For a couple of weeks at the end of July, the weather was hot, sunny and humid. Even the sea was lukewarm, and we longed to be on it. Needless to say, the day we were at last free to sail was the day the weather broke. Avocet, our Eventide 24, spent the preceding night anchored in Overy harbour, ready for a quick getaway in the morning. With high pressure being replaced with a low in Humber (us!) the forecast was for W or NW 3-4, occasionally 5 at first, backing SW later, thundery showers dying out.

Friday, 3rd August. It was grey and breezy at 0630 hours as we left the shelter of the sand dunes and crossed the bar, finding ourselves in confused and uncomfortable seas. My first thought once out of the harbour was to go straight back in ! We were of course headed so we motorsailed close-hauled in a northerly direction and I comforted myself with my home-made proverb - "Worst first, better later." ( Not necessarily true of course, but it makes me feel better.)

By mid-morning , with nothing but haze in sight anywhere, we were able to dispense with the engine, and the writing in my log became more legible - a sure sign that the sea-state was improving. Sure enough, by midday we were sunbathing in the cockpit, munching on avocado sandwiches, we had shaken out the reef with which we had started the day, and had passed close to the the Inner Dowsing Lightship, photographing it for evidence!

The fun wasn't to last; by mid-afternoon the tide had turned against us, dark clouds were gathering, and butterflies and bees visited the doomed ship like some ill omen, preceding the squalls, showers and thunderstorms that beset us as we closed the Humber estuary. Once the sea had got thoroughly stirred up, the wind dropped, leaving us floundering wetly around, fed up, and a bit too late tide-wise to get tucked in behind Spurn Point for the night. So began a seven and a half hour motoring marathon up to Bridlington, the next possible anchorage, with a spectacular sunset as the only relief. We were practically asleep on our feet by the time we dropped anchor in Bridlington Bay at 0100. 88 miles, 18hrs 30mins.

Saturday 4th August. The next morning was fine and sunny when we finally surfaced, having already lost our resolve to have early starts to our days...The forecast was for W 4 - 5, backing SW (we got south westerlies forecast nearly every day and never seemed to get them - until we were heading south). In fact a light southerly, and the ebb, carried us round Flamborough Head in warm sunshine. We saw puffins, gannets and even porpoises, an uplifting experience after the day before. But, best first, worse later - huge clouds spread from the land and we got soaked twice, the downpours preceded by gusts and followed by calms. By 1400 we were off Filey and progress was minimal.

We had hoped to make Whitby that night but couldn't face another marathon motor, so we slipped into Scarborough harbour in company with a fleet of racing cruisers with sodden spinnakers. Our finger pontoon was straightway visited by the commodore of the yacht club inviting us to the Club in the old lighthouse for the evening, with food and live music laid on. How could we resist? 25 miles, 9hrs 15mins.

Sunday, 5th August. The morning in the harbour was beautiful - bright, clear sunlight, and warm. But the harbour is sheltered from the north by the massive rock with the castle on the top, and once out of it's shelter we had a northerly force four.(the forecast was west backing south-west), There was a good tide under us so we tacked and made good progress, until the wind and the tide both went slack on us off Robin Hood's Bay. We motored on, past Whitby, where the RNLI were having an open day and maroons were going off like cap guns. We anchored for the night in calm conditions in Runswick Bay, whereupon up popped a south-westerly, just to tease us.

We pumped up the rubber dinghy - well, Brian did...- and paddled ashore, treating ourselves to a bar meal at the pub, grandly named the Royal Hotel, overlooking the bay. The attractive village of Runswick clings to the steep hillside in a gravity defying manner and the cottages seem to grow out of the rock.

28 miles, 8hrs 30 mins.

Monday 6th August. The coastguard had been forecasting a frontal trough followed by strong southerly winds, heading north and currently safely in Fastnet. For now the forecast was variable becoming south-easterly.. With a light southerly wind we sailed off the anchorage and out of the bay. The day was fine and the sea calm - just the right conditions for spotting porpoises, and we saw quite a few that day, even managing to photograph them.

North of Runswick Bay is the pretty village of Staithes with it's tiny, rocky and historic harbour (Captain Cook came from there). Here we saw that work was in progress building a massive new Breakwater to shelter the harbour from the south and east. Previously boats have had to be moored up in the beck that runs into the harbour for shelter in onshore conditions.

As the morning went on the breeze came and went and swung hither and thither, as the coastal scenery changed to the industrial Tees area. Progress was gentle, and we finally ground to a halt as the tide turned off Old Hartlepool. The funfair was on the Heugh (dont ask) and I amused myself watching the heart-stopping, stomach-churning rides, as we made stationary progress - Brian was sleeping so I didn't want to disturb him with the engine. However I eventually got bored with the funfair, and we motored on to our next destination, Sunderland.

Since the end of boatbuilding in Sunderland there has been much regeneration. We motored a couple of miles up the river Wear out of interest, first passing a new university with some striking sculpture, and then a new football stadium. Further inland the high banks were terraced with pigeon lofts, some quite extensive and ornamental. We returned down river as the light faded, and as it was a quiet evening, anchored up in the outer harbour below the yacht club. Once again the rubber dinghy carried us ashore, and we were greeted by members of the yacht club who ushered us inside for a drink, stowing the dinghy safely in the club compound.

The yacht club was a handsome, modern result of the regeneration project. Two of it's down-to-earth, friendly members had just returned from a cruise to the west coast of Scotland, through the newly re-opened Forth and Clyde canal.

Well! Our ears pricked up at this, as we were headed for the Firth of Forth and had never heard of this canal. We looked at each other, the same thought going through our minds...We sucked up as much information as we could, before paddling back across the calm outer harbour to our waiting and ready boat! 40 miles, 12hrs 10mins.

Tuesday, 7th August. We nipped ashore for stores in the morning, giving us a chance to admire the new marina and more urban sculpture. We picked up an inshore waters forecast from the water sports centre - a building we recognised as being the easterly end of the Sea-to-Sea bike ride, that Brian's brother had recently completed.

At 9.50 we hoisted the sails and anchor and sailed out of the harbour to find the wind as forecast, south-easterly force three. We were able to run goose-winged up the coast, but once past the Tyne entrance had to run the gauntlet of the salmon drift nets. Each net is about a mile long and set across the tide, with one end being guarded by a fishing boat. They are best negotiated by heading for the guard boat, whose skipper will then indicate which side of him to pass, as the nets are invisible until you are nearly upon them.

I was keeping a careful ear on the forecasts to hear where the frontal trough had got to, and was a bit puzzled when the coastguard gave cyclonic 3 - 4 for the following day, and the midday Shipping Forecast SE becoming NE 3-4. The Radio Four 12.55 weather forecast however predicted strong north-easterlies up to 50m.p.h on the north-east coast that night! So who was right? We were off Blyth Harbour with it's new offshore windfarms at the time, and the weather was deteriorating into squally showers with poor visibility. However, it was only another twelve miles to Amble, so we carried on sailing until 1500, when the tide turned and the wind dropped, leaving us wallowing, with slatting sails. We then motored, carefully negotiating the narrow channel inside Coquet island by staying in the white sector of the Coquet light, then lining up a white cottage on the headland with the tower of Warkworth Castle! At 1745 we slipped into Warkworth Harbour and up the River Aln to Amble Marina.

As we tied up I caught the 17.55 shipping forecast - now they were forecasting NW 6-8.

It rained steadily all evening as the wind gradually picked up. We showered (hot and lovely!) and snugged down on board with a bottle of wine and a candlelit dinner - the best way of dealing with foul weather.

34 miles, 8 hours.

Wednesday, 8th August. In the early hours of the morning the wind rose sharply and we were buffeted, not to mention deafened, by wind and driving rain. Around 02.30 the maroons went off - the lifeboat was moored nearby - and we heard the powerful diesel engines fire up, then head for sea. We switched on the VHF and heard the coxswain reporting to the Coastguard that they had pinpointed the casualty, 'Reaper', and hoped to be with her in 40-45 minutes. Rather them than me!

In the morning everything was soaking - the rain had found it's way in everywhere! It was still blowing hard but the rain gradually eased, and we ventured out to inspect the 'Reaper', now safely tied up in the harbour. She was an old Scottish fishing lugger, over 100 years old and now a floating museum. Coming south from Anstruther she was taken by surprise by the weather, having heard the earlier coastguard forecasts for F.3-4, and started taking on large quantities of water. An air-sea rescue helicopter flew her out a pump and the lifeboat escorted her to harbour. The ship's crew were on deck being interviewed by a camera crew!

We inspected the harbour entrance - it looked lethal. They must have had quite a ride coming in there. We were amazed to see families of Eider Ducks including some tiny babies, surfing in among the breakers, presumably coming across from Coquet Island, where they breed. Obviously this was not a sailing day so we mooched about the town and rested on board, and when the sun came out there was a lot of drying to do. We also visited the chandlery and purchased a chart and cruising guide for the Firth of Forth.

August 9th, Thursday. By the next morning the wind had dropped and the forecast was NW3-4 decreasing W1-2, sea state rough to moderate. Bob the marina man showed me the sea on his CCTV which could zoom in a couple of miles up and down the coast. Two yachts had gone out of the harbour and were disappearing into the troughs between swells, but apart from that it didn't look too bad!

So we set off, a little apprehensively on my part, and were soon motoring up and down the long swells which I guessed to be around twelve feet high. This was awe-inspiring but not too alarming until we rounded Boulmer Point, the next headland to the north of Amble. Here, with the shallower water and a big black cloud overhead giving a bit of a squall, it was plain rough - towering swells with waves on top of them, some breaking. After a brief panic I settled down and concentrated on steering the boat, and things slowly improved. We were still motoring as the north westerly persisted.

By lunchtime we were passing the dramatic ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle and the Farne Islands were in sight ahead, looking like a school of whales on the horizon. Backlit rain squalls sat dramatically over the purple Cheviot Hills, but out at sea the sky was blue as we passed into more sheltered water south of the Farnes, then followed Staple Sound between the craggy and desolate islands, passing close to the Longstone Light where Grace Darling lived with her father. Seals ands shags were the most plentiful wildlife around, but there were also puffins, guillemots and kittiwakes.

Once past the rocky dangers of the Farnes we tried sailing for Holy Island, but the wind was now dying so we soon reverted to the engine. Brian spotted a distant fin on a long black back, but we couldn't identify it - although it wasn't like the porpoises we had already seen.

We navigated the complicated channel to the sheltered anchorage south of Holy Island and anchored on the Ouze - a bay tucked in behind the castle that dries at low water. It was so peaceful after the drama of the day, and, protected from the north-easterly swell the sea was calm, blue and glassy. We sat and absorbed the ambience and watched other yachts arriving, some travelling north and some south, to anchor for the night, some travelling north, some south. We also watched the departure of a nearby yacht, Skep, heading south. They called out to us as they passed, but with their engine going, we couldn't understand them.

After supper (pasta, lentil sauce and broccoli) we went ashore in the rubber dinghy and strolled round the ruined priory of St Cuthbert in the evening sunlight. As the tide was in there were no hordes of tourists, who rely on a causeway to get to the island. We explored the village and sampled a local pint - I had 'Blessed Ale'!

Back on the boat that night, she took the ground badly, and we had to spend half the night lying across the bunk, in a kneeling position against the hull. I awoke at one stage and got hysterical giggles at the sight of Brian, apparently legless, lying next to me in bed. 28 miles, 6hrs 15mins.

August 10th, Friday. We set off at 0900 the next morning, with NW backing W 3-4 forecast, and expecting the swell to have subsided somewhat. When we motored out from the shelter of Holy Island, however, the swells seemed huge as they piled up against the seaward shore. We had quite a roller-coaster ride until we had cleared the island and could sail close-hauled, hopefully for Dunbar, 35 miles distant.

Shortly afterwards we heard Tyne Tees Coastguard on the VHF requesting information on the whereabouts of the yacht Skep, expected the previous day in Granton in the Firth of Forth. We passed on the information that we had seen her definitely heading south, and we heard later that she had turned up in Amble.

That day the wind swung frustratingly from west to north-east, with patches of no wind, as the swell slowly subsided. Dunbar seemed over ambitious under the circumstances so we changed our sights to Eyemouth, the first port across the Scottish border. The entrance to this busy little fishing port was rocky but well directed and fairly straightforward. There were no facilities specifically for yachts, but nevertheless we were made very welcome by the kindly harbourmaster, and directed to the excellent showers in the new harbour office cum visitor centre cum ice plant building. Scrubbed and shiny, we strolled into town and enjoyed an evening of Scottish country dancing and a pipe band in the church square. I rang my sons from a nearby callbox so that they could hear the bagpipes and be in no doubt as to where we had got to!

We let the Scottish bit slip a little by eating a pizza by the waterside. Obviously we would have had a haggis had there been a vegetarian version!

The night was disturbed again as trawlers were on the move from 2 a.m. onwards, and at some stage Brian got up to lengthen the mooring ropes as the tide went out. We were dealing with a rise and fall of several metres here, and our warps just weren't up to it! 23 miles, 7 hours.

August 11th, Saturday. We left Eyemouth just before 1100, in time to catch the north-going ebb tide, with an apparent south-westerly. Were we going to get a favourable wind at last? The forecast for the Forth area was south veering west 4-5, increasing 6 for a time. Just north of Eyemouth is the dramatic, craggy St Abb's Head. Above the headland and out to sea lay a huge, swiss-roll shaped dark cloud. As we rounded the headland we started to pick up a squall from the cloud and rapidly furled the headsail and put a reef in the main. As we came clear of the cliffs and out into the bay the wind steadied, but was still strong. Far ahead we could now see the humps of Bass Rock, the Isle of May, and also the extinct volcano, North Berwick Law, on the south side of the Firth of Forth.

By lunchtime the wind was doing it's usual trick of dropping, then springing up again from another direction, but it was mostly south-westerly. At 15.45 the log states that we got our first whiff of Bass Rock! Smell apart, it was a truly awesome sight. The gannets were like sifted icing sugar, right across the rock, and thousands more wheeled above and around this ancient volcanic plug.

The wind was now freshening and veering, and as we passed North Berwick, a few miles beyond Bass Rock and heading for the Forth, we were getting force six gusts on the nose. We were again over-canvassed and had a wind over tide chop to cope with too, so it seemed a good idea to turn sharp left and weave our way between the rocky outcrops guarding the port of North Berwick. There were moorings outside the harbour but they were looking a little bouncy, so we squeezed through the narrow entrance, and were able to tie up just inside. The harbour was tiny and full of yachts - no fishermen here. There was however a fine old wooden trip boat for taking tourists to Bass Rock, named Sula after the gannets (Sula Bassana), as is our Silhouette.

A member of the Yacht Club entrusted Brian with the visitor's key so that we could use the showers, which was kind.

We ate on board (omelettes and new potatoes) then strolled round the town and admired the panoramic views of the Firth of Forth, before sampling the local brew in the 'Auld Hoose' . Before turning in Brian ran a rope from the mast to the harbour wall to make sure we didn't list out when the tide went out. We didn't want another night on a precipice. 30 miles, 6hrs 30mins.

August 12th, Sunday. A sunny, breezy morning! Snatched a quick shower in the clubhouse, and trotted round the waterfront taking photos and buying postcards of Bass Rock. We motored out of the harbour in company with boatloads of divers heading for Bass Rock. The wind was still a fresh south westerly, but had eased since the night before. We close hauled and tacked right across the Firth of Forth (about ten miles at that point). In the mean time the wind veered, so in tacking back we didn't make much forward progress. After five hours of tacking and not getting very far we reluctantly motored. Edinburgh and Arthur's seat were now to the south of us and the Forth bridges were in sight. We navigated past the islands of Inchholm and Inchkeith where there was still evidence of heavy wartime fortifications.

By early evening we were a couple of miles from the bridge when the weather closed in and it started to rain. This seemed like a good time to go below and start cooking up a boat curry. No point in both of us getting wet! We decided to anchor for the night in Port Laing Bay, on the north bank of the Forth just below the bridges. As dark fell and the rain cleared, the flood lighting on the bridge was spectacular and someone nearby was holding a fine firework display. The curry wasn't bad either!

Before going to bed that night we got out our books and did our homework for the Forth and Clyde canal.

40 miles, 9 hours.

August 13th, Monday. A grey, threatening sort of day, but not actually raining. We weighed anchor at 0930 and motored under the Forth bridges. There sure is a lot of metal in the rail bridge - no wonder it takes all year to paint it. (I couldn't actually see anyone doing it!) Just inland of the bridges on the south bank is Port Edgar marina, at South Queensferry, where we needed to take on diesel and water and lower the mast.. ( Port Edgar used to be a naval minesweeper base according to my brother who used to be a naval minesweeper himself.) We also had a trip ashore - it was a lovely little town. A Spanish couple asked us to take their photo in front of a red telephone box! We stocked up at the Co-op and lugged our carriers back to the boat before lowering the mast in pouring rain, using our boarding ladder as a stern mast support.

Brian rang the British Waterways contact number (spoke to Bill) and was advised that if we could make the sea-lock by 20.00 we could go through that night.

We left Port Edgar at 16.40, at which stage the weather closed in completely and visibility was less than half a mile at times. We passed Rosyth Naval Dockyard on the north bank with two aircraft carriers and a cruise liner in the dock, then followed the buoys up to Grangemouth, just beyond which, on the south side, was the entrance to the River Carron. We were a little early on the tide and did a lot of keel bumping as we approached the sea lock into the canal.

We arrived at 19.30 and met the British Waterways staff, who brought us through the brand new sea lock onto waiting pontoons where we could spend the night. The staff - Donald and Gail - booked us in and made us a cup of tea, gave us a key for the (immaculate) portacabin showers and loos and left us for the night. It seemed we were the 125th boat to go through, the first being 'Jester'. We paid just £27.00 for the whole canal experience (could have included eight nights). The M9 passed close by, which was odd, as we hadn't moored up near a motorway before! We cooked up a celebratory supper - chickpea dahl, couscous and broccoli, followed by yoghurt, coffee and chocolate - and had our best night's sleep for a long while.

18 miles, 3hrs 15 mins.

August 14th, Tuesday. Donald, Gail and Bill Hastings turned up at 10.00, and we set off, with Gail and Bill, an ex railway signalman, seeing us through the locks. There are no waiting pontoons installed as yet, so a British Waterways team accompanied us by van all the way through, opening all the locks and bridges as we got to them! In the next five hours we went through fifteen locks, the last few in a flight through Falkirk. It was fascinating stuff - there were lots of spectators, and some wanted to chat about the old days, when they remembered the trawlers coming through from Glascow to fish on the East Coast.

We finally stopped at Camelon, a staging post with an old canal inn, also the ubiquitous portacabin loos and showers! After a snooze - it was exhausting watching other people do all the work - we extracted the folding bikes from the forepeak and set off along the towpath to inspect the Falkirk Wheel, a unique canal lift being constructed to lift boats from the Forth and Clyde Canal up to the Edinburgh Union Canal, replacing a flight of locks that have long disappeared. It was a very impressive structure, even in the rain, which was back with a vengeance. Not put off by a drop of wet, we carried on to inspect the Antonine Wall and Roughs fort. The Romans built this immense turf wall and ditch to mark the northern limit of their occupation. It superceded Hadrian's wall, being built 25 years later. The Romans didn't stay in the area long, maybe because it was always raining! The wall, however, is largely still there.

Our bike ride got progressively rugged as we found our way back to Camelon through boggy, woodland footpaths. We arrived back at Avocet soaked, muddy, happy and hungry, and had a beans and eggs supper before walking all of fifty yards to the pub. There we tried to chat to a Glaswegian but found him almost impossible to understand. Then Brian heard an accent he did understand - a fellow Derbyshire lad, who was working on the Falkirk Wheel, so they were able to have a good yarn about times past.

5 miles, 4hrs 45mins.

15th August, Wednesday We were joined by a large wooden motor yacht, Viva, based on the Forth, and the plan was for us to travel through the locks together to save a lot of effort. At 0930 we set off together for Bonneybridge, where Gail and Ian were waiting to let us under the road bridge - this bridge was lifted vertically by four hydraulic rams. From this point the canal became increasingly pretty, with willowherb and meadowsweet lining the banks and lovely scenery beyond. We went up through four more locks at intervals, squeezing in with Viva, until we seemed to be on top of the world, gazing across a valley on our right to the Campsie Fells beyond.

At the top of the flight we celebrated by heating and eating the macaroni pies I had bought in Camelon that morning - a Scottish speciality I think. They were delicious anyway - my mouth is watering at the thought! Viva was having trouble with weed round her twin props and stopped at Auchinsterry, where yet another yacht was waiting to proceed.

The next stretch, nicknamed The Golden Mile, was truly beautiful, winding through wooded hills, with water lilies along the margins. The sun even managed to come out for a while. At Twechar we waited for Viva and yacht 3 to catch us up before going under another lifting road bridge.

We were warned that the next stage of the canal was the worst for weed, and so it was. At one point a bank of weed came nearly right across the canal, and we just managed to squeeze through the remaining gap. The following boat was a lot beamier and had to ram the gap at full speed to get through!

At Kirkintilloch (15.10) we passed through a swing road bridge, and after that things became increasingly urban as we approached Glascow. Shortly after we arrived at The Stables, the next possible stopping point for us. Viva decided to stop here but we carried on to investigate the Glascow Branch Canal, where the Waterways headquarters were. We had been told back at the start that this was another place we could stay the night. Now the canal started to be a repository for parking cones, shopping trolleys, old fridges, plastic bottles by the hundred, and a surprising number of footballs. Strangely though we were seeing more wildlife, including a kingfisher, more waterfowl, and a buzzard.

It was nearly 17.00 by the time we reached the fork in the canal and took the port hand Glascow Branch. We didn't realise that this bit of canal hadn't in fact been dredged, and the weed and muck was awful - almost solid in places. Avocet dropped her speed with her prop fouled, but we carried on slowly past the Partick Thistle football ground and with a view right across the centre of Glascow.

At 17.30 we tied up at the Waterways Headquarters at Applecross. Out came the bikes and we cycled down the hill into the centre of Glascow - down Sauchiehall Street to the Clyde, and back via an Indian Pizza shop (strange...) We delivered the pizza in person and ate it in the sunset, before Brian attacked the prop with the boathook and removed a quantity of plastic baggery...20 miles, 8 hours.

16th August, Thursday After a quiet night we set off at 08.00 to rendezvous with the other boats at the Maryhill locks. An early start was recommended as the Glaswegian vandals would still be in bed at that hour. ( One or two boats had had a bit of trouble with bricks dropping from bridges etc.) Viva was waiting for us but the third boat had followed us into the Glascow branch and had fouled her prop on a shopping trolley and had been towed back to The Stables. It was a fine, sunny morning and we had four lock-keepers to shepherd us down the steep Maryhill flight. The locks were quite foul and Viva soon had more trouble with her props.

After the flight of four Maryhill locks came the two Temple Hill locks, then a swing bridge, and another flight of four, the Clobberhill locks. Next came a bascule bridge, and then a flight of three, the Boghouse locks. Here we succumbed to the pleadings of three local children and gave them a ride from one lock to the next.

As we approached the Clydebank shopping centre the canal became awash with plastic bags and I stood up on the bows and steered Brian with hand signals to avoid the submerged binliners. We all stopped in the centre for a late lunchbreak, and as we were tied up right outside Safeway I popped in for some provisions. This was definitely the first (and probably the last) time that I had been to the supermarket by boat! The day was warm and sunny and we attracted quite a crowd as the foot traffic was halted to allow us under another hydraulic lifting bridge.

At 1640 we arrived at the canal's piece de resistance, the Dalmuir Drop Lock. Here the main road had bridged the canal with only twenty inches of headroom beneath it, which is what put and end to the canal as a thoroughfare back in the sixties. A deep basin has been built under the bridge and the canal locks into the basin, then the water level is lowered so that boats can pass under the bridge; the basin is refilled and then locks back into the canal. The Dalmuir drop lock is computer controlled (a recipe for disaster if you ask me!) and it cost a big heap of money (a mere couple of million I think).

Safely through this remarkable piece of engineering we headed back into the countryside, with just two more locks to go. The first, Kirkpatrick Lock, we entered at 1800; it was right underneath one end of the Clyde road bridge. We were given a gruesome warning about suicides mostly choosing that spot to jump off, and while gazing thoughtfully upwards I forgot about slacking off the bow rope.

Suddenly I realised that the rope was taught and released my knot, but the warp was wrapped over itself and too tight to undo. I shouted to Brian in the cockpit and he whipped out the sharp knife kept for such occasions and slashed the rope. Avocet's bows sank gratefully down about two feet into the water and I gave myself a good ticking off!

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the end of the canal and locked through into picturesque Bowling Basin. To the right of us were steep wooded slopes, and to the left the River Clyde. Ahead of us was the sea lock to the estuary. There were some lovely old steamboats in the basin, and a fine classic Maurice Griffiths yacht which we couldn't identify, called Kergord. We tied up near the re-masting crane, cooked up a boat stew, then strolled into the village and sat on an old wharf. and looked at the lights up and down the Clyde. We could hardly believe that we were actually on the West Coast. On the way back to the boat we spotted a cycle path to Loch Lomond - 7 miles. It was a tempting thought, but we did have to start thinking about the fact that this cruise couldn't go on indefinitely! 11 miles, 10 hours.

17th August, Friday, The next morning was busy; Brian set to work to re-rig the boat. I cycled to the post office to send postcards and buy stores, then had a last portacabin shower and had a good clean up inside Avocet, to get her shipshape for sea. While on deck I spotted HMS Norfolk coming up the Clyde. I hurried across to photograph her and her officers waved heartily! Soon after we had our first view of the paddle steamer Waverly, heading downstream.

Locking out was possible at High Water (1215) plus or minus 2, and Ian agreed to come and lock us out at 1330. We were now in sea area Malin (v.3-4) but were advised to take more notice of Irish Sea (S b. E 3-4, inc 5), as Malin extends well out into the Atlantic. With an audience of locals we entered the lock and began the long descent to sea-level (about twenty feet). And then we were out!

The weather was quiet and the river empty. We followed the navigation buoys down the mile or so to Greenock on the south bank, passing Dunbarton with it's dramatic rock on the north bank. Moored up in Greenock were two Tall Ships, one Russian and one Swedish (Sorlandet).

Beyond Greenock the estuary opens into the Firth of Clyde and we headed south, still motoring, with the entrances to Loch Long and Holy Loch away to starboard, and all with a backdrop of mountains. By 16.00 there was enough southerly breeze to sail and we tacked across to Dunoon on the Isle of Bute, having decided to make our night stop at Rothesay, also on the island. We were soon motorsailing though, in order to get anywhere at all. We had to keep a keen eye open for all the ferries dashing between islands, and there was also a smart tug of some sort, and what looked like a yellow (well, orange actually) submarine. Suddenly a series of white flares went up and from the ensuing conversation on channel 16 it appeared that the U.S. Navy tug was towing the yellow sub, and a yacht had threatened to sail between the two. The tug fired some anti-collision flares to alert the yacht. The Coastguard were very sniffy about the Americans firing flares without informing them first, and the tug skipper replied very politely that he hadn't had time for such procedures and was trying to avoid a nasty incident. We got the impression there was a bit of international friction there...

There were ample visitor's moorings when we arrived in Rothesay Bay, so we picked one up (19.15) rather than go in the crowded harbour. We decided to stay on the boat that evening and drink in the atmosphere. A few eider ducks were touring the moorings nibbling weed off the chains. We watched the sun set, lighting up the tips of the mountains with a rosy glow while we were in deep shadow. By nightfall all the visitor's moorings were full, and hopefully, once the car ferry stopped for the night, it would be a little less roly! We dined royally on avocado pear, spicy parsnip soup, Orkney oatcakes and Leerdammer cheese, coffee and chocolate. We also picked up the forecast - another deep frontal trough on the way....

30 miles, 5hrs 45mins.

18th August, Saturday After a quiet night in Rothesay Bay, with the gentlest rocking, we woke to find ourselves on a lee shore with a light easterly. The main effect of that was a bouncy arrival on the beach when we rowed ashore in the rubber dinghy for a bit of shopping and sight seeing. There were lots of people strolling round in kilts and we soon found out that Bute was having it's Highland Games that day, Tossing the Caber included. We were sorely tempted to stay, but with good sailing weather, and another frontal trough looming in a day or two, we felt it best to press on.

It was sunny with a fair easterly breeze by the time we listened to the call of the sea (12.15) and sailed off the anchorage heading round the north end of Bute through the beautiful East and West Kyles. Up the East Kyle it couldn't have been better - warm sunshine, a beam wind and stunning scenery.

A couple of hours later, as we rounded the northern tip of the island, there was a chugging behind us and a steam whistle. No, it wasn't Thomas the Tank Engine but the paddle steamer Waverley, charging along at a good twenty knots, and looking fine in the sunshine. As we headed south down the West Kyle the wind came on the nose and with the tide still under us we tacked towards our next destination, the Isle of Arran.

By 1730 we were off the Cock of Arran (northern tip), the sun had gone and the wind was freshening from the south east. It started to rain, and the black, craggy peaks of Arran were swathed in cloud. We had a dramatic ride down the east coast of the island, heading for Lamlash Bay, a sheltered anchorage in any weather due to the position of Holy Island right in the mouth of the bay.

It was getting dark as we approached; the wind was rising from the east and the sea was getting up rapidly, and it was with some relief that we slipped into the lee of Holy Island, a great crag of rock over 300 metres high, and dropped anchor in the company of several other boats. (21.30) Gusts of wind came down off the rock and howled around the boat making her swing on her anchor, but the sea was flat calm and the boat steady. That night's meal was a little strange - pancake rolls, broccoli (yellowing!) and mushy peas, followed by Greek yoghurt with figs and honey, percolated coffee and chocolate. (Hope you are all suitably impressed...) 37 miles, 7 hours.

19th August, Sunday We slept a lot better under the shelter of Holy Island (west) than we had under Holy Island (east) - when the boat listed over after taking the ground. This island is also a place of pilgrimage, and these days is home to a Buddhist community.

With a forecast of variable winds becoming fresh westerly later, with gales on Tuesday as that trough arrived, we slipped out of the anchorage under goosewinged sails in a light northerly at 11.15. (Getting lazy...) . The tides were pretty slack in this area and didn't need too much consideration. Once out at sea the wind died and the rain returned, so on came the engine and we motored south-east across the Firth of Clyde, heading for Girvan on the Ayrshire coast, 15 miles off. Visibility was poor and we could just make out the island of Ailsa Craig on the starboard beam, looking like a great, ghostly Christmas Pudding with icing sugar on the top. The sea was flat calm - ideal for spotting finned mammals, but all we saw were guillemots and, for the first time, Manx shearwaters.

It was just after 1600 when we motored into Girvan Harbour, with rain pouring down and the surrounding hills obscured by cloud. A tall figure under an umbrella stood on the end of the jetty and waved us towards a pontoon berth. There was just the one pontoon squeezed into the tiny harbour, and a few yachts, with fishing boats round the harbour walls. We were warmly welcomed by our guide, Billy Purdon, a local yachtsman.

We listened carefully to the doom laden forecast that evening before heading for a night on the town. The meal we had in the Hamilton House Hotel was memorable only for it's badness, in fact it was so bad it was funny; Sybil and Basil Faulty would have been quite at home there! 23 miles, 5 hours.

20th August, Monday. The shipping forecast at 0535 was not encouraging, with the frontal trough approaching Western Scotland, and rising southerly winds in our area. We went back to sleep. When we did emerge we found in the cockpit a bag containing fresh rolls, local tide tables and a postcard view of Girvan - our friend Billy Purdon again. We ate the rolls and went and had a look at the sea. It was sunny, clear and windy, the sea covered in white horses, and the dramatic hemispherical shape of Ailsa Craig dominating the scene.

At last I had my chance to get up into the hills we had been gazing at for days. Out came the bikes, and a visit to the tourist information furnished us with some footpath maps. We went up and up (pushing) and picnicked with a fantastic view; as well as Ailsa Craig we could see Ireland to the left and the Mull of Kintyre to the right.

We set of across the hilltops on rougher and rougher paths searching for the remote village of Barr, known for it's unspoilt beauty. Eventually a hill farmer put us right and we arrived on the road to Barr and cycled two miles down hairpin bends into the village. In the church hall some local ladies were running a little tea stall with home made cakes and biscuits, which we made the most of, carrying off a fine malt loaf.. We toured the village which was at the end of the road - it stopped there - then set off to cycle back up those hairpin bends. I did it too, not quite as quickly as Brian to be sure. Then we were rewarded with five miles of downhill all the way back to Girvan. That evening we steered well clear of the Hamilton Hotel and ate in the Roxy beer garden overlooking the harbour.

21st August, Monday. The wind got up and up during the night and we awoke to a howling southerly gale and horizontal rain. The coast at Girvan faces slightly north of west so the wind was just off the shore, keeping the swell out of the harbour. Roddy Leitch the harbour master and lifeboat cox, not to mention local historian, geologist, archaeologist and much more, came aboard for tea and a yarn, closely followed by a family on holiday who just wanted to see inside our boat, which Roddy said was the furthest travelled boat he'd had in the harbour during his reign! (That pleased us...) After lunch we braved the wind and weather and battled our way to the launderette, before having Billy Purdon on board for more tea and yarns. As part two of our cleansing programme we then went for a swim and a shower in the swimming pool right next to the harbour, so as not to dirty our clean clothes you understand. By evening the wind had dropped and the sun came out, so we strolled out to sample the local Bellhaven beer.

23rd August, Tuesday. Next morning, with a forecast of V.3 or less, we bade our fond fairwells to Girvan and motored out of the harbour just after 10.00 hours. The wind was here and there, and we managed to sail in a mainly southerly direction until 13.30, when it came firmly on the nose approaching Bennane Head on the Ayrshire coast. During the early afternoon, with Brian taking a snooze, I was visited by a surprisingly tame gannet, who cruised above the cockpit while I took photos of him. Then he would settle down in the water and, once left behind, would catch up again and repeat the performance. This went on for at least half an hour.

At 16.00 we opened Loch Ryan, at the head of which is Stranraer, and sure enough a high speed ferry soon emerged and headed for Ireland. About this time we picked up a coastguard forecast from Belfast! Our intended night stop was at Portpatrick on the Rhins of Galloway, some forty miles from Girvan, and after a long motor along the spectacular coastline in the golden evening sunlight, we finally entered the harbour at 20.05, feeling pretty tired. We tied up against the towering harbour wall with at least twenty feet of iron-age ladder to climb to earn our supper at the Harbour Hotel. It was a lovely little harbour surrounded by whitewashed cottages and rocky crags. We chatted to the harbour master, Willie Ramsey, over a drink: he told us that they had a ten foot swell in the harbour during the gale! 37 miles, 10hrs 10mins.

23rd August, Thursday. We woke for the 05.35 forecast and tried to stay awake for an early getaway. I went up the long ladder at seven to get bread and milk from the village shop and met Willie Ramsey coming to set us on our way - and get some cash from us of course. He lent Brian his 1930s bike to go and fetch some diesel from the garage then showed us how to navigate the Mull of Galloway to get the most help from tidal streams and eddies. We were to follow the coastline as close as we dared - Willie said about ten feet off, and assured us there were no obstacles apart from pots. He said he'd be watching us to make sure we did what we were told. There was very little wind, and that was southerly and on the nose, so we would be motoring to start with.

We set off at 08.00, doing what we had been told, but maybe more like twenty feet off (cowards, weren't we!) and certainly found a strong south going current . We also got wonderful close up views of the cliffs, and the seals and seabirds. We rounded a series of headlands - Money Head, Mull of Logan, Laggaguloch Head, with beautiful little sandy bays between, before approaching the Mull itself, which we rounded at 11.05. There were overfalls here but nothing serious in the calm conditions .

Where to go next was the question. The Isle of Man was tantalisingly visible twenty miles to the south, but the breeze was coming from that direction, and the tide was setting strongly east, so we decided to go with the flow and have a rest from motoring, close-reaching along the coastline and making gentle progress in the hot, sunny and flat calm conditions. Lovely!

The breeze held across Luce Bay, during which time I realised that we were in a DZ zone, but decided to ignore the fact! The wind backed to coincide with the turning of the tide, so we motored again to round Burrow Head, the last headland before our intended stop at the Isle of Whithorn. The tide was by now running hard against us round the headland, with overfalls out to sea. We crept very close in and inched our way round the dramatic and craggy cliffs. There were rocks about and we kept our eyes peeled as we slowly but surely crept past the headland and into the natural harbour inside the Isle of Whithorn. At the top of the inlet was a small fishing harbour, but it dried at half tide. The anchorage outside the harbour was sheltered from all but southerlies, so that's where we dropped the hook.(1840)

Once securely anchored we had supper (curry), then pumped up the dinghy and paddled ashore for a quick exploration of the simple but charming little village. On the rocky shore alongside our anchorage we found a memorial garden to the seven young fishermen of the Solway Harvester, who died when their boat sank off the Isle of Man in a storm a couple of years ago.

We had a quick half at the Queen's Arms before picking our way back across slippery stones and boulders in the dark, to regain our dinghy and paddle back to Avocet through an underwater forest of seaweed. It was a fine, starlit night. 45 miles, 10hrs 30mins.

24th August, Friday, Another quiet morning dawned, with a forecast of V.3 or less, and occasional rain. For now we had hazy sunshine and light easterlies, and after paddling round a bit in the dinghy to photograph the boat (again...) we weighed anchor and motored out of the harbour around 0900 hours. Once at sea we set the sails and closehauled on a south easterly course. By 1000 the tide was with us and we made good progress, although making more westing than we really wanted. The Isle of Man was mostly visible through the haze off the starboard beam, and Brian was able to take bearings from Snaefell, the highest point on the Isle.

We stayed on this tack until 14.30 when the wind veered southerly, at which point we tacked and headed east. The Cumbrian mountains were now in view, together with smoke or steam from the Sellafield reprocessing plant. Out on the briny there was very little to see - flat calm sea stretching away into the haze, punctuated by an occasional dozing fulmar.

By 17.00 Whitehaven, our next destination, was nine miles off the port bow, and the weather was on the change, with a little rain and a rising breeze, This got us moving, and two and a half hours later we locked into Whitehaven Marina, having had the satisfaction of sailing all day for a change.

We had tried to have a VHF conversation with the Harbour Master on the way in, but his young son, somewhere up on the cliffs with a handheld radio, kept butting in!

The town of Whitehaven was just gearing up for the August Bank holiday weekend and was a hive of activity with lots of nightclubs, discos, live music and fast food outlets. It was too much for our tired minds and hungry bodies, and it was still raining.

We headed into the nearest pizza place and ate in a porch out of the rain, then we dragged ourselves round Tesco before returning aboard, where we collapsed into bed and slept like logs. 41 miles, 10hrs 45mins.

August 25th, Saturday. We were rudely awoken by the alarm clock to catch the early forecast - V.3 or less, N.W later - and reluctantly stirred ourselves into action. I dashed for the showers (portacabins again!) while Brian watched some cyclists about to attempt the coast to coast (C to C) route, dipping their wheels in the water before setting off for Sunderland.(We had spotted the signing off point at Sunderland Marina.) We caught the 08.00 lock opening and set sail southwards in a light easterly.

In just half an hour the wind became insufficient to make way against the adverse tide, which ran fast round St Bees Head, so we motored, creeping round the headland and admiring the impressive geological formations in the sandstone cliffs.

From then on we enjoyed the stunning scenery of the Lake District, the mountains reflected in the glassy sea, with Sellafield the only blot on the landscape.

At midday it clouded over and began to drizzle, but also came the beginnings of the north westerly breeze, and before long we were roaring along downwind, sails goose-winged.

At 15.00, with clearing skies, we had our first sighting of Blackpool Tower. The coastal scenery changed from high and wild to flat and industrial as we travelled south past Barrow in Furness. By 17.00 we were in Morecambe Bay dodging coasters heading for Glasson Dock. We shaped a course for the River Wyre and Fleetwood, and approaching the river mouth had to give way to an Ireland bound sea-cat, getting a nasty bashing from it's wake as it passed.

At 18.20 we locked into Fleetwood Marina, part of the old fishing docks and more of a council run boat park than a leisure amenity. The staff had gone home and the gates were locked but we managed to borrow a key to get out of the marina, then had to climb a fence separating the docks from the town. We strolled into Fleetwood and ate in a very English Chinese Restaurant for our last night out. (Our plan was to lay the boat up in Lancashire, near Brian's family, and carry on next year, north, south or west!)

When we climbed back over the fence into the docks we noticed a security camera pointing our way, but no-one came and arrested us! 56 miles, 10hrs 30mins.

August 26th, Sunday. We had to lock out at 06.15 or stay all day, so it was up for the shipping forecast - N.W.3-4 - and bleary eyed into the lock, well, straight through it actually, as it was high water. There was no-one around to pay. What a shame...Out in the river we picked up a mooring as we didn't want to be too early on the tide for the River Ribble (south of Lytham St. Anne's). We were also hoping to be joined by Brian's brother Graham, but he had been to a wedding party the night before and wasn't answering his mobile!

We waited as long as we dared but were in danger of running out of water. There is a massive rise and fall at Fleetwood - 9.5m at springs - and the plug had definitely been pulled as we motored out between banks of mud just after 10.00. Then the phone rang, but Graham had missed the boat! He suggested jumping off Blackpool Pier and swimming out but that seemed a bit hit and miss, especially with a hangover.

Once out into Morecambe Bay we set the sails and headed out to sea close-hauled, before easing away southward over the sand banks. The wind was around N.W.4 and we had a cracking broad reach down Blackpool Pleasure Beach, horror struck by what people were putting themselves through in the name of pleasure. The worst thing was a cage that bungeed up and down maybe 200 feet or more. Made me feel quite sea-sick!

The wind and sea picked up as we travelled south; the air was incredibly clear and the sky deep blue with a band of ice crystals lying across the wind. Sure looked like a windy weather sky to me. After one of the best sails of the holiday we arrived at the Gut Buoy (aptly named as it turned out) an hour too soon for entry into the Ribble, so we eased the main and hung about in quite rough and squally conditions while Brian used the GPS to pinpoint our position. After a while several other masts were to be seen waggling wildly about as local boats gathered to await the magic two hours before high water when it was safe to enter . The problem here was an underwater training wall with a gap in it that we had to pass through, using waypoints we had obtained over the phone from the Douglas boatyard, our destination. There were perches marking the seaward end of the wall and we had to count them to help us to the gap. They were very hard to see in these lively conditions and we were the first boat to go in as we were getting fed up of being tossed about and I wanted a cup of tea!

Presumably we found the gap, because there were no nasty clunks, and suddenly the water became calmer as we came into the shelter of the huge expanse of sand off Lytham St Anne's.(16.00)

As we entered the River Ribble we lowered the main to ease our stampede - there wasn't much water as yet. We followed the buoyed channel until we reached the River Douglas, branching off to starboard (17.30). Then we goose-winged the headsails and enjoyed the scenery, while every five minutes the phone rang as Brian's family wanted to know where we had got too! After meandering through marsh and meadow with grazing sheep, we came round a bend and spotted Graham and his wife waving on the bank.Yet another bend and we came upon the boat yard pontoons, where there was just one space, and we filled it.(18.15) The Avocet had landed! 33miles, 8hrs 15mins.

Total miles: 692. Total hours: 179hrs 40mins. Average speed 4 knots.