to a fishing fleet of around fifty vessels, mostly ketch-rigged smacks of up to fifty tons.

The man with the dogs explained that he had moved from Ireland. Also a sailor, he told me how rudder failure had once forced him to wreck his boat on an Irish beach. The Irish connection. There has always been traffic with Ireland on this coast. In 1689 and 1690, 10,000 troops and William III himself embarked in the Hoyle Lake and set sail for Ireland on the campaign that culminated the Battle of the Boyne. And in the tenth century, this area was settled by Vikings coming from Dublin. The name Meols itself is from a Norse word meaning "dunes", and Thurstaston, the village on the Dee where we will launch a DCA meet in July, is derived from "Thor's stone"-ton. The actual Thor's Stone is supposedly a large sandstone boulder near the top of the ridge which forms the backbone of the Wirral peninsula. The sandstone of the ridge protrudes into the sea at the comer of the peninsula at Red Rocks and Hilbre Island. The latter is a nature reserve: a profusion of wild flowers on a carpet of light, springy turf surrounded by low cliffs, caves and a natural arch. At least, there used to be an arch: it collapsed recently through the relentless attrition of the 10 m (33 ft) tides. Encroachment by the sea is phenomenal. In 1900 before the sea defences were built, the shoreline at Meols was measured to have retreated 30 yards inland in five years, and even now the sand is scouring the concrete from underneath the sea wall. But the encroachment was never so apparent as when the large stumps of a prehistoric forest were exposed off Dove Point. They were once regularly visible at low water, but haven't been seen now since 1982. The dark, peaty deposits have been suggested to explain the name "Dove", thought to be derived from the Celtic "dubh" meaning dark.

Launching is possible from Dove Point about two hours either side of HW. The concrete slipway is large enough for medium sized cruisers. There is no fee for sailing vessels (whereas £10 is payable per day for motor boats) although a permit is required to manoeuvre a vehicle, but at the lifeguard's discretion. He is on duty 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. weekends and holidays throughout the summer. The flood tide first meets the shore at the eighteenth century Leasowe Lighthouse, a useful prominent white landmark midway along the Wirral coast; it then moves up a channel directly along the shore (as close to the sea wall as you would care to sail) one nautical mile to the slipway. On the highest spring tides, slack water in the lagoon lasts until HW+1.5, as the ebb first flows westwards over the bank and then eastwards out of the channel once the bank starts to dry. At neaps the bank remains dry.

On this occasion, there was enough southerly air just to give a tiny bow ripple and push me as far as the lighthouse in half an hour. The lighthouse has long been decommissioned (since before the days of electric light) but stands a proud, solitary finger, the tallest brick-built lighthouse in Britain. It is preserved by keen volunteers who open it on some Sundays to allow visitors up the cast iron spiral steps to the top. For me, it affords a transit with the Liverpool Anglican Cathedral to clear the East Hoyle Bank, but not today with the visibility down to less than two miles, so I proceed out on a compass bearing and am slightly anxious that I might lose sight of land altogether.

The vague grey silhouette of the sails of a yacht entering the channel on her way back to a mooring appears silently out of the murk; I recognise the boat and wave as she passes and feel slightly intrepid going out on the ebb as she is coming in.

By 1040 (HW+2) the Hoylake shore was still visible and my position estimated from two bearings indicated a remarkably good speed (carried by the tide) of 5 knots over the ground. Furthermore I was not about to be lost in fog and was starting to feel some real enjoyment of this, my first solo expedition between tides. Hilbre took shape out of the mist and at 1105 I passed the HE3 buoy, which marks the channel on the east side of the Dee, and set course for the island. With the tide and what little air was coming down the estuary now against me, it was nearly an hour before I nudged gently into the bight of the sand bank on the east side of Hilbre in the lee of the cliffs. Seals were making themselves known, emerging chest high out of the water with a snort and an air of inspection. The bight seems a pleasant haven and would appear to offer good shelter against weather from the west or south west. The depth at HW+3 was more than four feet close to the rocks, and it eventually dries to a bed of firm flat sand. There are excellent mussel beds nearby.

A monk's cell founded on the island named after St. Hildeburgh gave Hilbre its name (Hildeburgh's "ey" = island) and was maintained until the dissolution of the monasteries in 1540.It may once have been a place of pilgrimage. These days, it is a popular Sunday walk from West Kirby across the sand: it is an island for only one third of the tidal period. In the nineteenth century, a telegraph station, tide gauges, a Trinity House buoy keeper (in his own cottage) and a lifeboat station were established on Hilbre. A lifeboat has been stationed in Hoylake sincel803, but an additional station was set up on Hilbre in 1848 to give better access to deep water; two canons on the island were used to summon the Hoylake crew. The Hilbre station was finally closed in 1939, presumably when it became more efficient to tow the Hoylake boat over the sands by tractor. The old slipway is at the northern extremity and is one of the few places it's feasible to land a dinghy at high water. Another place is a tiny smooth-pebbled beach at the southern end, facing Middle Eye.

Some bird-watchers on the cliff top were directing their binocular gaze in my direction. Perhaps it was for the seals, but I wondered whether they were jealous of my languid solitude as I lay hove to in the emerging watery warm midday sunshine, feasted on lunch followed by whole ground coffee and phoned home to report my progress on the mobile; they probably thought, "What a poser - lounging in his boat and on his mobile!"

1240, HW+4: After gliding slowly past the old lifeboat slip I wondered whether I could make it out into the estuary across the channel in almost no wind without losing ground to the ebb. With paddle in hand, tiller at my knee and barely air movement to hold shape in the sails, I slipped across the smooth water leaving an ever widening silent wake.

In the estuary, two yachts lay at anchor against the bank by the HE4 buoy, where what remains of the Welshman's Gut disgorges into the channel. A group of about fifty seals occupied the edge of the bank, advertising their presence by an eerie cacophony, half bark and half howl, making their German name (translated) "sea dogs" seem most appropriate. I passed close by, to their apparent disquietude, after which several seemed to follow me, not so much I felt out of friendly curiosity but more to see me off.

I was now making way in imperceptible wind against the ebb, which I could see to be flowing over the sand underneath me. The skipper of one of the anchored yachts I was now passing, as silently as possible so as not to disturb the serenity, emerged from his cockpit and remarked on my good progress. I replied that it seemed miraculous given the lack of breeze. We both commented on the beauty of our surroundings - a joint expression of our sheer pleasure in the day and our situation in it.

I probed my way as far up the Welshman's Gut as water would allow and found it dry within a short distance (HW+5). It once provided a way through to the Welsh shore. I wonder for how long either side of HW it is navigable and whether there is any way now to cross the Dee estuary at LW.

1400: Departed HE4 on 135!M towards Thurstaston. The air died. I lay across the thwart making myself comfortable. Warm watery sun lulled me almost into dozing until, all of a sudden, a breeze picked up from the north and I had to get things shipshape to run with it.

Up the estuary the channel seemed to fork either side of a sand spit, the broader way to the right leading as far as could be seen diagonally towards the Welsh shore in the direction of Flint, but I couldn't see across. The narrower left hand channel was marked by lateral buoys, presumably the channel leading to the moorings at West Kirby, Thurstaston and Heswall, and I entered it. Another can appeared on the east side about level with the southern end of West Kirby marine lake. Shortly afterwards the channel twisted inshore in a tight and narrow S bend, but I ran out of water: it was low water (1515, 2.4m).

The breeze by then had got up to the extent that it was difficult to sail off the shallows without the centre board so I had to step out and tow the boat back into deeper water. The mud was soft and black and came back into the boat with me along with several cockles, confirmation I suppose that the Dee cockle beds were recovering.

I had to decide whether to await the rising tide for three hours and float in with it to Thurstaston and arrange to be picked up there with the trailer, or to return the way I came against the freshening northerly breeze and incoming tide. I chose to return. This offered more challenges, not least arriving at Dove Point after dark, as there would be insufficient depth before half an hour after sunset.

Beating down the estuary, my only concern was that the wind might be a good deal stronger out of the lee of Hilbre (I was already feeling I ought to reef). In fact, by the time I gained the estuary mouth, having made easy way against the tide, it had settled to the perfect breeze. Sailing was sheer bliss, lost in time to the gentle rhythm of a plunging bow and spray sparkling in the late afternoon sun, revealed by parting hazy clouds. I could not have wished to be anywhere else doing anything other than what I was there and then.

Directly ahead, two miles out in open water north of Hilbre, protruded the boiler of a wrecked Spanish freighter that foundered on the bank in the Second World War. At the time, its cargo of oranges washed up along the shore was a boon to local inhabitants during time of rationing. I resisted the urge to sail out there.

The breeze retired with approaching dusk. Leasowe Lighthouse was visible again. Street lights on Meols Promenade lit my destination. I retrieved two torches from the dry bag to be accessible if need arose, unlashed the oars, and with weary strokes, slowly manoeuvred around the flooding sand bank into the channel, where the flood tide received me and silently relieved me of the effort of propulsion. In the dark the placid stream carried me deceptively fast, almost smack into the bows of a moored trawler which I only narrowly avoided at the last moment by sudden frantic rowing just before gaining the slipway!