Still, playing

From the hush of a mooring by Buckler's Hard and on the first pull of an ebbing tide we followed a million small jellyfish down-river before the heat of the day began. A few other boats joined us. Some in a hurry; some just enjoying the free ride to the mouth

The air was still, the only wind apparent from our engine's gentle chug with the flow. We had hopes that the Solent would offer some power to our sails, but the last few trees and bushes before the shingle spit opened to the South stood in a silent pantomime of the prevailing wind, the Marcel Marceaux of Westerly gusts.

Past the sailing club; past the point where the ebb pulls the river South over the spit; following the posts out in silhouette against the rising sun (cans and cones now). Up to the lighthouse and then the channel out to round the Beaulieu Dolphin to starboard. The sun's intensity increased; the wind never even fluttered. We motored all the way to Lymington. That was quite enough engine use for one weekend.

At neaps, the flow past Lymington is quite sedate. Even so, we were in no hurry to actually arrive (other than an increasing desire to stand under a cool shower) and navigated on about 2/3 tide to 1/3 engine while the over-nighters decided to leave their berths before the noon deadline. There was a slow flow of leaving boats as we approached; sleepy Sundays and a few waiting for the breeze to make a show maybe. Just at the moment we cut inside the port buoy and headed in there was a degree of chaos reigning. Ribs towing toys, motor cruisers and yachts were jockeying for position to leave or refuel. We hung by the starboard post until we could see water between the obstacles and got quickly waved to a simple, starboard-to finger berth.

We cooked, we washed and some small amount of tidying and mending went on. We kept in the shade as much as possible until mid-afternoon when, at last, there seemed some chance of moving air; flags were seen to flutter, but still the only sails in the Solent were North, using the sea breeze to sail. As our short-stay time expired we could wait no longer and so set out again. By the last mooring buoy outside we turned 180 degrees to raise a hopeful main; the genoa went out and for a while we made a couple of knots with an angle to vector across to Lymington starting platform with the end of the rising tide.

That was almost the best of the wind that we saw all day, but not wishing to admit defeat we stuck with it; occasionally taking a broad reach due West to keep the window into the river open. Lyminton Bank, off to port, for quite a long time; a Beneteau on jib crosses us, aiming way off in the tide and turned on his engine ten minutes later; we watch numerous boats of assorted sizes motor in the river. There are several episodes of power-boating idiots passing at full speed; these come in small groups, leaving chop that flaps our flaccid sails. At Baverstock I drop the main, the wind now too far astern to make the main easy to sail. The genoa does all the work up to about the fourth port mark where we cut back into the channel from the shallows. Still maintaining over a knot, we have enough control to stay on the port side, out of the way of a ferry leaving for the Island. I cut straight for the last starboard mark on the entrance channel; anyone on engine can just get out of the way, though I time my traverse to be polite. A yacht on engine realises what we are doing and gives a thumbs-up.

One more mark before the lake. I cut again across the shallow corner towards the first mooring buoy and, as we turn East, I have to tack the genoa. I take the opportunity to start to furl it too. The last buoy before our mooring has a boat that is across the channel and I turn around its stern, testing the amount of control the rudder has at this slow speed and with an unknown amount of flow (has the tide turned here yet?). The final swing to starboard almost hits the mooring buoy and stalls us in what turns out to be slack water. We pick-up; tie off.

Not playing

Drumming, like the fingers of a dozen teenagers all bored in the same instant interrupts my reverie. The rain has come; the washing is on the line.

I rush, bare footed, up the path already polkadotted with drops, stepping over a slick steel drain cover. In the sky a small grumpy cloud eclipses the garden. I begin to gather in the near-dry laundry, pushing pegs (necessitated by the breezy conditions) into my pockets. The rain stops.

I glare at the cloud; it glowers back. I tentatively start to spread out the sheet I was pulling on and replace the pegs. A few drops fall, then a few more. I gather half the items from the line and the rain ceases, the small cloud is crawling past.

Uncertain, I return indoors with the items that seemed driest, although they still need airing. The path is wetter than the garden, but the sky is brightening. After ten minutes and no further rain, I restore the clothes to the line and find something else to do.

The forecast for the day says showers will die out towards the evening, so I expect to get my laundry dry eventually. I return to my office and my earlier thoughts. From time to time a half dozen teenagers set to with the fingers again, but I'm not playing.

That drinking earth

We interrupt this occasionally baking sun to bring you severe gales and rain curtains with a variety of raindrop sizes and wetness. It is nice to play indoors without the garden guilt though.

We let the boat dry out over the weekend, largely because a new shaft anode was needed. All looks well below the waterline. Waiting for the tide to do its cycle we also had time for other, more routine maintenance, such as an engine oil change, a bit of wood cleaning, a gel-coat repair. It is hard to fully relax and enjoy the wild weather, knowing that she will be bobbing about rather violently on her mooring, but, first world problems.

Almonds?

The yellow of the gorse has faded over the past week, pausing at rich gold, on its way to brown. A small scattering of foals have been delivered and alternate feeding and sleeping, much in the manner of human infants.

The bees have transferred their attention to my pyracantha.

The Forest tracks are used by a variety of critters

bitten, not stirred

Four days of sailing as the temperature slowly increased and the wind speed abated. A trip that took us East up the Solent and back again. As well as visiting some new places, the trip was a minor shake-down for the crew to assess readiness for greater things and to confer some fitness by firming muscles and hardening hands. The third day was the longest at about 8 hours, largely taken downwind on the way back West to Cowes and I have to say it engendered extremely satisfying sleep on Sunday night. As is often the case, it was the things that went wrong that punctuated the journey that stick in the mind.

There is a worrying trend towards uniformity in the running of the Solent's marinas. Everything is computer controlled. It is obvious how these marinas, bought up in bulk by large holding companies, make their money. They charge impressive sums for use of their space, they diversify into waterside property, they replace humans with robots and sell concessions to the highest bidder. This leaves the visitor, however efficient and clean the facilities are, with a feeling of being processed, rather than welcome.

Chichester marina is such a place; I had to provide all my personal details except my inside-leg measurement before being allowed through their lock. On entry to the lock I had thrust into my hand three booklets, an access tag and a sheet of hand-filled paper consisting of a map and the usual mooring details. If this simple map with its human annotation had been complete and accurate it would have been a wonder, but the line indicating the berth was too thick and on a first visit it is not entirely a simple thing to orientate ones-self on a map whilst concentrating on the rise of water in a lock and the movement of the three other vessels in there. To add joy to this mildly disorientating experience, the prop-shaft anode decided to make a bid for freedom at his point, although of course we didn't find out the cause of the noise until later.

Chichester marina's fine map shows a road that runs around the perimeter of the site, but isn't ever so clear about whether the lock itself is passable by pedestrians. It has an arrow indicating a convenience store. Sadly, with its human annotation and its (relative) charm, this map contains some historic detail which might mislead. The convenience store has been upgraded to a marine super-store stocking everything you could want (with a high margin) to get you onto the water and keep you safe and comfortable there. Inconveniently this store now only opens normal shop hours. It stocks one brand of semi-skimmed, over-advertised milk. On our visit, 9:10 on a Sunday, it had no bread.

Just before embarking on this short odyssey I took a flying run round the garden, in my sandals and waving a camera. Ten minutes of carelessness. On our first day afloat on the first short voyage I had an itch that I noticed whilst helming, back of my left knee. Wearing jeans and controlling a yacht in the lively but pleasant conditions of the day did not permit investigation and I forgot the minor irritation until dressed for bed. Inevitably after my last piece, I had been bitten by a tick; it came out fairly simply.

An excursion to hang the first load of washing this morning revealed that summer is moving quickly on. The cotoneaster has lost its buzz; the lily of the valley is half over. I was greeted by a curious hornet, noisy, orange. Last week I saw my first young blackbird and whilst excavating roots disturbed a stag-beetle larva.

Stung. Not bitten

05:38, wasn't bad by recent standards and I lay, light beginning to creep in, aware that my inner right ankle was itching.

We live in a forest, domestic animals mix with wilder ones; both visit gardens and one of the upshots of this is that even doing a bit of gentle weeding holds the threat of deer ticks and any diseases they might be harbouring. After a day gardening then it is of some interest when an itch comes along, it prompts thought, rather than simple idle scratching.

Cosy and, with my ankle seemingly too far away to reach easily I scratched gently with my left heel callous. The sensation of touch brought back the cause. The previous afternoon I had brushed my bare ankle with the fresh foliage of pulled nettles as I worked to extract as much root as possible. It was a healing itch, an almost pleasant sensation, but one I had to avoid scratching.

Reassured, but not back to sleep. The six o'clock trains rumbled, I broke for the washing-up, Radio 4's early news, watching the passage of gold tits from tree top to top and the post Jurassic ambling of jackdaws probing the fresh-mown grass for food.