…dawned bright and clear and sunny. There was an autumnal nip in the air, and the sun reflected off the calm waters of Fowey harbour. No, no porpoises. Traitors. After a hearty breakfast of deliciousness which included freshly baked bread – yes that’s right – freshly baked bread aboard a boat!! – we set off toward Falmouth, intending to drop anchor in Carrick Roads. Don’t be mad, I hear you say, you can’t drop an anchor in a road. But the stretch of water east of Falmouth harbour is called just that – Carrick Roads. Luckily for us there is superb pub there too – who’d have thought – called the Pandora Inn and is described as a creekside inn. Creek is not a word used so much these days, let alone appendaged to the word ‘side’. Creekside. Got 13th century written all over it, hasn’t it.
Technically, as far as addresses go, the Pandora Inn nestles on the side of Restronguet Creek, which is not a word you should try repeating after several pints of Cornish ale. There is a pontoon that stretches out from the front of the pub, enabling yachts to sail up and tie up, so allowing the crew to step straight off their vessel and walk along the boards straight into the pub. Being such a large vessel, we were moored a rib-ride away and once again the skipper James took us — well – not even ashore – took us to the pontoon where we too scrambled onto it and then into the pub. Indeed, there are worse ways to spend a sunny Thursday evening.
As dusk fell we returned to the Eda Frandsen and as we approached across the water the rich smell of curry and naan breads welcomed us. Yes, super-chef Chloe had been up to her tricks again and an enormous, last supper feast awaited us.
Bang went the diet for a sixth day.
That evening we all packed in preparation for disembarking the following morning. Clothes that had arrived damp had stayed damp, absorbing a faintly salty and diesely smell which was quite attractive in its own way: it meant we’d done something, been somewhere, had an adventure. No Lavender and Ylang Ylang Blossoms on our clothes, no sirree. Email addresses were swapped, promises of sending on photos were made – it seemed it was true. The adventure was over.
Friday morning. Dawn. The sound of the anchor being winched up was our alarm call. Feet on deck above us signaled activity: Charlotte was topping, tailing, steaming, stretching, pulling, heaving, and any other ‘ing’ you can think of; we were set for Falmouth Harbour.
It felt odd to be back in our land clothes. Jeans, boots, pink coat – all so very out of place. I didn’t feel dressed without my Gill jacket and three pairs of trousers. I’d got used to clumping about the deck in my sailing boots. I was even growing to like the thick oily mat of hair that swamped my skull. Hairbrushes, clearly, are for wimps. We moored just off shore and stood about in a quiet group, not wanting to be the first to climb in to the little orange rib and be taken back to land. To the rest of the world. It was almost getting to the point of choosing straws except we didn’t have any straws. Hugs, kisses, goodbyes; I like to think of them as Hugs, Kisses, See You Agains.
To James, Chloe and Charlotte. Thank you.
Don’t forget to pack your bottle of travelling champagne. Always.