Chapter 6 Norfolk's Sandy Havens

A bleak, bitterly cold day in January 1950 was spent harvesting carrots on a farm at Stifkey on the north coast of Norfolk. The wind was coming straight from the Northpole (and felt like it) but nevertheless, as a sailing man, I was fascinated by the sight of the tide flooding over the extensive sands into Blakeney harbour during the short winter afternoon. The tortured mass of white horses looked terrifying but on a warm summer day it would be a very different matter. There was a fortnight’s holiday due early in June and I drew up a plan to sail Zephyr from the Broads as far as the Wash. Saturday the third of June was warm and sunny but with little wind. I moved slowly down from Horning and anchored for the night just above Yarmouth when I met the evening flood. My watch was in for repair; so all times are approximate. I slept later than intended on Sunday morning but got out of the harbour before the flood tide began at about 0600hrs. The sun rose warm and strong but the breeze was light from the south east and once the flood gathered strength I had to kedge to avoid being swept back southwards. My! How the tide roars down the coast here, at least a knot faster than I was used to in the Thames Estuary. The weather seemed settled so I had few worries as I dozed in the sun. Towards noon the roar of the tide past the clinker planking eased a little and it was time to get under way. This was my first trip along this coast and for pilotage I depended on Reeds Almanac and the one-inch O.S. map. The wild sand dunes looked very different from the coast of the Thames Estuary. Today they were quiet and peaceful but I have stood on them in a northeasterly gale when there is a rare old surf on the beaches which would break up any boat in minutes. Winterton Ness and Happisburgh soon passed astern once the tide set in and a school of porpoise joined me for a mile or two off Mundersley but by this time the wind was easing off. The last airs faded away as the dying ebb carried me past Cromer Pier soon after which I anchored and snuggled down for a few hours sleep.

Next day, Monday, the weather was as settled as ever but the wind was late. I got the anchor as soon as the ebb set in at first light and drifted past Sherringham on a glassy sea as the sun scorched down. The boat seemed to be making reasonable progress as features inshore accompanied me past points on the coastline. Low haze obscured the sandy coast in the west and Blakeney church tower seemed to be floating in the air. There is a popular but apparently untrue story that the tiny tower at the other end of the building was used for keeping a lookout for ships in the offing. On that fine sunny morning I was willing to believe it. Somehow the ebb tide grew into the flood into Blakeney Harbour for I am convinced I was moving in the right direction all the time. Off the point I decided that I needed a dip so I paddled slowly inshore and waded round the point, pushing the boat along while my thoughts went to that surf in January. The shore was so obviously deserted that I did not worry about putting on trunks. An hour or so later I was to meet a boat load of young lady bird watchers weighed down with binoculars, on their way out to the point! Suddenly a breeze appeared from the east and I beat across the lovely harbour to the narrow channel leading to the village. The local clock told me that it was just 1030 hrs, the top of the tide.

After exploring the little creek that winds beyond the staithe I ran back some hundred yards and beached so that she lay with her bows watching the ebb tide racing out to the sea. Zephyr has a slight keel so that she lays over a little on hard flat sand. When I heeled her towards the shore, the gentle slope of the beach kept her almost upright. To prevent her falling outwards I rigged a halyard to the anchor dug into the beach and this caused some interest ashore. In the local pub I found a photograph, taken about 1900, showing the quay lined with sailing craft, two and three deep. Before the arrival of the railways most of the corn grown in north Norfolk was exported from here or from Wells further along the coast. Now trade has gone forever, and the place is silting up fast as craft no longer take away sand for ballast. There were few cruising craft but the place was obviously popular with the International Fourteen Foot dinghies. The afternoon was passed pleasantly enough trying to find out from the locals how to work the tides to Kings Lynn but nobody seemed to know. The best plan seemed to be to move out on the night tide and anchor in the Pit, a deep hole near the entrance so that I could leave just before low water.

To my shame I slept through the night tide but it came back for me the next day. Such is the joy of small boat cruising! There is a lovely little green hill at the eastern end of the quay with a view over the harbour. After shopping for fresh bread rolls, tomatoes and a morning paper, I settled myself on the seat to enjoy the warm sunshine and watch the sparking tide spreading in over the sand and mud until the whole bay was a sheet of dancing blue water beckoning me westward. I was a little worried whether the boat would float for, as far as I could see, she had not done so on the night tide. A longshoreman told me not to worry, for the night tides are always lower that the daylight ones. Sure enough she floated half an hour before high water and I was soon on my way to Kings Lynn.

The wind was still easterly but very much stronger today. The sand flats off the coast are well over a mile wide in most places but I decided that I could cut straight across them as far as Wells by which time the falling tide would drive me out into deeper water. My eight-foot sounding pole failed to find the bottom anywhere. The sun was so hot it seemed to throw an amber haze into the sky above the sand dunes. Off the entrance to Wells I decided to reef down. It is so easy to just go on when running until the seas get up and one is just too frightened to round up and reef. The sprit of a Thames barge poked up above the dunes protecting Burnham Overy but I was able to pick out the tricky entrance. It may well have been the barge yacht Thoma ll built by Howard of Maldon at the turn of the century. She was back at Maldon for a major refit in the mid seventies and is now renamed Moon Lady. The entrance to Brancaster was marked by the wreck of a small coaster on the western extremity of the great pile of sand dunes know as Scolt Head. The village of Tichwell marked the end of my one-inch O.S. maps and from now on I was navigating with the quarter inch sheet of East Anglia. It showed the Roaring Middle light vessel in the entrance to the Wash but I couldn’t find it. The wind was easier now and the shallow water was very difficult to distinguish from the drying sand banks all round me. I got in rare old pickle and almost decided to set off back for Brancaster when dusk fell and the light buoys began to stand out boldly. (I had no binoculars at this time). In the absence of a chart, I used Reeds Almanac, which listed the buoys in sequence sailing with the flood tide. The one that flashed rapidly was the obvious one to go for and from there it was easy to follow the rest into Kings Lynn. Just after sunset I had a sudden scare when I heard a bark. Turning my head towards the red glow of sky and water, I found a `red setter` staring at me. This seemed impossible, perhaps it was a human face, a body in the water? Then it dived off, my first ever seal. (Looking back after fifty years it seems extraordinary that I had not seen a seal before in two years sailing for today they are everywhere. This summer one even climbed onto my boat on the mooring and left his calling card). Night closed in cold and damp as I worked my way from one buoy to the next. The tide must have been nearly full by the time I reached the last buoy as two steamers came down the channel from Kings Lynn. I anchored between the buoy and a post inshore topped with a cage. So to bed, leaving the dagger plate half down to warn me if she was in danger of going aground in order that I could check the bottom before she settled. Next morning my little ship lay quietly in smooth water just off the end of the training wall with its cage topmarked pole, ready to take full advantage of the flood tide, which must start soon. This was my first visit (and last), but if I had known it like the back of my hand I couldn’t have found a better place to anchor. I washed and shaved and had a leisurely breakfast while the last of the ebb slunk away, heavy with brown fenland mud. On the way up to Kings Lynn with the young flood I hailed the first boat to find out the result of last night’s world heavyweight fight between Bruce Woodcock and Joe Baski and learned that England was still without a champion. It seemed a pity to waste the rest of the flood so I pressed on up the river Ouse until high water. The shorter mast resultant from the gunter rig is useful for getting under bridges but it is difficult to judge the headroom. I certainly misjudged the one at Stowbridge and tried to pass through with the mast up. It was built with two massive steel girders, one at either side. Zephyr hit it hard going much faster with the tide than I had realised. The top of the mast dragged under the first girder but could not clear the second, causing the hull to heel over so far that water lapped over the coamings. The hull swung back and forth madly in the swirling tide. I cursed myself for being too damned lazy. It was a nasty situation and she must fill as the rising tide caused her to heel even further and fill. The only situation seemed to be to release the shrouds and let the mast break rather than let the boat sink for the water here must be very deep. The mast bent at a crazy angle, far more than I would have believed possible, but showed no sings of breaking. I even got my saw out and started to help it but lost my nerve when it occurred to me that anyone close by when it snapped might loose some front teeth. Raising and lowering the daggerplate suddenly solved the problem and with a final heart rendering, harsh scrape, she dragged clear and swept on with the flood tide. I sat and recovered for a few minutes before lowering the mast to clear up the mess and setting sail again, but fortunately there was no serious damage.

The sailing hereabouts is totally uninteresting for the river runs low down between the high banks built to cope with winter floods and nothing can be seen of the surrounding countryside, even at high water. After posting a letter at Downham Market, ten miles above Kings Lynn, I waited for the ebb to take me down stream again. It was overcast now and very hot and sultry. Thunder was inevitable and towards the end of the afternoon I took down the sails and let her drift with the tide while I erected the tent to keep the inside of the boat dry and comfortable when the storm arrived. It was too hot to wear my gas cape so I just wore bathing trunks as I stood at the helm, keeping her in midstream with a single oar, feeling fresh and cool once more. There had been no sign of a comfortable drying mooring by the town as I came up, so I anchored for the night just below the first bridge and turned in early.

Next morning the ferryman put me ashore for the essential shopping before I left at noon under an overcast sky with wind from the south for the first time for days. Off Hunstanton it began to veer northwest and blow harder. This made the tricky entrance to Brancaster a dead lee shore but there was nowhere else to go. As Zephyr neared the maze of shingle banks, I dressed in `shoal water rig`; shirt, trunks and a gas cape to keep out the cold wind. The idea was that I could hop over the side immediately she touched and push her off again without getting my nether garments wet. In fact she grounded several times but I managed to walk and sail her round the first bend in the channel so that she could dry in the lee of a shingle bank, sheltered from the rising surf that was building up rapidly. I reckoned that there must be at least an hour of ebb to run. Dry and fully dressed, complete with water boots and a hand bearing compass, I tramped along the main channel, splashing through shallow pools and rippling tributaries to explore the place, ready to enter safely when the tide returned. There seemed to be a deep pool that would be suitable for an overnight anchorage at the junction of the channels to Brancaster and Burnham Overy Staithes. After noting bearings so that I could identify the spot when the water returned, I strode back into the teeth of the wind as the last trickle of water raced to the sea. Near Zephyr I built a little heap of stones to tell me when there would be enough water to proceed and then strode over to the wrecked coaster on the point. It must have been used for target practice and the setting sun glowed through holes in the rusty iron hull giving the scene an eerie atmosphere. The wind was blowing really hard now and I thanked my lucky stars that I was not still outside. Suddenly I realised that the water was rising around my boots and it was time to get back on board. An old sheet of canvas that came with the boat, made a temporary shelter on board while I brewed a cup of tea and laced it well with rum that I had brought back from the Hook of Holland race a fortnight before. Then I sat back and watched the tide return to overwhelm the surrounding sand and shingle while the sky cleared completely as the wind grew colder. It was a very wild and lonely place to be but I wouldn’t have changed places with anyone else in the world!

Once the water began to surge round the boat, I busied myself putting two reefs into the mainsail before sailing off in the moonlight along the winding channel. By the time I reached the anchorage, things were getting very lively indeed as the banks covered and I had a few minutes sport fitting the tent. Then I lay back on the bunk fully dressed and realised just how tired I was. An occasional look out into the night showed a brilliant moon, nearly full, receding sand dunes and a very wild seascape. Even the wreck was now in full view. The anchor held firm. Once the tide began to fall I got into my pyjamas and slept like a log.

I woke on Friday to find brilliant sunlight and my,

  “Good morning” to a passing boat returned with a,

  “Good afternoon”

 Over the roar of the outboard motor I heard one chap comment,

“Fancy wearing pyjamas on a boat as small as that!”

Continued