coasts and harbours

Acknowledging the past

/ Bill

On Boxing Day, at low tide, we walked on the beach.

Empty quay, Bude, Boxing Day, 2008

The weather was one of blue skies and crystal-clear visibility.

The views were amazing, but there is always more to a view than meets the eye – there is a history that rides with it.

Ceres, Bude

This is not a request to  focus on the past, but to share it – to acknowledge that the past existed and that those who lived through it were no different from us.

They too saw the world change before their eyes and their old certainties lost to an unknown future.

Low tide, Bude, Boxing Day, 2008

Thus the toast this Christmas is the toast of Christmas’ past –  “Absent Friends”.

Ceres, waiting for the tide, Bude

For more on Ceres – here, here and here

On Steeple Point – Low tide, Duckpool

/ Bill

Here are four images taken yesterday morning at Duckpool on the coast of North Cornwall.

A combination of low tide, bright sunshine,  and a cold, easterly, offshore wind.

This is a wreckers’ coastline – to be avoided on a lee shore.

Yesterday it was a place to take the air after Christmas.

Inward bound

/ Bill / 1 Comment

I took a series of images of Cemluna inward bound on the last of the tide this morning.

Not my usual subject but the moment was right.

Whether you are interested in ships or not, I defy you to ignore the grace of such a large object being shepherded gently through the water

Then this evening, I was directed to Tugster’s blog – stunning images and a facinating site.

Photography is not always the answer

/ Bill / 1 Comment

Photography is often frustrating because what you are able to record is a small fraction of what you want to record. Sometimes it’s what is outside the image that makes the image itself worthwhile. At other times it’s better not to try but to leave the moment alone.

This was the case the other morning when we set out to enjoy a short sail.

As we left the Sound, the wind strengthened and steadied from the west. We settled on a course south south west, Eddystone on our starboard bow – four and a half knots across a gentle swell.

The sky had been heavily overcast all morning – a dark layer of stratus that shut out the sun and promised rain.  But, for now, there were clear patches of blue sky showing in the west.

It was that approaching blue sky that held our attention as, four miles out, we watched the coast come to life – cherished Cornwall unveiling in the sunshine.

First the Dodman, then the steep cliffs around Fowey, the green fields behind Polperro and on to the bright houses of Looe, sunlight flashing on expectant windows; Downderry sparkled along the water’s edge, pointing to Portwrinkle still hidden behind Rame, before the headland itself beamed out at us.

Silenced, we breathed in the startling November light, marvelling at the clarity of detail, excited by the intensity of the experience. Behind us the sea seemed to darken.

Suddenly, inland, the high chimney stack on Kit Hill stood proud in the sunshine. Next, a group of buildings on Plymouth Hoe, white beacons in the afternoon, overwhelming their less fortunate neighbours. In the foreground, the Breakwater leapt at us. And the whole stunning display moved eastward – scudding along the South Devon coast.

By now, Cornwall was dark again and disappearing fast.

Five miles out we turned for home, basking in our own ten-minute spotlight before, with the Cornish coast lost behind Rame, the gloom bore down on us. Dartmoor disappeared behind the city, leaving it without background – bleak, solemn and solitary, enveloped in drizzle.

We rounded the Breakwater in the murk, the band of drizzle mercifully lifting as we crossed the Sound.

A little later, dry and ashore, we watched the next band of rain cross the Cattewater, blotting out the familiar view.

It was a day to treasure – a day when there was more to sailing than the sailing, more images than could possibly be recorded.

On sailing a Folksong

/ Bill / 1 Comment

On tuning the boat

The Open 60s are in Les Sables d’Olonne undergoing final tuning for the Vendee Globe.

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I remember one day, in my early teens, sailing Falcon solo out of Fowey, around the Cannis Buoy off Gribben Head and back again – all of three miles.

A big adventure for me.

Falcon – early sixties, racing with my Dad and sister

That day, the wind was light, the sea calm, the sun shining – (it always shone on those days). It was the day I learnt what sailing was all about. I got to thinking about my being the connection between wind and sea. Take away the boat and here was I, sitting a few inches above the water, my feet below the waterline, moving steadily along the coast with just the wind to drive me. If I got the balance right, even for a few seconds, the equation would be sea + me + wind = performance Add Falcon back into the equation and it became:: sea + hull + tiller + me + sheets + sail + wind = performance Fantastic, I thought, the wind may change, the sea state will vary, but, with an adjustment of a sheet here, a quiet movement of the tiller there, I can ride the energy between them. What I was recognising in my rather slow way was that sailing is about sailing – any talk of a destination, or of racing, or of my voyage to the Cannis buoy and back was just an excuse to be out there moving across the sea. Many years later, when I heard someone say: “Life’s a journey, not a destination.” I thought: “Oh. . . just like sailing.”

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So . . . tuning – improving performance on the water. The general equation is: hull – tiller – person – sheets – sails (with some fiddly bits in between – or a lot of very sophisticated fiddly bits on an Open 60). Start with tuning the person. Well, this one learns a lot writing about sailing, learns more reading about it, but never learns as much as when he’s out there doing it – and he needs to take more exercise.

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Looking at the picture of Falcon, I remember Dad being very critical of it – he didn’t like the way we’d set the mainsail and spent some time working on it – adjusting and readjusting the set until he got it right. I now realise how much the picture affected him. He became very particular about setting that sail. I guess he used pictures to critique the boat and then . . . . oh, good grief! I’m turning into my dad!