Stromboli's Home 50:27.40N 004:12.00W
Stromboli comes home
John and Sue Chadwick
Fri 22 Jun 2007 08:45
good, strong hand, Stromboli rounded the tricky patch off Weir Point
and for the first time in 723 days - two years all bar a week - our
darling Weir Quay appeared over her bows. The all-so-familiar and
lovely patchwork views of Devon (to starboard) and of Cornwall (to
port) and, through the pulpit rails, Hole’s Hole, where the river
coils westwards in a huge oxbow to pass under dear Pentillie Castle
before striking north for Cotehele and Calstock. I'd like to report
that we coasted gently through those placid moorings in quite
contemplative mood, catching a moment, perhaps, to reflect on a
project completed. To bask, for a minute or two, in the mild glow of
mission accomplished. To relive the highs and lows of the last 9,751
sea-miles. But the truth is, we charged up that river like a
destroyer going to war. (Well, as much as Stromboli and her Volvo
can imitate a destroyer going to war.) We were facing - what I
believe might be referred to in Corporate Speak – a 'time-critical
window'. Before closing time we must park Stromboli, take showers,
drive to the Old Plough at Bere Ferrers, and, of course, consume a
pint, steak, chips and red wine, perhaps even lots of red wine.
Actually the final two days were as tough as any so far. Realising
that we are about to slide from their immediate grasp the Weather
Gods set to for a final fling and as we cleared S of the Scillies
and turned E into the Channel they sent us a brisk ESE and a horrible
steep chop. So to make any progress we've had to motor-sail these
last few miles. And lordy was it grey? There was a leaden, gunmetal
sort of sky lurking over a leaden, pewter-grey sea. In fact, as I
remarked to R, if you took all the grey out of the picture you'd have
Stromboli, all ten tons of her, miraculously suspended in a huge
empty void. We plodded along until, just before nine a.m. and looking
for all the world like another bank of low cloud, a dark grey bit of
England finally emerged from a grey mist bank. This bit of England
suddenly emitted a single flash. Then another.
Flash………….flash……….flash…. flash every five seconds. The Lizard
lighthouse. Land Ho! Hoorah!
As we approached Weir Quay's Pontoon there was a bit of
picture-taking and fog-horn sounding and whatnot But once we stepped
onto solid ground, hugs and embraces with our Weir Quay friends
seemed unusually fleeting. There was a certain amount of stepping
back hurriedly and mostly upwind. This, of course, reinforced the
fact that our weather-proofs had remained firmly zipped up
more-or-less for the last ten days. We were fortunate perhaps that
the council weren't there to greet us. Our gear would have been
removed forcibly, taken for incineration and any residue contained
for eternity in wherever it is they put the waste from Selafield.
What followed though was very special. The shower (despite having to
share a towel with R) was a treat beyond words. At the Old Plough,
the pint of Doom was truly exquisite. The steak, chips and onion
rings were pure ambrosia. The red wine was nectar of the Gods. But
above all, we four (C had driven down to meet us and assist greatly
with transport) sat in companionable company at a non-moving table in
a simple English pub with knives and forks and glasses and plates -
none of which required rescuing whilst eating. At no point was there
any real danger of dinners or (even bits-of-dinners) being lost
forever below the cockpit grating. Bottles did not upend themselves
over cockpit cushions. No boat-locker-flavoured Saltines were on the
menu. Neither were Cuppa-soups. It was, quite simply, a true taste of
heaven.
And one more treat was in store. To return to Stromboli involved
boarding Sally - our little ‘Nutshell’ dinghy - from the pontoon at
Weir Quay. First to get in was the Mate. As she got one leg into
Sally, the dinghy seemed to think it would be amusing to slide away
out into the river. The Mate wobbled frantically - one foot on the
pontoon the other in the dinghy. Any old salt (worth his salt) will
tell you that from this situation there is but one outcome. And so it
was. At least (at the Mate's insistence) we were all wearing
lifejackets and hers popped with reassuring promptness. Sad to say,
they were her last dry clothes.
The End