28 May 2021
Previously on this blog, we last saw Goldfinch leaving Tynemouth on 22nd May. What's been happening since then?
Amble
I had originally hoped to spend a night anchored off Holy Island (Lindisfarne), but the weather forecast was dishing up some unpleasantly strong winds which would have given us a truly uncomfortable night. So instead we called in at Amble, a port in Warkworth Harbour, about twenty miles north of Tynemouth as the crow flies (or indeed as the Goldfinch ambles). There is a smallish marina there with a very shallow entrance, which we squeaked over. It was at this point that we suffered the first casualty of the trip, as one of the fenders was sadly lost overboard.
We only spent a night here, and barely that. For the usual reasons of tide and weather, we had to leave Amble at 3 in the morning. Getting the boat out of a berth is a much simpler maneouvre than getting in, so only two of us had to get up that early and get us underway. The sky was already paling, and very shortly we were treated to a spectacular dawn. It was a red sky, which is a warning to sailors as well as shepherds, but it was still beautiful. There was barely any wind.
Another country
We sailed - or strictly speaking motored - past the Farne Islands (a National Trust nature reserve) and Holy Island, with its historic priory and echoes of Viking raiders. Then, at 0832 on 23rd May, we hoisted the St Andrew's cross at the starboard signal halliard. We had crossed over into Scotland.
About an hour later we arrived at Eyemouth, a fishing harbour that welcomes the occasional yacht. We walked round the town and when the time was ripe we found a suitable pub for lunch.
Over the next few days we were to have a pattern of calm mornings followed by afternoons of increasingly strong wind.
Mutiny!
The next day we set out for Port Edgar in the Firth of Forth, with a view to spending a day in Edinburgh. Shortly after leaving Eyemouth we found that we had enough wind to sail, so we stopped the engine and started enjoying ourselves. Close-hauled on the lively breeze (we saw gusts of 28 knots), it was exciting but slightly wearying sailing. Up ahead we could see Bass Rock, a distinctive bun-shaped island, inhabited by gannets and painted white by them. Our ideal course would leave the island to starboard, but because of the angle of the wind we were more likely to pass the other side - a slighlty longer route.
At some point we stopped enjoying it. I went below for a rest, and while I was closing my eyes the crew on deck decided that the wind angle was even less favourable, and on the basis that you can have too much of a good thing they put the engine on and turned the boat so we were headed more exactly the way we wanted to go. By now the sea had got up a bit in the freshening breeze, and the ride was very uncomfortable. Worse, with 30 miles to go we were only making 3 knots over the ground, with a combination of tide and waves seriously hampering our progress. It was going to take 10 hours of this to get to Port Edgar.
The crew politely but firmly wondered whether there was anywhere closer we could go instead, and hinted that they were preparing an open boat in which to cast me adrift with a sextant and a pistol.
Fortunately we were only a couple of miles off Dunbar when this happened. It's a fishing port, but the book implied that they might squeeze a sailing boat in if push came to shove. I gave them a call. No answer.
I tried calling on VHF. Still no answer.
I tried the phone again. Answer came there none.
Oh well, we thought, let's go in anyway. It's a dramatic entrance. You dodge round some fierce-looking rocks and stare blankly at the side of a ruined castle, wondering where the harbour is. And then suddenly it opens up, and you see that the entrance is through a narrow gap blasted through those historic ruins by the Victorians. Inside is a pretty harbour bounded by massive stone walls. To the left was a collection of boats of the sort that don't fall over when the tide goes out, and on the right, on one of the walls, was a friendly sign saying VISITORS BERTH in big writing.
We moored up against the wall. The tide was ebbing, and shortly before low water we expected our keel to touch the bottom. I've never done this before with Goldfinch, but Bryan has. You have to keep adjusting your lines as the water goes down, and make sure that when the boat settles she is leaning into the wall rather than away from it. All went smoothly, and we settled just as we hoped.
We were soon greeted by a couple of locals. At first we assumed that the man in the blue jumper was the harbour master, but he confessed and denied not, saying 'I am not he.' In fact, they had just come by to have a look at the boat. Visiting yachts are a rarity in Dunbar, and we'd caused a bit of a stir. Another sailor came round later, and took photos for the next edition of the local Harbour News. Goldfinch is now famous!
It was a restless night. By midnight the tide had come back up, and our long ropes, which had been adjusted for low water, were allowing Goldfinch to swing round like a bull at a rodeo. The idea of staying up all night shortening and lengthening ropes did not appeal, so we had just made sure that as far as possible there were enough fenders to prevent any damage. In the middle of the night I did have to make some adjustments, and consequently did not get enough sleep.
No one knows what the castle at Dunbar originally looked like. It has been ruined for ages, and there are no pictures or useful descriptions from before its ruin. It is now inhabited by a noisy colony of kittiwakes, who seemed to spend all their time circling the harbour for fun, occasionally fighting brutal duels on the surface of the water. Truly, nature is red in tooth, claw and beak.
The harbour master eventually put in an appearance the next morning and apologised for not having taken our calls. He, like everyone else here, was very friendly and helpful. We didn't even get charged for spending the night in Dunbar.
Smokie, not Reekie
On sober consideration, we decided that our planned trip to Auld Reekie was not going to be possible. This nickname for Edinburgh means 'Old Smokie' - and to compensate, our next destination was Arbroath, home of the famous Arbroath Smokie, a warm smoked haddock dish.
Arbroath has a marina with a gate that keeps the water in when the tide goes down. It's normally kept open two or three hours either side of high water. We had contacted the marina in advance, and when we were still an hour away they called to ask if we would be arriving within thirty minutes, in which case they would have kept the gates open a bit longer. But we were already flat out, so sadly we weren't able to get there in time. We were directed to the Outer Harbour on arrival, and told to tie up next to the lifeboat, RNLIB Inchcape. The lifeboat station was having some work done, so the lifeboat had temporarily taken up residence on the waiting pontoon. Two of the lifeboat crew were there to greet us, and they kindly gave us a quick tour of the boat. We were ot allowed to leave Goldfinch unattended that night, in case the RNLI pagers went off and the lifeboat had to go and rescue someone. So we ate aboard, and spent a peaceful night with no urgent requests to clear the way.
The next morning, as soon as the gates opened, we went inside the marina and rafted up next to a large ketch occupied by a liveaboard couple, of whom the male half was a very friendly chatty person from Essex with a pigtail. They were planning to head north next, to Shetland and thence to Norway.
Also in Arbroath were three identical yachts doing a round Britain rally for the MacMillan cancer charity. So far on this trip it seems that almost every other yacht we meet is doing a circumnavigation of Britain.
The wave of uncomfortably strong winds seems to have passed. We were now in a phase of grey mornings followed by gloriously sunny afternoons. Arbroath in the sun is supremely pretty.
On our second night there we dined out, and of course Arbroath Smokies were ordered.
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