Friday, 31 May 2019

Fowey: British Moth Sea Championships


If I was a little battered and sore from the last weekend I was still in much better shape than my mobile phone, which simply died on me for no reason on Sunday morning. The alarm went off at 0730 as per our usual morning ritual, but the phone was in the main cabin charging off Calstar’s battery, and so out of reach for me from my bunk in the forecabin to complete my side of the ritual bargain and hit the snooze button. I am horribly addicted to the snooze button. The alarm on my phone is programmed to allow me no more than three on any given morning. Wonderful thing, technology.

In any case, out of my reach, it seems it snoozed itself. Or, to put it more succinctly, crashed and died, as technology is wont to do at times.

The replacement arrived today. The old phone did, happily, save all the photos I’d taken of the weekend up and until to then onto the cloud. It does mean that my photographic record of the last weekend terminated abruptly on Saturday evening.

Again, wonderful thing, technology.


Friday 24th May
Plymouth to Fowey
(29.2 nautical miles, 7 hours 46 minutes under way)


The sail out to Fowey on Friday was good. The wind was west of north-west as we cast off from QAB at 1130, but as the passage wore on, it veered into true north-west, lifting us towards our destination, so for most of the duration we remained settled on a close-hauled starboard beat that ran almost parallel to the Cornish shore, needing only the occasional tack onto port to keep us reasonably in touch with our intended course.

There were a couple of brief lulls where we succumbed and engaged the engine to keep to a reasonable ETA (one day I shall sail unenslaved to those three letters but not, I suspect, whilst I still have Dad or Nik aboard, so it's a necessary compromise), but each lasted only 12 minutes before conditions strengthened and we were back cleanly under sail again.


Other than those lulls, the wind held to a pretty constant F4 for the most part, although it was gusting to F5 for the first hour after our departure. It settled nicely for a few hours after we cleared Rame Head, and then finally picked up again for the last hour or two between Polperro and Polruan, gusting frequently up into a F5 from about 1630 onwards.

The wind would typically veer with the gusts though, lifting us even better onto our layline for Fowey. And despite the breeze, the wind direction brought it to us over the land; in the lee of the windward shore the sea state was very slight for the wind strength, so we made our way under full sail, the little yacht mostly heeled over to her sweet spot of around 20 degrees.


I always get anxious when my boat heels, though oddly not when I’m aboard anybody else’s, but this passage was easy in that the wind strength and direction were so constant. Typically, after a short while at 20 degrees I get used to the lean and the anxiety fades. And when the gusts hit later in the day, the sea was so smooth, I felt comfortable letting her tip over further with them just to see what she’d do, albeit hand never very far away from releasing the mainsheet, just in case.

As you’d predict, and as I've always known she should but can never quite cling to the idea as an article of faith, she’d be perfectly fine until she hit just over 30 degrees of heel, when she’d then benignly round up into the wind before finding her feet again as the heel reduced; then she'd bear away once more back onto her proper course.


A Westerly Griffon is a very forgiving boat.

We landed in Fowey at 1910, putting onto the Berrill’s Yard pontoon for the night, so were able to walk ashore and go find the friends we were meeting from the British Moth Fleet, gathered in the bar at the FoweyGallants Sailing Club.


Saturday 25th to Monday 27th May
British Moths Sea Championships & Mini-Race Series
(21 races, 30.9 nautical miles, 10 hours and 11 minutes under way)


I think I’ve explained before, but it bears repeating, the British Moths Sea Championships is a light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek affair amongst friends. The British Moth is a 1930’s design; a very manoeuvrable but over-canvassed eleven foot dinghy originally intended for narrow rivers with high banks and light, shifty airs. Although modernisation to the design make them much more manageable on open water they are not a sea boat and their rounded scow bow (designed for tacking close in to the afore mentioned high banks) does not take kindly to waves.

But they are (mostly) pretty little boats with lots of character sailed by (occasionally) ugly sailors with character to match.


This is the ninth (almost) annual such event (it took a couple of years for them to invite us back after the first one) since a bunch of us from the Frampton Moth Fleet first brought our boats down to sail at the invitation of the Fowey Gallant’s John Burford. John has hosted us ever since. It’s been a few years since I last owned a Moth, but for the last couple of years I’ve still joined in as a guest, typically coming down to enjoy the weekend with Nik and so only sailing for half a day in a borrowed boat.


This year Ray, a friend from Chelmarsh Sailing Club, offered to bring a boat down for me to sail for the whole event. Feeling obliged to therefore use the boat properly (although I suspect Ray, being the kind of guy he is, would’ve probably brought it anyway and been content if I’d only sailed a morning with it), I discussed it with Nik, and she opted to stay at home for the weekend. There’s only so much you can do to distract yourself in a small town like Fowey for three days whilst your other half is out playing with boats. My wife’s interest in dinghy racing begins and ends in the Clubhouse bar.

Dad on the other hand was more than content to find his own distractions and was happy to sail over with me with Calstar; so that was boat, travel and accommodation sorted out.

We raced Saturday, Sunday and Monday; the racing was split into the Sea Championships proper which took place in the open harbour and a series of mini-races that we ran, for the most part, further up river. A total of 21 races all together, none of them were in particularly rough conditions although it did get blustery at times; I actually managed all three days without a single capsize, which has to be a first for me.

It wasn’t without incident.


During the harbour racing as the safety boat were setting the start line, I failed to notice they were streaming the pin end mark behind them, and managed to pick up its mooring line on my rudder. They very nearly awarded me newly inaugurated “The Ugly Scenes Trophy” for that but as I’d donated it (technically, stole it from my Mother-in-Law; it’s a wooden pig to which the Race Committee had added lipstick and a British Moth insignia painted onto its rump) they (thankfully) felt they couldn’t give it back to me. So Jenny got that one for falling, for no apparent reason whatsoever, out of the back of her boat.


Later during another harbour race on Sunday, I managed to snag the top of the mast of our youngest competitor on my shroud. Said youngster is a fine sailor, but a Moth is too much for him to handle comfortably in the harbour so he was racing against us in his Topper on an informal handicap; essentially a four minute head-start. I say “I managed to snag him”, but actually I was very clearly on starboard, sailing down my proper course, and he was, unfortunately, beating up to the windward mark on port.

However, whilst it was clear that I had right of way, there was a level of feeling amongst one or two of the leading boats that it was poor form to tangle with an eleven year old. I don’t disagree, and had I seen him in time, I would’ve gone out of my way to not collide with him. In the event, the lad was as nimble as a monkey, scampering onto the side of his boat to balance it as we pirouetted around each other in the harbour. We went around twice, inexorably attached, before his mast head slipped free of my shroud and be both crashed back down flat and continued on our respective courses.


There was later some discussion as to whether a 720 penalty turn counted if you were still attached to the boat you’d hit, but in view of his age and my arguments in his favour the benefit of the doubt was given (although his dad did argue against it briefly, claiming “They’ve gotta learn sometime”) and he wasn’t disqualified.

I’m employing some rather artistic licence in my recollection and depiction of events here, but I think I capture the spirit of the thing; nobody was hurt, nothing was damaged and neither of us capsized.


The shifty conditions and tendency of British Moths to all gather up on one another on the start-line gave me a couple of lovely port-flyers that won their respective  races. Much easier than on the lake; there’s plenty of room to hit the pin end with a minute to go, sail upwind for 30 seconds, then gybe and reach back for the pin, controlling your speed as you get closer and approach fast in the last few seconds to harden up close around the pin just as the gun goes, passing clear ahead of the entire fleet on port, remembering to look back and grin at them as you do.

I tried it with three out of the four or five Sea Championship races; the second time they shut me out of the line, but with the relatively small fleet it was easy enough to bear away behind them and then cross at the committee boat end in clean air on port and still make the best of it. I didn’t win that one, but had a credible enough finish that, when taken with my two wins before and after, gave me the British Moth Sea Championships Trophy.


Much to the good-natured consternation of New Boy (that’s been his affectionate nickname ever since he first joined the Moth Fleet at Frampton more than ten years ago); he came a reluctant second. Which was made all the more amusing by the fact that “ASBO”, the boat I was sailing, was his old boat before he’d sold her to Ray and commissioned himself a new Moth, “WooWoo”.


Monday concluded the official sailing programme with a series of mini-races. Three took us up-river in stages, then a couple of conventional courses were laid and run just below the village of Golant, before a couple of final races took us back down river to land back on the slip at Caffa Mill. It was a weekend of port-flyers for me, with another in the first race below Golant giving me a very credible win. I won the second Golant race as well when Gary, my nearest competitor, grounded himself in the shallows of the creek where the race committee had laid the wing mark of our triangular course.


On landing back at Caffa Mill I was then informed I’d been (quite fairly) disqualified from the mini-race series, as it was, in the spirit of the event, considered unsporting to win both that and the Sea Championships.

The three days were an absolute blast. There was across the three days some great sailing over 21 races with just shy of 31 nautical miles covered in just over 10 hours out on the water racing.


I’ve been on a bit of a winning streak of late, but in case I start to sound a little smug I’d like to stress that I’ve just been lucky. Lucky with the weather, and for this weekend, so much more of that luck was down to the boat, ASBO, and a quality sail, which of course Ray had leant me, and the carbon spars Mark (aka “New Boy”) had generously lent and rigged her with for me.

The front of the Fowey fleet, Gary, Andrew, Nicola and Mark, are all faster, more experienced Moth sailors than me all things being equal. It was just pure luck and good kit that gave me the day. And, according to New Boy, the sympathy of the race committee, although I would dispute that; John does not play favourites!


Tuesday 28th May
Fowey to Plymouth
(23.5 nautical miles, 5 hours 23 minutes under way)


It's funny how different the sailing is down here compared to the Bristol Channel. The biggest factor seems to be the sea state. It felt much more predictable in the confines of my old sailing area where the tide has a huge effect on the sea, but the waves are smaller and shorter, although often sharper, and it does mean that you get where you're going (as long as you stay in one piece and don't fight the tide) because you've generally got about six knots of tidal stream to pull you along regardless of what the wind is doing. And each change of tide felt like a reset to the sea state, at least in the upper reaches of the Bristol Channel.

But it wasn't unusual to have the second reef in the main and the headsail reduced to a postage stamp back when we were sailing out of Cardiff and Portishead, or to have spray crashing over the coach-roof . I don't think I've yet had to put the second reef in the main on the south coast. Even during the last stretch yesterday, beating into Plymouth Sound, the sea sheltered by Rame Head but the wind gusting up to a F6; with a single reef in the main, I just had to reduce the headsail and then play the main through the gusts as if Calstar were a dinghy to keep her on her feet.

The forecast was a north-westerly F4, gusting to a 5, but off the land, so the expected sea-state wasn’t more than a meter or two. Much more than that, or with the wind on a more south-westerly fetch straight in from the Atlantic, I might have delayed our departure. As it was however, it didn’t feel too bad on paper, and was only expected to get worse across Wednesday and Thursday.

So at 0630 Tuesday morning we cast off, heading home for Plymouth.

The sky was a heavy grey, thick with moisture and threatening rain. The sea was at first slight, but built as we left Fowey Harbour and turned east. We had a single reef in the main, and adjusted the roll in the headsail periodically to keep Calstar moving nicely, reducing it when the gusts built and started to trip her off her feet. A Furlex roller-reefing system on the headsail is an absolute blessing. That and the in-line reefing on the main means that I rarely have to leave the refuge of Calstar’s cockpit.

We held course on a deep port reach, tweaking the Raymarine auto-helm periodically to keep her bearing away from the shore as best we could without the shadow of the main collapsing the headsail, trying to lay the distant bulk of Rame Head and so avoid the need to gybe and stand off from shore to clear the headland.

As Fowey fell gradually astern, a stubborn sun struggled to break through the clouds to the east. Behind us, against a black and gloaming sky, a gorgeous rainbow arched across the horizon. The darkling sea was now carried serried ranks of lightly breaking waves bearing down on us from astern, driven by the wind, the foam breakers glistening in the watery, occasional sun.

Off the pretty harbour town of Looe, just under halfway through our passage and making good time, a squall hit, deluging us with thick, heavy rain.  As the wind increased with the downpour, it veered into the north-north-west, setting us onto a beam reach that would easily clear the still distant headland, and letting me overtake a small trawler slowly dragging her net between us and the land, leaving her clear to port. The downpour lasted no more than fifteen minutes and then cleared, leaving the climbing sun once more trying to break through the thick clouds overhead.

As we sailed across Whitesand Bay on the final approach to Rame Head, we were easily laying the headland on a beam reach, the wind now built to F5 gusting 6. Our ground speed crept over 6.5 knots at times, a respectable pace for our little bilge keeled yacht with her very grubby bottom. Rounding the headland, the sea smoothed in the lee of the land, but the wind continued to bluster.

Hardening up to lay the western entrance to the Sound, I reduced the headsail down to half, left the autohelm to take care of the course but played the main by hand through the gusts to keep Calstar on her feet, heeled between 20 and 30 degrees. Our speed continued to touch 6 knots over the ground through the more boisterous gusts, the leeway not too severe as long I kept her course cracked a few degrees free of close-hauled. The sea in the shelter of the land was perfectly smooth.

We brought her home onto her berth in Queen Anne’s Battery without mishap at 1155, after just under five and a half hours underway, and twenty three and a half nautical miles behind us.


It was fine sailing. And if you count the blasting around Fowey in a Moth in with the trip there and back with Calstar (which I shouldn't, but I shall for the fun of it), we covered 81.6 nautical miles and enjoyed just under 23 hours of being under sail.

So that made for a very fine weekend.


Thursday, 23 May 2019

Calstar: F9wey



I’m heading down to Plymouth with Dad. Tomorrow we sail with the tide for Fowey.

This weekend the British Moths are holding their “Sea Championships” in the harbour. It’s a very grand name for a very light-hearted affair. 

I took the photo above whilst hanging out the side of a Moth this time last year when I briefly joined them racing around the harbour. 

They are small, single-design, snub nosed, single-handed dinghies with over-powered, high aspect rigs; highly manoeuvrable, they were designed for the light fickle airs of narrow rivers with high banks, and whilst various changes to modernise the design have made them easier to manage in flat, open water and blustery conditions, they are not, by any stretch of the imagination, a sea boat. 

But Fowey has a certain charm that suits the little boats, and after a group of us ventured down for a weekend's camping and sailing some ten years or more back, it eventually became something of an annual affair and was adopted into the class association's official calendar. This will be the ninth such event. 

So the British Moth Sea Championships is more of an excuse for a bit of fun and a lot of party than a serious racing event. An excuse to catch up with old friends. But there is racing, and British Moths do so take their racing seriously.

A very generous friend is bringing a "spare" Moth down to Fowey to lend to me for the weekend, so Saturday through till Monday I’ll be racing with them. Dad will either join in helping out with the race committee or chill out in the harbour aboard Calstar. He'll join in fully with the partying, I'm sure. Nik has elected to stay at home this year. Too much of me sailing for her to enjoy it.


The weather looks very promising for the sail over from Plymouth and the racing across the weekend. The plan is to sail home with Calstar on Tuesday, and at the moment, the forecast is not looking very comfortable for that. I really ought to be back in the office for Wednesday, but there are options available if Tuesday’s forecast doesn’t mitigate as we get closer to the day. 

Leaving Calstar in Fowey and coming home by land without her is really not one of them, however.

Wednesday, 22 May 2019

Monday 20th


On Monday evening we gathered around Dad's house for supper. My brother and his wife, all three of my kids and Ben's lovely young lady. The only one missing was my daughter Tasha's fiance, Dan, who had to work.

Dad roasted a couple of unfortunate chickens; unfortunate for them I mean, fortunately for us they were delicious. 

We sat out on the patio and talked as the sinking sun set a luminous orange glow into the broken clouds above. The sky was promising rain, and against the gloaming of the clouds the moisture in the air set off a lovely triple rainbow arcing skywards from the eves of the houses; a beautiful streak of colour defiant in the face of the setting sun and encroaching dark of the night.

A transitory pleasure, the camera on our phones couldn't capture it to do it justice.

Up until my mid-twenties, I used to view my life in five year cycles. Change is rapid when you're growing up, and keeps up the pace whilst you're still young. Every five years I'd look back and muse that I wouldn't be able to recognise myself or predict my situation had I been able to look forward and see myself from there from five years previous.

Schools changed, homes changed, countries changed, friends changed, pets changed, jobs changed. Very little remained constant.

Change has slowed down. I've been in the same house now for twenty years, and have been fortunate enough to hold the same job now for a little bit longer. I've been with the same lucky girl (yes, I kid myself, I'm fully aware I am the lucky one in this equation) for even longer than that, although married to her for a little less, if still a bit more than twenty years (don't ask me to put an exact number on it right now)

On Monday evening, Dad settled down to supper with his children and his grandchildren. Our dogs wrestled for space amidst the forest of our legs beneath the dining room table. It was a picture Mum would have been fondly familiar with.


On Monday evening, at the turning of some unwatched hour across the course of that night, it became five years since we lost her.

Five years on, and so much has changed. And some things have stayed the same.

I am reminded of how lucky we are to have each other.

FOSSC: drifting ahead



If Friday night was a late one, Saturday night wasn’t much of an improvement. A bit of a different theme: posh frocks and expensive tickets, it was the Gloucester Civic Charity Ball organised by the Mayor of Gloucester. Black tie, chains of office and even a town crier in full regalia as master of ceremonies. But after they’d eaten their supper and played their after-dinner games, they then danced the rest of the night away to the band. It was a good night; a lovely, appreciative crowd, raising good money for a good local cause, The James Hopkins Trust.

Sunday morning was still and bright. I blearily dragged myself out of bed late morning. It’s not just a lack of sleep from the late nights, but arms ache, back aches, fingers are sore, throat is hoarse. I do so suffer for my art. But, as my wife Nik will quickly point out, it’s entirely self-inflicted so I deserve no sympathy.

It would’ve been easy to have stayed at home and cut the grass. But I packed my sailing kit and headed down the Club regardless. Like I said, I suffer for my art. And like she said, still just as self-inflicted.


The Laser seems to be the perfect boat for the lake at Frampton. 

When I used to race my own Enterprise, I used to look forward to drifts like the one we were faced with on Sunday. A little bit more wind and the Lasers would begin to plane, leaving the heavier double-handed Enterprise behind. But in still air, you can ghost the Ent through the mirror smooth water; the two blue sails, if deftly handled, and the inertia inherent in a heavier hull, are just enough to give the advantage, I guess. The wide, flat, light hulls of the single-handed Lasers by comparison would just seem to stick to the water.

Now that I have a Laser myself however, I don’t seem to have that problem.

Possibly it’s a weight advantage. At just shy of 11 stone, I’m at the bottom end of the weight range for the boat, and in any kind of a blow suffer accordingly. I’m quickly overpowered, and brutally punished in the heavier winds by the slightest flaw in technique. Of which I have many.


I won both races on Sunday, a repeat performance of the light air racing of the weekend before. Again, I took the first race with a wide lead; a class race, I got lucky early and won through to clear air, leaving the other three Lasers in the fleet mired amongst the Solo and Handicap fleets, with no real chance of catching up. It could as easily have gone the other way.

The second race, a pursuit of nine boats of assorted classes, was much harder work. Three of us left the rest behind quickly enough, but I spent the second half of the race tangled up with Geoff and Sue in their Enterprise, trading between 2nd and 3rd place and unable to break clear whilst we both tried to catch Pete in his Comet up ahead.


On the last lap I finally fought free of Geoff and Sue and then caught up and crossed ahead of Pete on a beat to windward, leaving the Comet and the Ent to tussle amongst themselves behind me. It looked like it was going to go the Enterprise’s way, and then after Geoff got past, Pete caught him again on starboard closing in with a leeward mark. Geoff and Sue tried to tack in front, and the little Comet touched them mid-tack.

I heard the thump across the water. No damage was done, but the penalty turns owed let Pete get away and secure 2nd place for himself.

Unlucky for Geoff and Sue after all that hard work in trying to catch him, but very well played by Pete.



I’m now sat at the top of the table for both the Laser Class and Pursuit Spring series. There are three more races to go, one of which I might have to skip if the gig on the 9th of June gets confirmed. It’s very nice to be in the lead, but if the weather turns, and it’s surely past time that it should, then all this could quickly change over the next three weeks.

Maybe now’s the time to finally invest in a reduced radial rig for the Laser?

Probably, but of course I won't. Only having the one standard rig does make life easier in a way, by reducing the options. And anyway, I have other priorities for my cash; I’m away racing at the British Moth Sea Championships in Fowey this coming weekend. And that’s never a cheap party.      

Freefall: The Railway Tavern



As far as gigs go, you expect Friday nights to be, generally speaking, not as lively as most Saturday nights. So when, last Friday lunch time, I got the call from Sam, the Railway Tavern’s landlord, saying “Bill, where are the posters?” I worried I’d dropped the ball on that evening’s gig. 


Well, I'd certainly forgotten the posters so, in effect, I had. If folks don’t know you’re playing, how can you expect them to turn up?


Turns out, I’d underestimated the Fishponds mob. Fishponds is a suburb on the north side of Bristol, half an hour down the motorway from home, and the band has been playing regularly in a few assorted pubs along the main Fishponds Road for more than a decade and a half now. 


And we love it down there, the regular faces in the crowd have, over those years, become familiar friends. Fishponds is very much our home from home. Clearly a little thing like forgetting the posters wasn’t going to put folks off. Sam had, obviously, chalked the band’s name up on the board listing the month's entertainment, as per usual. Turns out that was enough.


Last Friday night at the Railway Tavern was an absolute joyous riot of a gig that risks putting many Saturday nights still yet to come to shame by wont of comparison.

I do love Fishponds. I do love the Railway Tavern. And last Friday night, we had fun.

Thursday, 16 May 2019

FOSSC: sunshine and weed


The last week or so the weather has been predominantly bright, warm and calm. Which is fine if you like gardening. Theoretically not so good if you want to sail, but I've enjoyed myself regardless. To a point.

I've been lake-bound; a couple of weekends worth of gigs mean that I don't get back to Calstar until the end of this month. Then again, I think I'd rather suffer a patient drift whilst racing on the lake than have to put up with the noise and frustration of the engine were we trying to make passage to somewhere with the Westerly in such a flat calm.

I say I've enjoyed myself to a point. The weed problem at Frampton is coming back again with a vengeance. A couple of weeks ago it was fine, but last Wednesday evening I was racing the Laser (should've been racing the Ent, but my crew had locked herself out of her car so didn't make it to the lake) and going well; about half way through I was a good leg ahead Pete and Rhonwen, my nearest competition. Then down one long reach to the green mark they caught back up.

At which point I realised I was dragging a hay bale's worth of weed along with my rudder. My bad, should've spotted it sooner.

With the rudder cleared, I shook Pete back off quick enough, but Rhonwen clung on tenaciously. I held my lead right through the last lap and around the final mark rounding, but then in the last half a dozen seconds in the beat back up to the finish line, she snuck past me.

She actually cheered and fist-pumped the air as she crossed the line first, clearly thrilled with herself. Which put a smile on my face; if there's one thing I like more than beating that really hates to be beat, it's having somebody beat me that clearly takes such delight in the win. And it's not like I hadn't made her work for it.


Of course, the humiliation of my defeat was somewhat mitigated when I beat her, and everybody else, in both races the following Sunday. More bright sun and more drifting conditions; I simply made point of obsessively clearing my foils of weed and just kept the boat moving in clean air. It paid off; for the first race, I was back ashore with a hot cup of tea in my hands before the second boat crossed the line. The second race was a little more work, but still a clear win in the end.

I have a definite advantage in the light stuff so this isn't really any credit to my sailing. The Laser is, I reckon, the perfect boat for our lake but my years racing a British Moth gave me a sympathetic feel for light airs. And I'm still supple enough in my knees at least to hold the necessarily cramped and uncomfortable positions still enough and long enough to to keep the boat properly balanced and moving when there isn't much pressure for the sails to pull her along.

This Wednesday evening just gone I was back in the Enterprise with Amanda. Another drift. We were twenty seconds late getting to the start line just for lack of air, but it didn't make much difference as there wasn't enough to get the rest of the fleet very far over it by the time we did arrive.

A combination of wind shift and thick weed caused pandemonium at what should've been the windward mark. We didn't entirely keep clear of it; almost lost Geoff and Sue in their Enterprise and let Pete in his Comet sail freely around us and break away ahead. But by the time we did struggle clear, the rest of the fleet were all still rafted up on each other around the buoy, leaving Geoff, Pete and I free to have our own chase.

We never really threatened Geoff's lead, and took too long to get clear of Pete so he eventually beat us both on corrected time with his ninja handicap, albeit only just in Geoff and Sue's case. Our own third place was still sufficient to keep us in contention for a top three finish in the overall series however, so we were content with that. Or were at least able to resign ourselves to be so.



So a good week's racing. But the state of the lake is a worry. The anglers that share the water insisted on deploying bales of barley straw in the margins again this year to control the threat of blue algae. The downside is the huge dump of nutrient from the rotting straw coupled with the clarity of the water from lake of algae and relative warmth from the lack of depth in recent years means that the weed is running an absolute riot. It's just below the surface for the moment, but within another week or two I expect we're going to see veritable islands of the stuff.

And with the water levels so low now, they're only going to drop further as the summer closes in.

A third annoyance is that the club have put a muffle into the horn we use as a starting gun following complaints about the noise from the village. Why the noise is suddenly a nuisance now after 50 years of mutual cohabitation I don't know, but the upshot is that I can't actually hear it over my tinnitus unless I'm virtually parked right on top of the committee boat when it sounds.

So I find myself after fifteen years of regularly racing at Frampton wondering whether or not it isn't time I find myself another club to race at that doesn't suffer these problems.

Which is a problematic dilemma because, funny enough, a sailing club isn't just about the sailing.

But it is a pretty necessary part of it.

Wednesday, 15 May 2019

Dignity in question

I read online recently that "The German Shepherd is a dignified dog that is loyal, aloof, and somewhat antisocial"


Which just goes to show that you can't believe everything you read on the Internet. Dignity my foot!


I came across the article during a fairly random Google search and it's posted on a site that appears to be, at a glance, selling some sort of  homeopathic pet remedy, quite possibly "snake oil", so don't read this as any kind of endorsement of their wares.

But it's otherwise quite an interesting read on the history of the Shepherd, which I confess I didn't actually know a lot about. And whilst I don't necessarily agree with the characterisation that they describe in its entirety (and I've got a lot more personal experience here than I do on the breed's history), it does paint a pretty accurate picture of the general character and temperament of the dog.

But mostly, this was just an excuse to post pictures of mine poking their tongues out at you, and looking cute but dumb. That said, Boo (blonde mutt, second picture, frame right) has that "spare me, what does he think he looks like" expression on his face.

He wears that a lot when he's around Jack, who often seems to have his tongue up his nose.


Boo's an ex-street dog, and the only one of the two that isn't pure Shep. He's really a blend of all sorts of things eastern European, and I suspect he's the most considered, savviest of the three.

Monday, 13 May 2019

Calstar: dolphins


A still from a video I took on our trip out to Fowey last Easter weekend. Sorting out the final details of our next trip back to Fowey again at the end of this month put me in mind of it.

Really can't wait.


Wednesday, 1 May 2019