Albert Strange was an artist and yacht designer who lived from 1855 - 1917. During a childhood at Gravesend, he started 'mucking about in boats' and went on to cruise in boats of all sizes in all parts of the British Isles. He is best remembered for his lovely designs of 'canoe yawls' of all sizes from 16ft up to 32ft. But he always wrote most fondly of his cruises in smaller boats, particularly in his favourite boat, Cherub II, 20ft long, with an open cockpit and a small cuddy.

We tend to imagine Victorians lounging about on large yachts, with paid hands doing all the work; but Strange, like other friends in the Humber Yawl Club, sailed single-handed or with one friend; they did all the work themselves, without engines, radios or modern equipment. Despite these hardships, Albert Strange completed some notable and adventurous cruises in a spirit which lives on today in the DCA membership.

This account appeared in Yachting Monthly in 1908, but the cruise itself took place in 1895:

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"One fine but breezy morning in July the Cherub and I left Scarborough bound for London. The wind was fresh from the north-east, which makes much commotion on the sea in these parts. The long seas broke here and there and licked long white tongues of spray up the cliffs. Filey Brigg was one smother of spume as we raced past on the last of the flood with quite as much sail as was wanted under double reefs. And then when the ebb began to make, what a variety of motion the boat put on as the long sea broke up in Flamborough race!

It was with great relief of mind when at last, after standing a good way off the land to avoid the worst of the race, we were able to head west into Bridlington Bay and spin swiftly on a broad reach into the harbour. Cherub was a new craft to the Bridlington boatmen, and they gathered round to look at her as we moored. The general opinion was well expressed by one who ejaculated, 'Come fra' Scarbro' te-deaa! Bar goom, she's a good 'un!'

I wished, above all things, to have a boat that would be fast, easy, and dry when running and reaching in disturbed water, and nothing could have been better than the boat's behaviour that day - though the motion had been very violent and every muscle of my body ached. The next day it blew less hard from the same quarter, with fog added. We remained in harbour and experimented with the stove, a methylated-spirit affair.

On awakening at 4 am the next morning I found that the fog had gone, and this determined me to get away as soon as possible; so we got out our stove and commenced to make breakfast. The single-hander, like an army, 'moves on his stomach'. With me breakfast was the big meal; one never knew when the next would arrive. This first meal, as a rule, consisted of eggs, bacon, or cold boiled beef, cocoa (one pint), bread, butter, and fruit of some sort or another. Then a good lunch of bread, butter and cheese - usually Dutch cheese or Gruyère - was wrapped in a napkin, which in turn was wrapped in American cloth and placed where I could reach it when sailing, together with a bottle of beer or a good-sized flask of claret with some water added. This would be urgently needed about 12 o'clock.

When I had made my port and was anchored, the dinner consisted of soup (generally oxtail), more cold beef or a steak, bread, butter and jam, and fruit. To make sure of having fruit, I took a great store of the best French plums, which always came in handy. For supper, biscuits and cheese with cocoa, and if cold or wet, as it was usually on this particular cruise, a tot of whisky of very moderate amount on turning in. I do not set much value on tinned things, except of the simplest sort, and whenever I could catch or buy fish (which is surprisingly seldom on a cruise) I always had it either for breakfast or dinner.

Well, having put away breakfast and got outside the harbour, I found that there was so little wind that the boat did no good turning over the ebb, so we anchored again and waited. At last the wind came from the NW and we reached along quite fast for about 20 minutes, and then to my great disgust, it fell calm. I went on rowing and got a little beyond Kilnsea before it was evident that no further progress was being made. So it was 'down anchor' and prepare for a night at sea, or at least to wait until midnight and go into the Humber by the ordinary channel. I sounded and found about 4 fathoms – which would leave me ample water at low tide – let go anchor, and started the stove.

It was now about 6.30 pm, a fine evening, but the glass slowly falling and the surf beating heavily on the shore some 300yds inside me. After dinner I sat in the cockpit and smoked my pipe. Whilst so occupied I saw two or three people on the beach waving. Of course I could not reply, which seemed to distress them, for they waved still more vigorously. Then they tried to launch a small boat, which was promptly capsized in the surf. It seemed very kind of them to take all this trouble, and I thanked them, though I doubt if they heard me. Presently they went away, and I lit my riding light, made a bed on the floor with wedges of kit-bag and sail-bag to keep me from rolling about, and then turned in, very much 'rocked in the cradle of the deep', and slept until midnight. It was still calm then and nearly low water, and the rolling of the boat was much less violent, the swell being broken by the now partly uncovered Binks, a shoal of rather large dimensions lying just outside Spurn Point.

Another snooze until the first faint light of dawn spread in the sky, and then breakfast and up anchor. The flood tide soon whisked me through the narrow channel into the broad Humber, and on a close haul I stood across to Grimsby and made fast in the outer harbour, which I soon found was a wretchedly uncomfortable place wherein there was no peace. So I ran outside again and brought up on the edge of the flats, where I could sketch the big tower and the incoming craft in peace on my own anchor, and debate inwardly on the grave question as to whether I should go on outside, round to Wainfleet, or try around up Humber and Trent to the Wash via Lincoln and Boston.

The general outlook being so unpromising, I decided to go round to the Wash by way of the Humber and the Trent, and soon after the tide had begun to make, set off up river with two reefs and whole mizen, almost as much as she wanted, but by keeping a weather shore aboard, got fairly smooth water, and we smoked along at something like ten knots over the ground. Long before high water we were safe inside Ferriby Sluice in fresh still water, and alongside a grassy bank - a great contrast to my two previous days' experiences. The weather continuing very bad, I stayed two or three days at Ferriby. And then we left about half flood bound to Gainsborough. But a calm, accompanied by furious rain, only allowed us to get just below that most horrible bridge which spans the Trent above Keadby, and we had to spend the next nine hours at anchor, for the ebb runs that length of time in the Trent. The afternoon being finer, I walked to Althorpe, a picturesque village a little higher up, and made some sketches.

I ought to say that I had a passenger for this part of the trip - a young lad, with a passion for boats and sailing, whose parents rashly trusted me with him for the voyage to Boston. I much enjoyed his company.

The next tide took us to Gainsborough, turning to windward all the way; and the next, after a night's stay at that interesting town, took us to Torksey where fortunately I found a man with a horse going on to Lincoln. We bargained, and I got the tow for three shillings, which, considering that there was a very light wind dead ahead, was a blessing without any disguise. We got to Lincoln about dusk and anchored in the middle of Brayford Water, surrounded by nothing more dangerous than pleasure-boats and swans. But the next morning awful news awaited us. We were actually told that we could not go on, as Bardney Lock, below Lincoln, was under repair, and nothing - not even water - could get through! After having come all this way round inside, to have to go back again and round outside in such weather as we have been having was not to be accepted without a struggle, and I was determined to go on to Bardney and to get through somehow, even if I had to use dynamite.

It is well to have a lowering mast if you wish to leave Lincoln via the Witham, for this canalised stream burrows under the High Street and winds in a semi-subterranean manner through the suburbs for some distance before it reaches the open country. There are locks, too, to negotiate, and we found these, at any rate, in good order, and passed slowly along in a steamy, grey, misty, rainy atmosphere. The very faintest of airs gave us bare steerage-way, and it was noon before we finally reached the problem which it was necessary to solve or else retrace our way to Grimsby.

Yes, alas, it was there, bolted and barred by big balks of timber! The lock-keeper came out and looked at us, shook his head, and said he thought we should have to go back. I had forgotten to purchase dynamite, and it really looked as if all progress was impossible. We made fast, however, and Fred, my youthful companion, began to fish for perch, whilst I suggested lunch. After this meal had been completed we sat and looked at the forbidden lock again, more in sorrow than in anger, and whilst we were thus engaged a large Lincolnshire man strolled up. He heard our tale of woe, bit a large piece of tobacco off one of my plugs, and then said, "Might pull her over if we'd some help." Grand - nay, superbly magnificent idea! But where to get the help? For no houses were visible. Oh, he'd just look up some friends of his who would come along (it being Saturday) and give a hand if there was anything forthcoming for their trouble!

Good heavens! I would give untold gold rather than go back, and speeded him on his way with large promises and a three-finger nip of whisky as an earnest of good things to come. So off he went, and we began to strip the boat and carry the things beyond the lock. Presently he returned with four other men like unto himself in stature. The five of them solemnly undertook to haul the Cherub over the bank, along the lock side, and launch her again for the sum of two shillings each and a quart of beer apiece, and to exercise all due care in the operation. We had only the oars to roll her on and our own cables to haul with, but, after much pulling, splashing, and sweating, we succeeded in getting that 8cwt of bare boat out of the river, dragged her some hundred yards through nettles, weeds, and rushes, and launched her into her native element below the lock. Never was boat fitted out in so short a time. In half an hour or so we were being towed down the river to a little 'pub' that must have depended upon the beasts of the field and the birds of the air for its customers, for it stood quite alone, hiding behind the river-bank, and in its modest parlour I settled up with my helpers, the sum of 11s 8d satisfying all their claims, and, to judge by their remarks, leaving them my debtors. A little breeze springing up, we went on our way, the five stalwarts lined upon the bank watching us disappear into the rain and mist, and the crew of the Cherub certainly very lighthearted.

We got to Boston next day in a howling gale, a wintry blast from the north lashing the river into wavelets. I saw Fred off at the station, and returned on board after a tramp through the town, feeling that the gods were making sport of all sailors in sending such weather.

When we left the locks the scud was still flying across the sky from the north, and the day promised to be anything but fine. At a speed of about 9 miles an hour Cherub towed beautifully, and we were soon at the lower end of Boston Deeps. My mast had been lowered before starting, and whilst towing there was no chance to raise it. I had a lot of trouble to get the stick on end in the jump of sea that was fast making, and there was more wind than I had bargained for to make the passage to Blakeney in. However it was a fair wind, and, with two reefs in, we were soon scudding through the Bennington Swatch and into Lynn Deeps. Going across towards Hunstanton the wind hardened and veered a point eastward. If it was going to do this I should find myself on a dead lee shore at low water off Blakeney, and the prospect was not a pleasing one. But it had to be faced as there was no getting back with the ebb tide drying the swatches and making a bigger sea every hour. When off Hunstanton I came up to a smack or two dredging; they had two reefs down, and were pitching into it pretty well.

I hailed one of them to ask for the position of the Sunk Sand Buoy, which I could not pick up owing to the lowness of Cherub's side and the height of the sea, which had grown very much during the last hour. A man popped his head above the smack's bulwarks, and, instead of replying to my inquiry, asked me what the 'Hades' I was doing off there in a little thing like that; and when I told him I was bound for Blakeney he grew almost angry, and tried to persuade me to run for Lynn, whither he was bound after he had made his haul. "'Tis no place for any man to go for in weather like this, isn't Blakeney. You come along arter me!" But I wanted to be in Blakeney, not at Lynn, and after he had told me that the Sunk Buoy had broken adrift, but that I was alright for the 'Bays,' I waved him farewell and left him in a sort of angry sorrow at my pigheadedness.

We were now dead to leeward, and when off Brancaster I pulled down the third reef, because I knew what awaited us when we should have cleared the Woolpack and be at the mercy of the full fetch of the sea across the Well. But there was no holding the boat; the full ebb seemed to be still with me, and the miles sped away astern very quickly, and early in the afternoon I was off Blakeney, much too far inside the Bar Buoy, and with a young flood tearing up towards the channel bearing me fast to leeward. It was now blowing very hard, and the surf to leeward making the air misty, everything looked as if at least an hour's wait outside was imperative if we were so get inside safely. But, with the staggering sea and the strong lee-going tide steadily sucking me ashore, the boat made nothing at all to windward, and would certainly bear no more sail in the broken sea that was there.

I tried her on both tacks, but lost ground each time, and things looked very black. So, with my heart in my mouth, I pulled up the centreplate and pointed for the place where, amidst all the breakers, there seemed to be most water. On she ran, past the first outer buoy, then the second, and then, as she sank in the hollow of a sea - bang! she touched, and a walloping sea burst over her stern. But in bursting some of it lifted her along, and, as well as I could, I crawled forward and managed to keep her from broaching to with a long, strong boathook, when she touched aft again. The same business was repeated, but I felt that only a few more doses would fill her, and our last cruise would have been finished. Still, the strong flood tide kept her square to the sea, as she only hung on her keel, and after one or two more hard knocks she went over the Bar into smoother and deeper water, and, intensely thankful to the kindly powers that had preserved us, I ran her into the Pit, let go the anchor, and looked below. The water was just up to the floorboards, but the bed, stowed under the foredeck, was untouched, and the stove in its locker was dry and ready for action.

I have always felt that I owed my escape to the fact that the boat's greatest draught of water was right aft, and also to the strong (six knot) tide that had held her straight. With a level keel or more draught amidships she would certainly have broached to and been rolled over by the tide and sea, and, as Blakeney Bar is miles away from all living beings, there was but faint hope of rescue, though the lifebuoy I had ready might have floated me to the sands, from which I could hardly hope to escape unless someone had seen us coming in, which I afterwards heard was not the case.

It was not until after four days had passed that I ventured down towards the Bar again. The harbourmaster, an old friend of mine, came down with me. Though the gale had subsided, there was still a heavy breaking sea on the coast and Bar, and, on his advice, I anchored again in the Pit for the night. On leaving me he said, "If there's a chance, I'll hoist my flag." This was to be done because I could not see the state of the Bar from where I was anchored, and when I awoke early next morning I saw with my glass the welcome sign. We were over the Bar by 7.30, after a smart tussle against the tide that had so well befriended me on entering; and an uneventful run of ten hours took me to Yarmouth, where I made fast near the harbour mouth for the night. It seemed quite strange to set whole sail again, which I did off Cromer, and still more strange to find a calm at Caistor.

Calms, however, were things that existed only in the intervals between gales, for I left Yarmouth next morning with two reefs again turned in with a sky full of portents and fearful signs, and the presentiment that I should not get very far that day, which presentiment was fulfilled off Walberswick, where a thunderstorm reduced me to bare mizen for a full half-hour, after which I could just carry a three-reefed sail into the old-world little harbour. Fortunately, the wind was SW in the said squall and thunderstorm. If it had been on-shore I do not know what would have happened.

Next morning broke a lovely day, with a west wind of whole-sail strength. It was a jolly six hours' sail to Harwich, where I spent the afternoon and evening. The wind having backed to the SSW determined me to go no farther that day, though I might perhaps have managed to get to Brightlingsea twenty-fours earlier than I did.

It was twenty-three days since I had left Scarborough, and yet I had arrived at the 'oyster port' before a coal-laden sea-barge that was expected from Seaham, and which did not arrive until ten days later. The old salts shook their heads and said that this was the worst summer they had ever known – but they always say that, so soon do we forget the bad weather of the past in the bad weather of the present. After my experiences in the Wash, bad weather that was merely made up of thunderstorms seemed almost too good to me, and it is certainly remarkable that for the remainder of my cruise, which lasted three weeks longer, I was able to carry whole mainsail almost every day." JL/HC

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Thanks to Richard Wynne, who is a DCA Member and also runs the website of the Albert Strange Association, for permission to print the photographs and who offered the plans too. Their website is well worth a look: www.albertstrange.org. Richard says that 'Cherub II was photographed on the Solent in 1948, and may still be there somewhere'. Has anyone seen her? Richard also said that 'My own boat for the last 3 years is a 15'6" David Moss canoe yawl, however I've failed so far to get involved in any DCA meetings, and fear I now never will, since the boat has to go, to finance (in small part!) a 25' Albert Strange canoe yawl I am having built, and which will disqualify me from the DCA...' DH