Gybe-Ho!

I've had the most fabulous weekend away. It was the best sailing trip I've had in a long time, but for one particular reason. Recently I have, like Prince Tomohito (who apparently is fifth in line to the throne of Japan), been drinking too much. It's time to stand up and admit it. Now that I live alone, there is nobody to cast a disapproving eye over that fifth visit to the whisky bottle, nor to suggest that a couple of glasses of wine with dinner would be better than the three-quarters of a bottle I often indulge in. This is not to say I was being nagged before, just that it's easier to introduce a bit of self-restraint when you are fearing the disapproval of another.

So the drinking had become too regular, and needed to be curbed. My problem is that I lead such an unhealthy life these days; cooped up in my airless flat, boiling with heat from the restaurant below, staring endlessly at my laptop. And so, to remove myself to the bracing air of the oceans was exactly what I needed this weekend. There's nothing better than being at sea, miles from land, with only the wind and the sunshine and the diving gannets to create any focus. We decided, because the wind was forecast as south-westerly, that it would be better to head east to Salcombe instead of west to Fowey. We arrived in record time – albeit in a heaving swell that would suddenly yank the wheel from my hand and threaten to gybe the boat before we were ready to do so.

Salcombe was as picturesque as ever (see picture) and we tied up to a mooring in the middle of the harbour opposite the town centre. There was a bonus – I had forgotten that it was the Merlin Rockets' Salcombe Week and I was excited to see so many of them darting back and forth around the estuary, dodging the various moored yachts and diesel-guzzling gin-palaces that (like us) were visiting the town. We took the water-taxi into town because we couldn't be bothered to inflate the dinghy, and went to the Yacht Club for dinner where the Merlin sailors were also holding a reception to celebrate the beginning of their week. I bumped into many old faces – people I hadn't seen for months – even a guy I'd shared a room with earlier this year whilst skiing in Switzerland (who, bizarrely, boasted "Oh yes, I've slept with Richard Pilgrim" – some boast!). It was great fun. The next morning we viewed the Merlins' first race from our vantage point in the middle of the harbour, enjoying a better view of the race than anyone ashore would get.

But the great thing about this weekend was that it has shaken me out of my lethargy and yes, although we drank and ate according to our appetites, none of it was to excess. And because sailing a thirty-eight foot yacht is quite a physical thing to do (always running around grinding away at sail trimming etc.), it was a really healthy time. We had a pretty tough beat back to Plymouth with crashing waves and a force 5/6 headwind heeling the boat at an almost permanent 60 degree angle; it was tiring, but fun. I feel rejuvenated and glowing.

Now, back to the novel. I have to spring my man from jail.