Dawn - Lawrenny Yacht Station.

SeaFair Haven 2010

(From something first published in Watercraft magazine.)

I'd been on the road for seven hours. I was late – by which I mean the carefully prepared itinerary had not survived its first challenge, the unexpected visit from a friend from way back.

“Sorry. I know I haven't seen you for years but I'm just off to Wales with the boat. Ta ta, then!”

Doesn't work like that, does it! This, and the vagaries of my sat nav (never very happy west of Manchester) had conspired to make setting up my tent and launching the boat impossible before the first briefing at Lawrenny cricket club....and it was raining. Not a good start.... and it was rumored that the pub only served food until 9pm. I was beginning to feel depressed.

The refinery - not part of the tour....

I'd been to Milford Haven before, you see. To a wedding, years ago. A wedding marred by tribal acrimony and egg-filled bridge rolls. My only other memory of the place was of a rain soaked town and a dismal view of the oil refinery across the iron-grey estuary. I didn't expect to find that view in a Thompsons holiday brochure as representative of the area but was, never the less, relieved to find that Lawrenny, the base I'd chosen to launch Four Sisters from, was a very pretty village set back from the Yacht Station, and that the Natives were not only friendly but falling over backwards to be helpful. Someone – I'm not sure who - phoned the pub and got them to keep the kitchen open for an extra half hour. Mrs. Mc Bean of the Community shop opened an account for me, the Lort-Philips's (whose land the temporary campsite was on) were solicitous of our well being, the Cricket Club arranged showers, barbecues, and Welsh Dancing and, between them, the SeaFair organisers and the Lawrenny Arms saw to everything else, including the provision of grilled kippers for breakfast (only allowed at home if cooked and eaten at the bottom of the garden - remains decently interred in the compost heap), a selection of hand-pulled draught beers and regular musical events. Not so bad, after all, then. The last two items tending to merge somewhat by one o'clock in the morning ...and although I'm not absolutely sure that I can blame the OGA Trailer Section on this occasion I see no harm in trying. Certainly, someone saw fit to inform the world that “Grimsby Gals don't wear nay drawers...” and that they were, generally speaking, a “high class bunch of low class...”.. er.. ladies of easy virtue. A gentleman wouldn't mention such things.

"Official" entertainment at Lawrenny Arms. Unofficial spin-off ran on into the early hours.

Apart from such alcohol-assisted conviviality; much enjoyed by all present; the other thing SeaFair had in abundance was good Welsh mud. Recent TV ads would suggest that the Welsh tourist board is reluctant to share it. SeaFair were much more generous. Generous to a fault. You could have as much as you wanted and we all spent some part of the week trying to keep out of the stuff as falling tides exposed great swathes of it, to the delight of indigenous wild fowl and the consternation of anyone drawing more than a foot or so. I shared a particularly fine 'creek crawl ' with fellow Swallow boater, Steve Jones.

Steve takes a break from rowing. Campside just visible on the hill.

It looked like rain so we left his S17, Nona Me, on the pontoon – Four Sisters has a lid, you see – and rowed off upstream, or rather Steve did. I, as befitted the Master and Commander, took the helm. More resemblance to Capt.Pugwash than Russell Crow I admit but Steve expressed a rather unhealthy urge for physical exercise and someone had to keep an eye out for the poles placed for us by SeaFair (and removed again immediately afterwards, so as not to spoil the view!) that marked the tortuous route to the pub.

Up the creek at Cresswell Quay

The CBL proved ideal in these conditions needing only a trickle of water to stay afloat with the boards up, and progress could be made under sail, engine or oars, (if I kept the whip going), as conditions dictated, but I take my Tilley hat off to the brave souls who took deep drafted cruisers up the winding creeks to Pembroke dock and Cresswell Quay. Better boatmen than I, those guys. They, at least, had earned their pint and a slice of the hog roast at the pub - although the less deserving had already made pigs of ourselves and cleaned up most of the crackling by the time they had enough water to get in. The comment was made that if anyone got stuck at least they could nip over the side and walk home. I wouldn't like to try it! Jump into that stuff and you'll just keep going down until the indestructible Canadian titfer is all that's left to mark your passing, with a flicker of marsh gas as a memorial. (I didn't know you could get the Will o' the Wisp over salt marshes but one evening I saw it with my own eyes – unless it was those kippers.) The upper reaches are picturesque with the bones of old wooded ships, although they are more likely the evidence of a slow decline in trade and fishing along the river than anything more dramatic. The whole place is rich in industrial/marine archaeology and, no doubt, the mud is doing a good job in preserving enough of it for the gainful employment of whole battalions of future O.U. Summer School students. (“Professor! I think we have another Tilley Hat Brag Tag here! Early 21st Century!” I imagine that archaeologists studying the 20^th Century in a thousand years time will have an easy time of it. No carbon dating for them! Just read off the 'Sell By..' date off the nearest crisp packet. ) Sailing slowly downstream with the ebb was made all the more pleasant by the prospect of another “quiet” night on the Lawrenny Arms pontoon. A decent meal, a couple of pints and back to the sleeping bag in the snug cabin of the CBL.

One Campsite, hardly used... (Heck of a view, though.)

Brains Bitter - Not bad at all!

We had a couple of wet and windy nights and the cabin was much more comfortable than the tent. It wasn't half a mile away, uphill and across a field, either, which accounts for the fact that I only used the tent twice. Perhaps “snug” is a little misleading for, as anyone with a crawlinanddie cuddy will tell you, you don't so much occupy the cabin as wear it, like a wooden cagoule. To sleep comfortably a degree of organisation is necessary - and to keep dry in wet weather this should include the banishment of all outer wear. The combination of Welsh hospitality and a failure to observe this simple and effective rule with regard to my favourite, if rather ancient, boat shoes led to a rather disturbed night. I awoke at 2:30 am convinced that something unspeakable had emerged from the mud right next to the boat. No. Not Jason, complete with Hockey mask. Possibly a dead sheep? Torchlight searches revealed nothing untoward, merely provoked some low cursing from the boat next to me. The night air was positively fragrant. Returning to the cabin I discovered the true cause of the problem. There wasn't room for the three of us but I considered that such old friends should not be cast off like, er.. old shoes. They required a suitable ritual. Perhaps they could be floated downstream with a tea light candle burning in each? A sort of miniature Viking funeral? The thought was appealing but would probably be considered an act of terrorism what with the oil terminal being close by. I had to be satisfied with hurling them into the outboard well...provoking more cursing from the next boat. I had no sympathy. He, too, had discovered Welsh whiskey that night.

A well sorted yawl, or is it a ketch as the rudder is abaft the mizzen?
Who cares! Not this skipper! Reefed down on Castle Reach and loving it.

Sailing in deeper waters was less fraught. The Cleddau River is very pleasant sailing for small boats in their wider parts and pose interesting challenges where the high banks – call them cliffs – funnel the wind in unexpected gusts and unlikely directions, especially Castle Reach. The estuary, below the Cleddau Bridge, although a little on the industrial side, was interesting in its own way and sheltered, easy sailing in most winds – unless you managed to get tangled up with the ferry, of course, which (I heard) happened to some poor soul. I was pleased to see that the Four Sisters, with her balanced lug and sprit mizzen, could cope with wind against tide situations just as well as many other boats with fore and aft rigs. In other words, we all started our engines, if we had 'em! Tacking up river against a falling tide whiled the time away very pleasantly, it's true, but the scenery, castles an' all, rolls only very slowly by. Miss stays and you can do the same stretch again for free!

Made for it! A Tideway in her element.
(A proper Tideway, Steve. Not the "Mock Tudor" version!)

Honourable exceptions to the petrol heads, all swathed in blue smoke at every turn of the tide, were the Tideways, Faerings, including the meticulously presented Laura,

Laura luffs up to the pontoon.

Bout de Bois - Brilliant!

and the boat I most drooled over, a Francois Vivier Ilur, Bout de Bois, beautifully home built (400 hours!) by Tiery Fouchier and sailed with great élan by himself and other members of his family. This was the only French boat I came across in the Sail and Oar II fleet (I can't speak for the composition of other classes. Our paths didn't seem to cross as much as I'd hoped.) which seems a pity when you consider the number of British boats that rolled up to Semaine du Golfe '09. Quite a few people have asked me how the two events compare. The short answer is that they don't. The Morbihan is a Big Deal to the French, with national TV coverage and around a thousand boats involved, not counting the dozens of police RIBs escorting the flotillas wherever they went. People drive hundreds of miles just to watch the boats go down the Lamor Baden sleigh ride (9 knots Springs!) Seafair, on the other hand, limited the number of participating craft to about 260 and if there was a media circus I missed it. However, if you can take as much enjoyment from Black Beef with Brains Bitter as you can from Huitres avec Chablis, then Milford Haven and the Morbihan both deserve to be marked on your calendar. Although very different in character, if you enjoy one you'll probably like the other. While the SduG has it for numbers SFH can put in a good challenge for variety of craft. This is less true of the appearance of their owners – a significant number of whom sported grey beards, indicating that there was widespread agreement over the relative importance of sartorial elegance and an appropriate responses to shaving in cold saltwater whatever our tastes in water craft may be.

While unable to do justice to all the boats and crew that took my eye I must mention a few.

Little Jim heels to a gust in Castle Reach.

The Paradox, a home built Matt Layden design called Little Jim which hitherto I had just considered an ugly duckling, impressed with her sheer practicality for the area and swanned around, confidently, where others (myself included) feared to tread, Ostara, the only replica Watchet flatner in captivity, sailed by Friends of the Wachet Boat Museum, showed that some older British designs would have much to offer the small boat sailor in search of something a bit different...

Watchet Flatner pulls in for a pint. The crew claim to be older than my jokes.

.....and last but by no means least, Jady Lane, an ancient and obviously much loved Thames-built skiff, who had a habit of quietly appearing at ungodly hours when the falling tide forced her owner to abandon which ever secluded spot he had found that day. Evidence that the spirit of Kenneth Graham's Ratty is still alive and well on the river, finding joy in simply messing about in boats.