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  My plan was that we should spend a day or two here, make our final preparations for the Channel crossing, and wait for the weather: if it turned on us, we could always slip into Ramsgate and wait for a better day – or so I thought. On our first day in harbour the sea was, as the French so neatly put it, ‘mer belle’. There was not a ripple in sight, and I decided that we should leave on the tide at 4.30 a.m. the next morning. My decision was also prompted by the knowledge that the sandboat whose berth we were occupying was due back on the morning tide.

  We had a rendezvous with Laurie and Don in their tug, the Evelyn Sperring, at a buoy about three miles out in the estuary, from where they planned to escort us to Ramsgate. If the weather was good, I secretly hoped that we could make the crossing in our little boat in one hop. In the darkness, Ray and I prepared the tow and cheerfully set out, passing the incoming sandboat in the harbour entrance whose crew shouted down that the sea was as smooth as glass, just as the weathermen had predicted.

  We had taken the precaution of buying some drainstoppers from the local civil engineering contractor, which we had placed in the portholes to prevent the wash from large ships from shattering the glass in the ports: a wise precaution as it turned out, for we were no more than twenty minutes out when a squall blew up and all the bonhomie of our departure evaporated as seas broke over the stern and soaked us to the skin. Head up into the wind, our problem now was how to turn back. Ray decided that the best thing to do was to lengthen the tow and come round while the rope was slack. With the water breaking over the stern of the Leo in great black lumps and pouring down into the cabin through the open door, this manoeuvre turned out to be a good deal more hazardous than I could possibly have imagined. As Ray clung on to the wheel and ducked under the flailing towrope, I struggled to shut the cabin door. Many gallons of sea water had rushed into the cabin and, as always in these conditions, the very things that one feels must be secure had come crashing down and were now swilling about in the bilges.

  We were really tossed about in the entrance to the harbour and even inside, where it became marginally calmer, the swell continued to knock us against the piles at the outer end, where we were obliged to moor. It was hard to believe that we had left on a perfectly calm morning barely an hour before, and that now there was a good gale blowing.

  Laurie and Don joined us within the hour for breakfast, and as they munched they predicted that a blow like this could last as long as five days. They also recommended that we get the help of a serious tug to tow us across the Channel, as a repetition of what had happened that morning would be the end for us. Don, whose face is so weatherbeaten that he is supposed to be able to turn into the north wind and so disturb it by his looks that it turns round and blows in the opposite direction, sat sucking on his delicate pipe and grunting advice about the North Foreland and the tide that races there. They set off into the teeth of the storm to go back to their boatyard in Oare Creek and I watched them go with a great deal of admiration, as their rusty old tug leapt about like a sailing dinghy in the waves, which by now were breaking over the harbour wall and spraying our decks with a mixture of sand, gravel and salt.

  Ray and I decided that it would be foolhardy to try to cross the world’s busiest shipping lane on our own: the realities of what might happen had been brought home to us that morning, and so I called Ray’s old employer, Alan Jubb, to see if he would bring his tug the Sir Aubrey down to Whitstable and take us across to Calais. As luck would have it he was towing a small oil platform down to the Medway when I reached him on his mobile telephone. He agreed to come the next day.

  Whitstable is still a very pretty little town with its distinctive weatherboarded shacks along the front, and a foreshore which seems to stretch for miles when the tide is out. I talked to Eileen who runs the Sea Salter company, the oldest corporate body in the land. She told me that most of her work now is cleansing molluscs in huge tanks full of purified sea water. I was astonished to see that there were quite a few large clams with shells at least six inches across, which I guessed had come from North America. Apparently they are only found in Southampton Water and it is thought that they must have dropped off the bottom of transatlantic liners or been thrown out of the portholes by chefs clearing out their old shellfish at the end of their journey. The Whitstable native oyster is becoming a very rare beast nowadays. Its decline started in the 1920s when the oyster beds were decimated by disease, and ever since they have been struggling against the pollution from the factories on the Swale. On the other hand the Portuguese oyster seems to thrive, and Eileen sells them for a mere 25p each, compared to the pound she would charge for the native variety, which are juicier and look like an oyster should.

  I went round to see the original Wheeler’s seafood bar. This was established in the 1870s to sell fresh seafood to the public, and was started by an oyster fisherman, Mr Wheeler, and his wife. Delia, a direct descendant, who looks just like Queen Victoria, but with flaming red hair and a manner to match, sold me a couple of live lobsters and some native oysters, as I thought Ray and I should have some sort of culinary adventure after our dismal maritime experience earlier. She also sold me an oyster knife and showed me how to open the shell, which is really quite hard even when you know how. You have to attack them with the blunt, stubby knife just a little to one side of the hinge. Once the blade is inside, you give a little wriggle which cuts the muscle and allows you to remove the shell. It needs practice.

  I had been taught how to execute lobsters in the most humane way in my youth, by a splendid North Californian woman who lived in Cornwall. She showed me how to push the tip of a special broad-bladed fisherman’s knife, called a Green River knife, into the shell at the front of the head and cut briskly down the creature’s body. They die far more painlessly like this than in boiling water. Grilled, they were delicious, and, as we ate, Ray and I discussed plans for the arrival of the Sir Aubrey on the next day. While neither of us actually came out with it, I think we both knew in our hearts that we were going to be stuck in this very uncomfortable berth for some days, pitching and tossing in the swell which the north wind was pushing straight into the harbour, which was now stuffed with other ships sheltering from the storm.

  It was early evening before the Sir Aubrey forced its way through the now dramatic seas. Alan Jubb and Mac, his toothless and ancient skipper, had come down from the Medway and decided that they would be sheltered if they came along the Swale, but even they were amazed by how lumpy the sea was at the entrance to Whitstable Harbour. We had a short talk and it became clear that with the falling barometer, we would be stuck in the harbour for at least three days. Alan and Mac decided to go home till the weather improved and Ray joined them. I was left by myself to enjoy the pleasures of lying alongside a wall in a serious swell, which I am afraid were precious few.

  I found myself struggling with my impatience to get on with the journey, while worrying that even with a large tug towing us we could get caught in a bad squall and sink the Leo, unless we waited for settled weather. I listened to almost every forecast and noted the slightest nuance in barometric pressure but it was clear that there would be no improvement before Alan and Ray were due back. The delay gave me a moment to dream about what it would be like over the Channel and into the calm waters of the canals. I began to plan our route. I decided that the journey would provide a perfect opportunity to visit Bruges, which I had heard called the ‘Venice of the North’. Many say, too, that Belgian cooking is better than French. I dreamed of moules, frites and chocolate mousse as I tackled beans and bacon at the local sandblown café. The facilities for cooking on the barge were very good indeed but I didn’t feel inclined to try cooking for myself as the boat lurched against the wooden piles of the harbour wall.

  The crew returned and we decided that if the forecast was accurate we would leave on the morning tide, at eight o’clock. Ray went over the Leo, stopping up all her cocks and screwing down the hatches, as the stern of the tug would be under water or at leas
t awash for most of the trip. He sealed the door from the inside and climbed out of a window. All the wire strops were left ready for the morning.

  After a night of little sleep, spent listening to weather forecasts and phoning various weather centres, I decided that we should go, provided that Mac and Alan Jubb agreed once they had sniffed the air – which they did. We made up the tow with the Sir Aubrey followed by the barge and then the Leo. Alan made up the towrope and attached the rope to the big tug with a very clever Swedish shackle which, as well as the normal U-shaped shackle and pin, had a collar: this made coupling up heavy rope very much simpler. About 150 feet of multiplaited rope, three inches in diameter, was made ready to pay out as soon as we left harbour. The barge was connected to the tug’s towrope by a wire halter and the same arrangement was used for the Leo.

  Ray and I stayed aboard the Leo until we were out of the harbour, to make quite sure that all was well and that she was not taking any water. I can’t say that I was sorry to see the last of Whitstable Harbour, though I must say I found the town very attractive. The power of the Sir Aubrey became apparent as soon as she got under way. The Leo, being tail-end-Charlie, swung about like a weight at the end of a pendulum, and we had to rearrange the wire halter on the bows: all the weight was on the metal eyes in the superstructure through which the wire ropes passed, and was actually pulling the steel bulwark away from the deck. Once this was done, Ray and I clambered from one heaving vessel to the next, checked that the Citroën 2CV which we had strapped on the deck of the barge was quite secure, and then made the final leap on to the Sir Aubrey, known to the more irreverent river folk on the Thames as the ‘Strawberry’. Ray explained to me that when jumping from boat to boat, it was essential to keep your head forward. This, apparently, makes one as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Concentrating on keeping my head forward, I leapt and landed in a heap on the tug’s deck.

  In the wheelhouse it was remarkably quiet. The tow was strung out satisfactorily behind us and the sea was, for the time being, very nearly flat calm. We pondered over the charts and decided we would make our final decision about whether to go down on the inside of the Goodwin Sands or straight across the Channel, once we got to the infamous North Foreland. The tide is a crucial factor in small-ship navigation but unfortunately it only runs the right way on any voyage for a given period, and so it is vital to make sure that one has planned one’s trajectory correctly. We knew that to have the tide with us while we crossed the Channel, we would have to be passing the tide races off the North Foreland when they were in their most confused state. And so it came to pass – with a vengeance.

  We were heading for a favourite buoy of mine called the Elbow, from where, if we were to make the crossing straight, we had to turn on a course of 160 degrees towards the south-east. Suddenly, the sea, which had been behaving itself hitherto, started to toss us about as if to see whether our towrope was strong enough. The poor little Leo was being flicked about on the end of the line and taking a good deal of water, and the bows of the Sir Aubrey were dipping under each wave as she surged forward. Mac, who was at the helm, grinned toothlessly and reduced the engine revolutions until our motion became a little more sedate. Then, as suddenly as our ordeal had started, the sun came out and turned the sea bright blue.

  We could see calmer water ahead and behind us the white cliffs of Dover shone bright in the morning sun. It was such a perfect sight, the big ships in the sun, the blue water and the merest hint of the Cap Gris Nez on the horizon. We decided to head straight for Calais – the further off from England, the nearer ’tis to France. Ahead of us lay the East Goodwin Lightship and a little to its right I could see the surf breaking over the treacherous sands. We called the Dover Coastguard to tell them of our intentions. A cultivated woman’s voice came on the air, took the details of our strange convoy and told us to proceed.

  When we reached the Downs, the spot in the Channel which marks the handover point to the Calais Coastguard, we were called by a man with a delicious French accent. The speaker was extremely surprised that we were such a small convoy, but he controlled his disappointment and gave us permission to proceed to the Calais Harbour entrance, which we estimated we would reach in another three hours, after a seven-hour crossing. By this time we were in the deepest part of the Channel and, surprisingly, the sea had become calm. The only time that we started to pitch and toss was when we were hit by the wash of a large vessel. This always caught us by surprise because the surge arrives long after you think it will, by which time you’ve forgotten to expect it. We could hear the big ships that we passed remarking on ‘that heap of shit’. I wondered why all the radio operators on the British merchant fleet seemed to be from Glasgow. I thought back to those storm-tossed days of waiting in Whitstable Harbour and marvelled at how changeable the sea could be. Here we were on the most perfect spring day in the middle of the Channel, all those months of planning and nights of worrying were over. I felt a huge surge of confidence and almost delirious happiness. I had crossed my Rubicon and decided it was the moment to hoist our French courtesy flag on the Sir Aubrey’s mast.

  By now, we could see the famous clock tower of Calais but were not yet close enough to read the face of the clock through our binoculars. Low on the horizon behind us was the grey shape of a French customs launch travelling at great speed towards us. I suppose they had been alerted to our arrival and had set out from their base in Boulogne. Before long they were close beside us and were giving us the onceover. I think they thought that we were really too unlikely to be running drugs in boats like these, but they were taking no chances and never took their eyes off us, in case we were throwing suspect packets overboard. The last couple of miles before you arrive in Calais are always very choppy, and the euphoria of being out on the high seas soon gave way to a feeling of great relief at being in the safety of Calais Port. As we passed the tide race at the breakwater, the current got hold of the tow and very nearly smashed the Leo into the harbour wall, or so it seemed, but Mac managed to aim off enough and disaster was averted by inches.

  Once inside the harbour, the radio told us to stop so that a Sealink Ferry could come dashing in. None of us had noticed this huge ship come steaming up behind us. When it had passed we were given a berth in the tidal harbour and as soon as we were tied up our friends from the customs launch came alongside in their inflatable dinghy. They were dressed in woolly hats and jerseys but they were far from cuddly. Their leader carefully pulled his jersey down over his revolver, but not till he had made quite sure that I had seen he was armed. When they saw we were innocent, they looked at all our passports, became very cheery, told us we had to go to the land-based customs and wished us a good trip. They were not a group to cross: I should imagine that there is very little drug-smuggling by sea on that part of the French coast.

  Chapter Two

  Calais to Bruges

  A simple customs clearance was the last thing that I expected, but a worldly-wise young man stamped our papers without delay and wished us a good stay in France. I had decided that we should celebrate after our triumphant crossing, and as all British born before 1950 think that French cooking is the only thing to be taken seriously in France, that and a bit of ooh-la-la, we went to what my comrades thought looked like a suitable place. They chose a newly done-up rip-off joint where we had a dull meal and gallons of beer. My friends enjoyed themselves: in truth we could have eaten much better and probably had a lot more fun at a less glitzy place in the old part of town, but I wasn’t in the mood for argument.

  After dinner, when I think we were all a little the worse for wear, we moved the boats from the tidal basin into the locked-in port basin of Calais. Here we moored next to a Russian timber ship and watched while curious eyes peered at us from portholes. I was impressed by the number of radio antennae such a workaday craft seemed to need in order to go about its trade in massive logs. I’m not sure that you can be breathalysed for being in charge of a barge, but had anyone come around with a bag to blow
in, I don’t think any of us would have got away with it. There was a great deal of fumbling with ropes and much tripping, but no harm was done.

  The next day the Sir Aubrey left to go back to the Thames and we waved her goodbye as we moved into the first of the very many locks we would pass before reaching our destination. The curious thing about the lock in Calais is that you descend from sea level. The great sand dunes thrown up by the sea have made a barrier from Cap Gris Nez to the Belgian coast, which means that the sea at high tide is about two metres above the countryside that stretches eastwards behind the town. Calais has always been a place of refuge for the British. Emma Hamilton ran here from her creditors; the Scarlet Pimpernel, whenever possible, slipped through the fingers of his arch enemy, Chauvelin, here; and it was a few miles up the coast at Dunkerque that the British Expeditionary Force was forced off the beaches in the Second World War.

  So many British have passed through Calais, it’s a miracle that it has retained any Frenchness at all, though once one gets away from the hypermarkets and into the smaller streets there are some very pleasant areas. We moored in a little basin not far from the famous clock tower and filled our water tanks from a stopcock we found in the grass. Luckily the pressure was very good: we needed to wash all the salt off the metal work as soon as possible, as it can be very corrosive. Counting the damage from the trip across the Channel, the only thing that had gone badly wrong was that, although we had screwed drain covers into the recessed ports down the side of the barge, we had not adequately tightened the porthole over the sink. I had thought that it wouldn’t really matter, as it would just drip into the steel bowl. I was wrong. With the pounding the barge had taken coming across the Channel, enough water had been forced through this tiny crack to leave a pool an inch deep over the entire floor of the barge. By now we had managed to dry most of it up, but there was still a good deal under the floorboards and I knew it would start to rot the wood if we didn’t get the boat completely dry; also, if the damp were not tackled, we might start getting electrical trouble – probably the greatest problem that a mariner can face on the canals, or so I naively thought at the time. The solution, I decided, was to get a blower heater.