Aye, aye, sailor!

I’ve just been away on another yachting weekend. I was ready for it – ready to get out of Nottingham; ready to get away from the Broadway and get some wind into my peroxide-coloured hair and some ozone into my beleaguered lungs. As usual, we motored down to Plymouth and picked up the yacht. On board, a nightcap (or two) before retiring and then waking to a fruitful breakfast before setting sail. It was sunny, but the wind was blowing old boots and soon we were whipping along trying to chase an enormous motor yacht that looked as if it belonged to Roman Abramovich (but probably didn’t – see picture). Imagine having a weekend cruiser that requires a fucking tug to get you out of the harbour!

Anyway, enough of such gas-guzzling monstrosities, we were sailing (somewhat smugly) under the wind and decided to head off down to Fowey in Cornwall. A bit of a mistake. With a 35 mph wind behind us and seas as lumpy as my old ma’s porridge, we had an uncomfortable ride, I can tell you. I felt unusually bilious and had to take to my bed for the second half of the voyage, waking just in time to arrive in the tranquil haven that is Fowey harbour – having left all the hard work to the others. Fowey is a delightful place; it looks - from our vantage point moored in the middle of the estuary - like a model village; a wedding cake of a town; rather Gormenghast-esque in my opinion. We went ashore for a (somewhat disappointing) dinner and a few drinks before hurtling back across the estuary in the dark in our (somewhat unstable) inflatable dinghy; just a small rubber torch lighting the way.

Whenever you stay in a harbour or marina that is not your home port, you become a temporary member of the local yacht club (providing that you pay your mooring fees). Fowey yacht club boasts amongst its previous commodores (read: “head honcho”) the redoubtable Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. I couldn’t remember who Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch was, but I knew I recognized his name from reading biographies of other luminaries from the 1920s & 1930s (as was my habit as a young man). Since returning from our trip, I’ve looked him up and learn that he was a Cornish-born eminent writer, poet and literary critic, and that he was also a prominent member of the Liberal party. I belong to one of the oldest inland sailing clubs in the country (Trent Valley Sailing Club; est. 1886), but we can’t count anyone as prestigious amongst our past commodores, I fear. I already knew, however, that TVSC once had a rear commodore by the name of Simon Elliott who is the brother of a good friend and fellow blogger of mine – Sally Moreton (www.sallymorten.blogspot.com). Small world, ain’t it?

However, I had been hoping that my trip to the South Cornish Seas would have brought me some respite from the angst and trauma of my everyday life here in Nottingham. But alas, on my return I find myself just as bewildered and dismayed as I was before I left. I took a friend with me, and he seemed to be equally unaffected by the liberation that the sea was meant to bring. Ah, "La Mer, Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs..."

So, to end, a couple of quotes from the ever-reliable Horace:

a) "Few cross the river of time and are able to reach non-being. Most of them run up and down only on this side of the river. But those who when they know the law follow the path of the law, they shall reach the other shore and go beyond the realm of death."

and b) "He who postpones the hour of living is like the rustic who waits for the river to run out before he crosses." Hmm, Carpe Diem and all that.

Toodle pip, old loves!