1892 – The Coasts of Essex and Suffolk by Frank Cowper – Extract Harwich area

Page 96

FROM THE COLNE TO HARWICH. …Trinity House. This serves as a land-mark, but will not be of any use to us, as its only advantage, beyond being a mark to tell ships out at sea what point of land they are off, is to clear the Longsand Head fifteen miles away out at sea. Behind the tower stands Walton Hall, and this kept open north of the Naze Tower clears the Longsand Head and the North-East Gunfleet as well. However, we need not concern ourselves about this, for we hope never to be so far out at sea as that. There is no occasion to go ashore at Walton, with its rows of pleasant-looking lodging-houses; we can get at it presently by its back entrance, which is much pleasanter for us, as we shall lie there as snugly as we did off Sunken Island in Mersea Quarters. We have already come about seventeen miles. It is a good five miles more before we can hope to reach the entrance to Hanford Water, and from the end of the Pye Sand and the Halliday Rock Flats it is four miles up to Horsea Island, from which place it is another three to Walton, so we have plenty of sailing still left before we can get to our anchorage. We do not recommend any one to try this trip unless they have a good boat and a fair or leading wind. The weather ought to be at set fair too, as a nasty sea can very soon get up along this exposed coast, and although it is easy to run back to the Colne for shelter, a very uncomfortable rough-and-tumble might be experienced first. The most favourable winds are either a north-west or a south-west one. North-west is the best, as then it is easy to reach down Hanford Water. But we have a fair breeze, and are doing our six miles an hour comfortably. Soon after passing the Naze, we see the red and white Can Buoy marking the Medusa Channel, and the dangerous patch outside of it, called the Stone Rocks, over which there is barely 4ft. of water in two patches. But we have no need to trouble ourselves about this. There is plenty of water for us if we keep about a cable’s length inside of the buoy and steer N. by E. $ E. until we are well in sight of the red Bell Buoy marking the Beach End off Landguard Point, on which stands a lighthouse visible ten miles. The light is a fixed red light, between the bearings of N.N.W. and N.E. to the Beach End Buoy, where it changes to white, and a strip of red light is shown between S. by E. £ E. and S.S.E. J E. to clear the North Shelf Buoy. This light is not visible when bearing westward of N.N.W. Having stood on to within a cable’s length of the red Bell Buoy, we have the entrance to Harwich before us, and are almost inside the harbour. We are in what is called the rolling-ground, which suggests anything but happy thoughts for the tender ones who may be anchored in the roadstead. Close to us on our port-hand is the red and white chequered buoy, with a staff and a cage on it, which marks the Cliff Foot Rocks, and it lies in 15ft. of water. Directly in the wind’s eye lies the unbuoyed entrance to the many creeks which lead up to the Sokens. The channel lies nearly S.W. by W., and is not easy for a stranger. With a leading wind we decide to attempt it; but with a south-west breeze and an appearance of a change coming we think this piece of navigation had better be deferred, especially as the evening and the glass are both beginning to fall. We, therefore, keep on our course, passing close to the Cliff Foot Buoy, and bringing the high light on the shore of Dovercourt open to the north of the low light, which stands 208yds. away from it on the beach in front. The lighthouses show a fixed, white light, the upper one being visible eleven miles, and between the bearings N. i W. to W. by S., and the low light visible gi miles between the bearings N.W. by W. and W. by N. J N. When the lights are in line they lead in between the Inner Ridge red and white striped Can Buoy and the Andrews Spit red Conical Buoy. It is all plain sailing now. We soon pick up the North Cliff red and white striped Buoy. We are now abreast of the Redoubt, half-way between Lower Dovercourt breakwater and Harwich, and Landguard Fort is exactly opposite on the star- board hand. How land-locked and pretty the place looks! There is the long and well-kept esplanade, the old lighthouse towers, built in the time of Charles II., and now disused, the church, the Beacon cliffs, the Great Eastern Hotel, which is the head- quarters of the Royal Harwich Yacht Club—one of the oldest of the Royal yacht clubs—and which has borne on its list of members the names of owners of some of the most celebrated yachts afloat, and always provides excellent sport at the beginning of the season before other yacht clubs have awoke to the fact that yachting has began again. We still glide up. We pass the red and white chequered South Shelf Buoy, lying in 16ft. of water. Felixstowe Jetty and Basin lies ahead of us on the east shore. We pass the red and white striped North Shelf Buoy, and bring the head of our ship more on the wind to stand up to the red and white chequered Guard Buoy, with its staff and cage. We now look right down the straight and broad River Stour. The Orwell lies to our north, and we begin to realise upon what a narrow promontory Harwich stands. It is also at once evident what a charming place it is for boating of all kinds. There seems no end to the excursions to be made up the Stour and Orwell, Hanford Water, to Beaumont-cum-Mose, and all the creeks behind Walton-on-the- Naze, and across to Felixstowe. The sun is setting gloriously, if somewhat luridly, over Manningtree and Mistley, and we promise ourselves some fine sailing for at least two days. As the wind is south-westerly we determine to anchor for the night a little west of the Guard Buoy, with the north-east harbour jetty bearing W. by N. of us. We are here all right with the wind where it is, and shall lie in 6ft. of water at low tide. The proper anchorage is half-way between the Shotley Spit Buoy (spherical with red and white rings), which marks the shallow spit running off from Shotley Point and the Guard Buoy. But small vessels are rather exposed here to the full drift from the Stour, which at high water is a wide estuary.

Harwich is not really a good place for small craft, and it is better to go inside the Orwell and anchor off Shotley Spit, or go into Felixstowe Basin rather than run any risk of dragging if the weather is dirty. By the way, it is as well to note that vessels are requested not to anchor when the red light on the north jetty falls within the bearings of W. and W. by S. £ S. The green lights are for the Great Eastern Railway Company’s steamers. As we should expect, a rather strong eddy tide sets out of the Orwell and the Stour; but anchored as we are on the edge of the bank we do not feel it so much after the first two hours, as it sweeps round towards the Felixstowe shore. Well, here we are, and have done our day’s work easily enough. We are now in the head-quarters of a really good, sportsman-like yachting station, the most important on the east coast. The Royal Harwich Yacht Club acknowledges only seven yacht clubs, out of a total list of thirty-eight such establish- ments, as its seniors. The venerable Royal Cork Yacht Club, which was founded in 1720, is the doyen of the yachting associations. Nearly a century elapsed before England started a club of her own. In 1812 the Royal Yacht Squadron was formed, followed by the Royal Thames in 1823, and the Royal Northern in 1824, then came the Royal Western of England – in 1827. After another eleven years two yacht clubs were started in 1838: the Royal London, in England, and the Royal St. George, at Kingston, Ireland. Then the eastern counties caught the enthusiasm for this manly sport, and Harwich became the head-quarters of the Royal Harwich. In 1893 it will celebrate its Jubilee, and the club is bestirring itself to mark the event with some suitable dis- tinction. The Duke of Hamilton is the commodore. Harwich is usually the goal of the New Thames Yacht Club’s annual match, starting from Southend; and the Norfolk and Suffolk Yacht Club also sail an all-round race from Lowestoft to Harwich. As these clubs manage to time their races so as to meet at Harwich just before the Royal Harwich holds its regatta, the result is a large assemblage of yachts in the harbour, and a very pretty sight it is. The anchorage and shelter are both good, and so ample is the latter that in the good old sailing days it was quite possible to see over a hundred men-of-war, including line-of-battle ships, frigates, and corvettes, as well as a fleet of three hundred merchant vessels, colliers, and coasters, all riding in Harwich Harbour and roads at the same time. This was during the great wars of Napoleon, when the British ships were doing sentry-go all along the shore of the North Sea and down the French and Spanish coasts and into the Mediter- ranean. We have dropped anchor too in an historical spot. A wife more cruel than Clytemnestra landed here to do her husband to death in as awful a manner as it is possible to imagine. Isabella, “the she-wolf of France,” and “the gentle” Mortimer disembarked here on their way to that progress of successful infamy, every step of which was marked by some terrible tragedy, beginning with the vivisection of the aged Despencer to the last step of all, when Berkeley Castle rang with the shrieks of an agonised king giving up his soul amid the most infernal torments. It was from where we now lie at anchor that Isabella’s son set sail to win that great naval victory which was so complete and disgraceful to the French that only a fool could break the news to the passionate Valois. Truly a bitter jest. The citizens of Harwich appear to have been either a very contented or very bashful set in the days of Queen Elizabeth. As the mayor and burgesses escorted Her Majesty out of the town, and were making their bows in the farewell audience, the Queen was graciously pleased to ask if they wanted anything? “Nothing, may it please your Majesty, only to wish you may fare well.” “By my troth !” said the great lady, who did not often grant favours, and when she did hardly expected this sort of answer. “By my demi-culverin! A pretty town truly, and wants nothing !” and so she rode away.

Not very ready were the brave Harwich magistrates. But it is a hard thing to say in a minute what you want, when that want is the only one that is to be gratified. The moral of the story of the old couple and the black pudding is pretty true. Harwich also had its moments of dare-devilry. It is not often a small boat with two guns goes out to fight a whole fleet, especially when that fleet is commanded by the most famous sea- captain of his age. Yet this is what the “Fan-fan ” did, and that dashing captain of horse describes it well too, for Prince Rupert was directing the manoeuvres, and wrote to Charles II. an account of how De Ruyter was obliged to open fire from his fleet on the audacious pigmy, which armed with only two guns dared to plump its bonbons amid the lofty pooped Dutchmen. The pigmy having received two shots between wind and water, retired with the honours of war and amid the laughter of the lookers on. The Court wanted something to divert its thoughts from the disgrace at Chatham. Harwich was the rendezvous of the gay sparks who rode down from St. James’ to taste the perils of war, and ride back again with the glorious reputation for bravery won by a night or two at sea under the command of sea captains trained by such seamen as Blake. The four days action in Southwold Bay was not such child’s play that we can afford to scoff at the Villiers, the Mordaunts,- or the Sedleys, who set the fashion for the court gentlemen to hazard their lives in this stern play. In the parish church there is a monument to Sir William Clarke, Secretary of State to Charles II., who was killed in the action after being severely wounded and refusing to leave the deck. We sit on deck and think of some of these things as the lights flicker over the water from the ancient town, and so we end our tenth day from London Bridge. This day is a fair example of what often happens when cruis- ing. We started for Walton and Hanford Water. We find ourselves at Harwich. “But the sailor’s the man for all weathers, and where the wind drives he must go.”

We wake earlier than usual next morning. We seem to be rather shaken. Is it a steamer, we wonder, as a thump comes under our quarter, and a dash of spray falls on the deck above. We hurriedly look out. There is a lurid and yet sickly glow along the eastern sky. The low spit of Landguard Point looks very near. There is an angry murmur from beyond. A tumbling sea is frothing on the Beach End Spit, and toppling over the shoals on the Cliff Fort Rocks. Ever and anon a spout like that from a whale shoots up over the end of the breakwater off Blackman’s Head at the end of Beacon Cliff. The masts and smoke-stack of a steamer roll into sight, round the Landguard Light, and by the way the smoke flies out ahead we can see what a fresh breeze there is outside. Meanwhile the tide is setting out of the harbour, and we are rolling like a grampus. Now our broadside comes fair to the waves, and then as the tide gets hold of the keel, we turn stern to the wind and flop into the short sea, while our dinghy dances and bobs and butts at our counter in an uncontrollable and totally rebellious fashion, alike detrimental to our nerves and paint. We quickly find that Harwich Harbour may be splendid shelter for big vessels, but for us it requires carefully picking and choosing for each wind that blows.

These are not the sort of places we like, nor are they the kind we have selected for this trip. Our harbours are quiet anchorages. We make an elementary breakfast, devoid of sweetness and light, and weigh anchor. With the wind where it is we judge it best to go up the Orwell. Under the jib alone we run for the Shotley Buoy, but keep over as much as necessary to the Suffolk shore. The tide is slackening, and as we get under the land after crossing the Manningtree estuary the turmoil quiets down. We seem now to be entirely in a lake. If only the rain was not driving up astern we should enjoy the pretty scenery a little more. However, it is the first bad day we have had as yet, and even now the wind is fair for taking us where we meant to go sooner or later. To explore either the Stour or the Orwell we are obliged to pass in and out of the Harwich roads. Walton Ferry lies on our right. The broad expanse of the Stour is closing in, we are shutting it out with Shotley Point. Giving this promontory a wide berth, we skirt the edge of the mud, which only spreads out a little way from the west side after passing Bloody Point, while on the Trimley St. Mary, or east shore, the mud uncovers a long way. We notice a “hard” a little way beyond the mouth of the Orwell on the west shore, and soon after come to Shotley, where there is another landing-place. On our right on the top of a hill, standing back from the river a little way, is Grimstone Hall. An Elizabethan hero was born here, one of the great band of sea-captains who were explorers, navigators, merchant adventurers, Queen’s officers, and did a little privateering of their own as occasion offered, and all the while advanced the glory and power of England on the high seas. They were sober, God-fearing, and terribly in earnest men for the most part, and were fortunate in finding it easy to reconcile the indiscriminate spoiling of the Spaniard wherever they could get at him, and if not the Spaniard, anyone else if it could be done quietly, with a fervent con- sciousness that they were doing a pious duty and enriching themselves. Thomas Cavendish, whose gestes and travels may be read of in “Hakluyt,” was born up there in that old house among the trees. Even in the rain and south-easterly wind how pretty it looks. Coming close down to the river on our right, and appearing to bar all farther progress, the wooded hills of Trimley St. Martin and Levington loom dark under the lowering mists. Shotley is on our left. We are passing Collimer Point, and a fine reach opens up before us. It lies nearly north-west and south-east, and has an average depth of 18ft. of water at lowest spring tides right up to Pinmill, about six miles from Shotley Buoy. Still the hills slope up on our right, and after passing Levington Church, almost half-way between Collimer Point and Pinmill, but on the starboard hand, we see a charming country house peeping out of the woods at Nacton. Here another naval hero lived. What schoolboy has not read with pride and delight of the famous duel between the “Chesapeake” and “Shannon,” and how the Bostonians thronged out in pleasure craft to see the Britisher whipped, and how in five minutes the Britisher whipped Brother Jonathan instead. But proud as we may be of the pluck and skill which won the fight, for the conditions were nearly equal in this case, we cannot help seeing the other side of the picture. The cock-pit crowded with ghastly wounded. The mutilations, with no chloroform to lull. The life-long agony inflicted on so many brave men, and all for what? The naive sarcasm of old Kasper is a piece of wit those who make war should ponder over. The yachting world does well to promote the international races which have lately taken place. Sir P. V. Broke, who commanded the “Shannon,” lived at Broke Hall for many years; but he suffered all the rest of his life from the serious wound he received in the action, and was never really fit for active service again. Beyond Broke Hall is a lovely place, Orwell Park, belong- ing to Captain Prettyman. In the house are some fine pictures, specimens of nearly every school of the old masters. Murillo is especially strong. There are Titians, Caraccis, del Sartos, Vandycks, Wouvermans, Cuyps, Jan Steens, and Holbeins. The beautifully-wooded park, with its private landing-place, should be visited, so the guide-books say, and so we think, but permission has to be obtained, and we are shy of asking. However, we resolve we will get over this if only it will come fine. Meanwhile we discover that we have sailed into a very charming spot, which others have not been slow to find out before us. In the bight on our left lies a little hamlet; behind it rises a finely-timbered park, and a large house, worthy of the house agent’s favourite word “mansion,” looks down upon the river below. In the river and moored on the west side are many yachts, and we feel with a sigh of regret that we have sailed into civilisation again, at least into the world of yachting public opinion, which we have not strength of mind to disregard. Shall we stop here among this dainty covey of pleasure craft, fluttering around the pretty dovecot of Pinmill, or shall we sail up as. long as the wind and tide will take us? We decide to go on. It is a fair tide and fair wind— what more do we want? And so we glide past the little fleet, noticing on our right a buoy off a point on the Nacton shore, which is known as Potter’s Point. Above Pinmill, which is a hamlet belonging to a village standing on high ground, about three-quarters of a mile inland, called Chelmondiston, we see two convenient hards for landing, all on the west side. The eastern shore is much less hospitable, and presents an aristocratic standoffishness, which is, no doubt, delightful to the proprietors, and would be to us if we were in that happy position, but is only irritating as it is—for is it not always much prettier where we cannot go? After passing Woolverstone Park, which belongs to the family which gave its name to Berners Street, and where there is an obelisk to commemorate one of the family, the river turns again to the north-west, and seems to grow prettier and prettier, unless it is the sunlight which has just come out and gleams on the shining stretch of water before us, on the rich banks and glossy wooded slopes on either side. This is Gainsborough’s country; the painter revelled in the happy scenery. The Orwell has been compared to Southampton Water. To our minds it is much prettier, more varied, and with far more striking scenery. Peaceful, sweet, and homelike are the chief characteristics, while over all the luxurious culture of such naturally beautiful sites as Orwell Park and Woolver- stone Park gives it an air of prosperous existence, which must be very satisfying to those who bask in such kindly warmth. For our part we are sea-rovers, and for the time envy no man. What cares have we? Have we paths that want weeding, or beds that want bedding, or greenhouses or forcing- houses that want heating, or trespassers that want prosecuting? But the more one has the more one wants, and so we grow abstracted and philosophical. But attention. The river now is getting narrow. It is buoyed, it is true; but somehow the mud on the east side has grown out of its buoys. Very annoying of it, especially as it has shrunk away a little on the west side. They could not alter the buoys we suppose, so of course they will have to bring the mud back again to make it all right. We are carrying the tide with us, and as it is yet only two hours’ flood we can see the mud banks on either side. Downham Reach is a broad one, with the channel rather nearer the west shore. Opposite an old tower, however, on the west side, the channel takes a turn to the northward, although the banks appear to tend north-west as before. We must be careful here, as there is a bank in the very middle of the channel which divides into two branches, with most water in the western arm. The western branch is called the lake, and the eastern one Bridge hole. This is a good place to anchor in, as there is a “hard” on the east shore, and a vessel lies out of the main channel. The middle bank is buoyed at its northern end, but after this the mud has grown more conspicuously than ever on the east shore, and shrunk away proportionately on the west, all along Freston Reach. The old Tudor tower of six stages high (of which an illustration is given) is a conspicuous object here; it was possibly built by the Latimers in the first half of the sixteenth century. It stands well on the lower slope of the hill, between Freston Church and the shore. About a mile farther on is the landing-place for Freston. How very pretty it all is! The rain has ceased for some time, and the mid-day sun is shining down on the broad reaches of the land-locked water. The rich scent of the fertile land and the freshly-watered woods blows sweetly by. White clouds flicker over the blue sky above, and dimple with their flitting shadows the hills and river below. A distant beating of rapid paddles tells us of the Ipswich steamer, which presently turns the point ahead and splashes into sight. It must pass very close to us, so we look out for a shaking, and we get it. The Ghannel becomes more and more corkscrew like. Off Wherstead Church it approaches very near the west shore, and then takes a sharp turn to the north, – with a bank of mud and a creek round it, with water enough to land at King’s Ness. Another short bend to the westward, then sharp to the north again, and round a sweep nearly east and west, past Fen Bight, and before us is the straight reach up to Ipswich and the fine dock, where are Messrs. Ransome, Sims, and Jeffries’ Iron Works. The tide will run for nearly three hours yet. We turn into the mouth of the branch which goes to the west of Hog Island, and seeing a vacant mooring buoy we pick it up and let our ship swing head to tide. The breeze is only a fitful one, and varies mostly with the reaches of the river, but apparently is always ahead. We now make amends for our casual breakfast, and after- wards lazily enjoy the sights and sounds of other toilers. We do not want to explore Ipswich. Didn’t the Duke of Buckingham say it was a town without inhabitants, a river with no water, and where asses wore boots? We have thought he referred to the inhabitants, but as he had said there were none, no such imputation could have been intended. He only meant that bowling-greens were all the fashion, and they rolled them carefully, as we do tennis lawns, putting shoes on the animals’ hoofs to save the lawn; a new idea apparently in the days of Charles II. We come to the conclusion that the piece of sailing we have done to-day has brought us to the prettiest part of our voyage as yet. The Crouch and the Blackwater had charms of their own, and solitude and extent are perhaps the chief novelties; but here the scenery is unusually pretty, and bears a finish about it all, an air of long-cherished affection on the part of in- habitants who have had for the last two centuries money, time, and taste to spend on the improvement of the natural beauties of their homes. Such surroundings are most suited to foster the best features in an Englishman’s character; solid comfort, healthy sport, natural beauty, of the quiet reposeful sort, a kindly soil, and a ready access to the sea. We placidly digest our lunch and let the tide and the after- noon run on. But we do not mean to remain here for the night. We think that pretty bay between the two parks, where the blue smoke from the quiet hamlet curled hospitably as we passed will be better after all. Very sheep-like and gregarious are boating men, and we cannot resist the fashion of our kind. At slack water, therefore, we peak the mainsail, and casting off our moorings ripple back, with now and then a fair slant of wind, but mostly with it right ahead. We are very careful of the buoys, going inside most of those on the west shore, for we noticed they were wide of the mud as we came up, but paying due respect to those on the eastern side, lest we should be held by a muddy embrace. And so we burble down. The scene is even prettier now than it was as we came up. The whole expanse between the banks is covered, the trees hang over the water in many places, and where the breeze fails to ruffle the surface the reflections are perfect.

Freston Tower waves towards us as we slip down the longer reach beyond Fen Bight, and gradually we open up Downham Reach and see in the distance the white-winged flock. Several yachts are under weigh and working down towards Harwich. There are many moorings vacant, and we make up our minds to pick up the handiest. We have known this quiet appropriation of other people’s property sometimes applauded, and sometimes the reverse. As a matter of fact, if the owner is likely to be away for some little time one really does a service to him in picking up his moorings, as it clears them from the mud and keeps them clean. But we have known some people of such a dog-in-the-manger type that they would rather have their property slowly sinking under the mud at the bottom than have them kept clean and tidy by a stranger. With such people the idea of another benefiting by their possessions without acknowledgment or permission is a serious grievance. Whether the owner of the moorings which we picked up has felt aggrieved or not we do not know. We hope he hasn’t; we were very careful of them, and dropped them over in as gentle a manner as possible. We ask him to accept our best thanks, and hope he will make use of ours whenever he comes our way. Having made all snug we go ashore. The village is as pretty ashore as it looks afloat—we mean as it looks from afloat—although really in the still afternoon light the reflections, are so perfect that one might call it a village afloat. There are two little inns, one of kindly name, the Alma called, we imagine, more likely after the Crimean victory than from any remembrance of Alma Mater. The accommodation is primitive and the prices high. But then this is sure to be the case if you are suspected of belonging to a yacht. That is why we call our ark a boat. A sailing-boat is to a yacht what a “shay” is to a mail phaeton. However, Pinmill is decidedly a nice little place. The anchorage is good, and exceedingly quiet. There is little traffic at night, and one can sleep well in absolute tranquillity. The tides are mild, and the breezes that blow are generally across the stream, not up or down it. By all means we recommend our followers, if they have not been there, to go to Pinmill. Chelmondiston is its official name. The Orwell is far superior to Southampton Water as regards scenery. It is an enlarged Beaulieu River with high ground on each side. The walks about are delightful. Although we were threatened with all sorts of pains and penalties by reason of our innocently taking a path which led us through a most lovely part of Woolverstone Park on our way to Freston Tower, this need not be the case if others follow our instructions. When over the big stile from Pinmill into the park, turn up the hill on which the obelisk stands. Don’t take the path to the right, which leads along the shore; if you do, when you reach the end where the lodge is, they will tell you it is private, so you will have to walk all the way back again, above the most charming shrubberies imaginable, called the Cliff, where art, regardless of expense, has cultivated and improved the natural beauties of the place. The park is full of deer, and a pretty modem church stands among the old trees. Altogether we have seldom seen a more perfect specimen of the English country seat. The cottages on the estate are prettily placed, and mostly new, but so well designed that the newness does not offend; while the way in which the lodges and paths are kept, shows that there is one in authority who thinks that “order is heaven’s first law.” The house is of that style so much admired during the last century, and which Horace Walpole did his best to decry. It consists of a central square block, with low wings of consider- able extent, very formal and precise, and with nothing picturesque. The French influence is plainly evident, and the large gates at each end of the wings remind one of some of Vauban’s guard-houses. But the whole is excellently placed, and the views from the windows must be delightful. Freston Tower is well worth visiting. It is a tall, slender, red brick turret of good design. The architect was certainly a man of originality. The windows on the Orwell side are varied with each storey, and the curtain round the top is of open arched construction, well carried out in the brickwork. A story has been written about the tower, bearing its name, and purporting to tell its history. We could linger long here. No wonder Gainsborough loved the neighbourhood; it is a perfect place for an artist. Pinmill is also convenient, as the Great Eastern Railway Company’s steamers, which by the way are unusually good river boats, and well found, go up and down four times a day each way, and take up passengers at Pinmill, who go off to the steamers in a boat. There are many herons about here, and the long-necked ones have a merry time on the wide-reaching mud flats, where food inexhaustible seems to lie waiting to be picked up. We watched a crow and a heron fighting for a lob-worm. The heron reached too far for the crow, who got into a wild passion, and flew up and down at the lengthy one, screeching the while madly at him, but the heron only eat the worm without saying anything, which shows it is not always the talkers who get the juicy morsels. In Orwell Park, where we found the landing-place, which at low water is a very long hard, and was not so exclusively private but that the public are allowed to land at it, there is a clock- tower with a most melodious set of chimes. We do not remember ever to have heard such soft, clear notes, followed by the deep and sonorous voice of the bell which strikes the hour. It sounds like the voice of some guardian angel calling softly to us and bidding us think how the hours are flying, followed by the deep strong voice of Time solemnly reminding us that this hour will never return; and yet it does, for it repeats the same thing twice in every twenty-four hours. “Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!” Individuals are nothing; they are only the molecules of creation. Eternity in vast sons majestically repeats itself with a solemnly harmonious variation. Listening to the sweet yet melancholy cadence of these melodious chimes calling over wood and river and upland slope, we feel the poetry of the hour as the moon is waning over Chelmondiston Church, and the nightingale is trilling from Woolverstone Park. We turn in. We have not done with this world yet, whoever else may be waiting to follow in our steps; and if the spirit of the bell is calling over the waters, there is a spirit in the cabin which is ready to mingle with our own.

With much regret we shortened in our chain and got up the mainsail the next morning. Pinmill is such a delightful little nook that we could spend a week here with much profit. But the charms of beauty must be disregarded, however peaceful and alluring they may seem. So break out the anchor and set the jib. The tide is just on the turn, and the breeze is humming over the trees of Woolverstone Park. The tide is now full, and as the wind heads us a bit we have to be very careful not to reach over too far on either side, but especially on the eastern shore, where the mud lies out a long way and is very flat. It is a pity the authorities do not put up some sticks to mark the edge of the mud, a few here and there, as in the southern creeks, would help a stranger much, and cost next to nothing. The best guides are the four large mooring-buoys, about a mile below Pinmill, and placed nearly amid stream, but rather more on the western side. One may safely reach over to about fifty yards on the east side, and thirty on the west of these buoys; but it is better to make a few more tacks than stick on the mud at the top of the tide. As we work down we get a good view of Orwell Park. It is a splendid mansion, with two towers and a tall building with a dome.

THE WOODBRIDGE RIVER. Next morning we are up early. The breeze is just where it was the night before, that is, fair for sailing out, but a head wind for getting in to Hanford Water. There seems a fate against our exploring this creek. Never mind, we are not out of the Stour yet. As the wind is a leading one we think it better to let the tide fall before starting, for we can then see the mud flats, and if we should have the misfortune to stick, shall not have to wait so long and anxiously as would be the case if the tide were at its highest. Accordingly about half ebb we get up the anchor, and are soon slipping down before the breeze to Wrabness. Warily we steer, and are once or twice a little dubious of getting out, by reason of the narrowness and shallow water of the channel across Jacques Bay. But by the exercise of great caution we reach Wrabness. Here we are in deeper water, and can enjoy the scenery again. We notice as we pass Erwarton Point that there is a landing-place there, and the path goes up over the hill to the old church and hall beyond. We strongly recommend this walk. It is very pretty, and in fine weather Erwarton is quite safe to lie off. With a freshening breeze and falling tide we are not long in getting back to Harwich, and are soon spinning out to the North Sea.

As we stand out, close hauled, on the starboard tack, just going to windward of the Beach End Bell Buoy, we look down wistfully towards the vacant space between the Naze on the one side, looking like an island, and the long low shore of Dovercourt and Ramsey on the other; while beyond and between the Naze and Dovercourt loom the uplands of the Sokens. We see a yawl, evidently a yacht, lying at anchor in what we know is the fairway up to the mazy creeks behind Walton- le-Soken, but the wind is right out, and the tide too; it would be a useless waste of time trying to get there. True to our rule of never going against wind and tide, but always accepting the direction nature chooses for us, we put up the helm, ease off the sheets, and are soon rippling down between the Landguard Breakwater and the Andrews Buoy. There is 6ft. of water here at just half-way between the two, and if we keep at this distance off the Felixstowe shore we shall go inside the Platters shoal. There is only 3ft. of water on the Platters at dead low water spring tides, so we must be careful. However, by keeping our ship’s head, after passing Landguard Point, on the third tower, standing on Felixstowe Point a little beyond Bull Cliff, we shall pass through in 9ft. of water. When abreast of the first tower from Landguard Point steer for a point about half a mile off the buoys on Felixstowe Point. Perhaps the best way is to go outside the Andrews and Platters Buoys if the tide is ebbing strong, and then steer north- east for the buoy lying off the Woodbridge River. We carry the tide with us then, and have nothing to do but keep a straight course. However, we choose the more intricate channel because we like to feel our way, and also because we want to see more of Felixstowe. It is a pretty little place, and a delightful spot for yachting men, as they can keep their vessels off the shore if it is quiet, and run for shelter to Harwich if it looks anyway dirty. It is only two miles back to the Andrews Buoy, so that one is in safety before the wind has had time to draw in its cheeks preparatory to a blow.

Felixstowe looks especially pretty this morning in the mid-day sun, the roofs of its many villas peeping out of their neat shrubberies and gardens, and dotting the slopes of the hill behind. Off the point there lies a nasty ledge of rocks, but they are securely walled in from any vessels which may be anxious to knock against them by a perfect fence of buoys. There are nine of them in rather less than a mile. We thought they took great care of the Maplin Sands, and it seemed difficult to get between any of the buoys thereabouts, but here—why it is a hedge, a park paling, a perfect wall. Passing this point we soon see the buoys marking Bawdsey Haven, as the entrance to the Woodbridge or Deben River is called. The Wadgate Ledge Buoy and Cork lightship are of no importance to us, except that a course due N.N.E. by N. from the Cork vessel will bring us to the South-west Bawdsey Buoy, unless it has been shifted, for we are now approaching a rather risky bit of sailing, and they have a way of changing the position of the buoys while one is away. In the first place, let us say as every one says, no one should attempt to enter this river or the Alde without local help, that is the proper direction to give. For this help we shall possibly have to pay 10s. or so. Having said this, let us try and get in without local help. To do this we must have three conditions in our favour: a smooth sea, a leading wind, and not too much of it, as that would interfere with our first con- dition, and a rising tide. If we have all these points to help us we cannot go far wrong. We must remember that the tides set in very strong, and may sweep us over the banks, although the tendency is more often to carry us into the channel. Of course, we must carefully sound as we go in, and be prepared to anchor directly we find the water is shoaling. At dead low water there is always about 3ft. on the bar, and it is shifting every day almost; this makes the great difficulty of entering. There are two towers on the shore, one just abreast of the first buoy, spherical, black and white rings with a staff and two triangles, where the shore begins to turn N.- by E.; the other, farther in, is nearly opposite the point. where the Bawdsey Cliffs on the north-east side rise from the spit. The deepest water is close on the Felixstowe side after passing the first buoy. The channel is very narrow, but once we are abreast of the second tower we need not be anxious about the depth of water, as we shall have about 12ft. at low tide nearly all the way up to Wadringfield, some seven miles up the Deben. There are two beacons on the shore, and occasional lights for the river, red and white; there are also two shifting beacons with a square and triangle on them. If these are kept in one they should lead through the Swatch way. Off the extreme end of Bawdsey Spit there is a black can buoy in about 40ft. of water low tide; this must, of course, be left on the starboard going in. There are always pilots on the look out, and if the worst comes to the worst we can obtain their assistance. We repeat, if all the conditions are as we stipulated, no harm can come to the vessel; only we want to have a smooth sea, plenty of flood tide still before us, and a fair wind. Of course, we are hailed by a pilot, and we are told we cannot possibly get in without one. We said we should like to try. Anyone who has tried Alpine climbing without a guide will understand the strength of mind required to face the force of local interest backed up by the weight of public opinion, which always sides with the idea of precaution secured by expense, if it is some- body else’s purse which has to pay. How generous the fair sex are to cabmen if the male thing is there to pay. Well we are possessed of this strength of mind, and resolve to try to force the passage of the Woodbridge River. How pleased the local interest will be if we get ashore. The tide is now just on the turn. We are abreast of the first tower, after passing Felixstowe ledge. The Bawdsey Haven South-west Buoy is close to us. About half a mile from us is the North-east Bawdsey Buoy, with the Bawdsey Spit Buoy inside, and well between the two. There is no use in trying to enter yet; the tide must rise a bit first. The depth on the bar at high water spring tides is 13ft., varying with the state of the weather and the direction of the wind. A north-west wind causes a higher flow of tide all along this coast. As we have about two hours to spare before attempting to go in, we employ it in sounding as near to the bar as we venture to go. We find by keeping our ship’s head towards the Bawdsey Spit Buoy we have plenty of water until we are nearly half-way between the two towers, when we shoal to 6ft. This is shallower than we like, so we luff up and stand out towards the North-east Bawdsey Buoy, and there bringing her head to wind let our vessel lie-to, while we feed and generally enjoy the view. Bawdsey Cliff, with its triangular sea mark painted in red and white rings, which is a mark for the sledway outside, is very conspicuous; beyond the beacon, fading away in dots in the dim distance, are a string of martello towers, leading the eye up to Orford Haven and Hollesley Bay, our next port if we get safely in and out of the Deben By this time the tide has risen sufficiently to justify us in making the attempt to enter. The tide has been setting us to windward. We are well open of the mouth of the river. Letting the jib draw, we put down the helm and come round on the port tack. The breeze is nearly aft, and rather fresher than it was. Finding we are going through the water quicker than we like, in case we do take the ground anywhere, we trice up the tack of the mainsail and ease off the peak. Passing close to the South-west Bawdsey Buoy on our port hand, we steer as before towards the Bawdsey Middle Buoy, having our anchor all ready to let go in case the sweep of the tide is too strong; we have water enough and to spare yet. Leaving the Bawdsey Middle Buoy on our starboard, but keeping very near to it, we now notice the beacons on the shore are getting closer together; gradually the square and triangle come in a line, and judging this will be all right to lead through,’ we luff a little and slip on over the bar. A long heave of the sea, followed by a curl on the crest of the wave to our left, tells us there is an awkward shoal there. Our lead, how- ever, says we have 6Jft. Presently it says 6ft., and we feel anxious. As the tide is running in and the beacons are still in line we hold on. The sea is now breaking on our right hand, and we notice that we are almost inside. “Two fathoms” says the lead. We are over the bar. The second martello tower is well on our beam. We are running in finely. We disregard the beacons now, and steer as near as possible in mid-channel. The flood is running up strong. In a few more minutes we have passed the beacons, and are gliding by the marshes on the Bawdsey side. We have a shoal, the Horse Sand, yet before us, and a nasty one too. The tide sets directly on to this, so we have to be careful. There is a narrow channel on either side—that on the west being the narrower—we keep, therefore, on the Bawdsey shore, and, when nearly abreast of Kingsfleet, luff a little to get into mid-stream again. There is a hill near Kingsfleet, and when we have well passed this we have no danger to fear. We have only to steer in mid- channel between the mud banks, not yet quite covered on either side. The river is narrow—about as wide as the Orwell at Freston— and we do not recommend this voyage to those who are pressed for time, or who want to have as much sailing free from careful handling as possible. Until past Ramsholt the scenery is not particularly pretty. It lacks the open, breezy, wide-extending comfort of the Crouch, and the soft beauty of the Orwell. The prettiest bit of sailing is between Falkenham on the west shore and Shottisham on the east. The banks on either side are hilly and well wooded. Here and there are many really pretty views. After passing Shottisham the river appears at high water to be a good deal wider than lower down, but it is only a treacherous appearance, the channel being a mere ditch, and keeping the west side until it is past Wadringfield, when it bends away N. N.E. towards Methergate Dock, .whence it is two miles almost to Woodbridge. When we get (up Jo .the bend of the river opposite Hemley, we think we have explored far enough, and as this seems a nice little place to bring up in for the night, we shorten sail and drop anchor. A westerly wind is a soldier’s wind for this river, but it is weary sailing if the wind is up or down and one has to work against it, the channel is so narrow. Half the apparent width of the river at high water is taken up with the mud banks, and in some cases a great deal more than half the width, so that it makes the navigation anxious work. Not that sticking a tide would do the boat any harm, but we might be using the hours to better purpose. However, we are in perfect safety here, and after tossing in the North Sea it makes a pleasant change to poke our noses into such tranquil out-of-the-way places, and take it easy amid the pretty rural scenery between Ramsholt and Hemley. The peninsula formed by the Orwell and the Deben is full of fresh wholesome scenery. It is only about, on an average, five miles wide by nine miles long, and a walk along the hills from Hemley to Falkenham, or the other way to Wadringfield, will well repay the energy required to perform it. On the whole we think we have managed rather well, and there is no reason others should not do the same. The banks shift, that is the great danger; but if the kind people ashore are good enough to shift the beacons with the shifting channel, it is not so difficult. However, our craft only draws 4ft. of water without her centre- board. It is true we were drawing 6ft. as we came in, but we felt the confidence the lightness of our draft inspired, and fortune always favours the bold. There is a risk undoubtedly in coming into such a place a total stranger, as there is in travelling in a railway carriage as an unprotected male, or in crossing a glacier without a guide. But somebody must have done it first without a guide. The first man who ever set foot on the summit of Mont Blanc did it entirely alone and without the slightest assistance, and the second ascent was performed by only two men. The Danes used to find their way into all these places. They had no charts or books of sailing directions. To us the fun of sailing is this adventure. The joy of a discoverer is added to the delights of sailing and the beauty of the surround- ings. Before us is the unknown—let us explore it. There is a nice little landing-place at Hemley, and the hills slope prettily back from the edge of the river. We go ashore and climb up to the village. We are glad we did it; the view is beautiful up and down the river. The hills form a sort of natural terrace between Hemley and Wadringfield, with snug farmhouses nestling in the combes of the hills. Londoners might do worse than take the train to Woodbridge and explore this out-of-the-world pretty peninsula. We return to the ship pleased with ourselves, and feeling what a pity it is there cannot always be summer, and wishing that there were no going back to the musty atmosphere of London.

There is no occasion to start too early next morning; we only want a couple of hours at most to carry us clear of Bawdsey Haven, and another half«an-hour will take us to the entrance of the Alde and the Ore River, for it goes by both names. The breeze is very light, but what there is of it is fair. After a leisurely breakfast, therefore, we get up the anchor and glide down with the tide between the fast uncovering mud flats. Opposite Kingsfleet we take extra care, and stand over to the east shore, mindful of the bank that is lying ready to entrap the unwary, for all the world like some of the Melbourne ones have been doing lately. The sea is breaking on the Bawdsey Spit and piling itself over the shoal on our right, but it does not break there yet, so we know we have more water than we had coming in. Still we sound as we go, and it is not until we have come to the Mid-Bawdsey Buoy we feel safe. It is worse going out than in because of the falling tide. When once outside we make short miles of it along the coast to Orford Haven. The martello towers go past us rapidly after we have passed the sea mark on Bawdsey Cliff. From this point to Orford Haven the coast takes a turn N.N.E., and our jib begins to do a little more work as we come a couple of points more on the wind when we put down the helm. In half-an-hour we are off the entrance.

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