I'd moored further out in Ilfracombe harbour in order to avoid grounding so I could set off at low water. The anchor was twenty metres upwind of the boat as is usual but this meant that when I pulled in the anchor, the boat was led into shallow water. I felt a bump and immediately knew that within a couple of minutes the tide would trap Juggler. The four inch groundswell intermittently floated the boat as I hauled in the rest of the chain and tried to turn Juggler around to gain maximum power from the engine and sails. It was no good, the outboard threw water from the stern, the sails goose-winged, drew powerfully, but Juggler was immovable.
I turned off the engine and took down the sails, I was GUTTED!. The wind was perfect, the tide was in the bag and Ilfracombe was a place I was keen to nurture memories of, not experience more of. I consoled myself with a fried breakfast, which was 'orrible! I consoled myself with a bag of rum and raisin fudge, which was less like Devon fudge than supermarket butter, melted into a gacky mass and flavoured.
I spent an hour on the internet in the public library, looking at Rickenbacker bass guitars, which made me much happier. I walked back to check Juggler's anchor and walked out through the water to where she sat. The water was around her keels and just above my knees. It was really very pleasant to be paddling, feeling the small waves splosh on my knees, the sand under my toes and unseen fronds stroking and wrapping my ankles.
I climbed Capstone Hill, which rises high above the town and the sea. Gulls veered and swooped in the breeze. The breeze which went straight towards Barry, thirty five miles to the East. It felt like watching a stream of money but being unable to spread out a basket to catch it.
Next day...
Barry Harbour now surrounds Juggler. the journey is almost over, what more will I have to write about? How can I write about studying sociology? It will be uninteresting to read about my academic struggles rather than Juggler's struggles.
In the yachtclub...
A crew cut haired man in a red T-shirt sits with a pint, I avoid catching his eye, preferring to sit quietly ashore. My eyes fall on a photograph on the wall next to me, it is the same man wearing the same red T-shirt, but making a silly expression. I smile to myself. The reward which comes from maintaining independence is often immediate and surprising
Alternatively one contacts others in a thinly veiled attempt to generate conversation. This can work well, soon breaking the ice and developing into actual conversation. The times it fails is when the difference between people prevents progress. like trying to eat dry bread at sea, chewing just makes it more sticky!
I drink a single malt whisky, a Glen Ord, it is strong, clear and has immediate effect, even though I have a full belly of rice and vegetables.
Cardiff, the capital of Wales.
Cardiff overwhelms me with cosmopolitan consumerism, which is what I came in search of. Leaving Barry yesterday the sea was the colour of a jellyfish. Fog moved towards me from the West, obliterating half the world. As it erased Barry, just a mile behind me I grew concerned. The passage to Bristol would be fine if the GPS (global positioning system) and the engine continued to work. If not, I would be amidst huge sandbanks with vicious tides, while unable to see anything, ten miles from shore. Not a position I would choose.
Cardiff offered itself, like a geographical fruit, as an escape from the, now hostile, Bristol Channel. It was persistently raining too. I have wanted to see Cardiff for some time, so why not now?. Delaying my return to Bristol appealed to my rebellious spirit, "keep out as long as you can", it whispered in my ear. So, I turned to Port, at the sandbank with a lighthouse on it, into Cardiff Roads.
A huge concrete and steel structure, the Cardiff barrage, holds a lake. Now outdated my pilot books all show two rivers and an estuary meeting the sea. Several years ago the barrage was put in place amidst cries of protest from seafarers. Access is, as a result, free and designed to be as easy as possible.
I came up to two overlapping, curved concrete walls some seventy feet high. Through a gap I could see heavy machinery, dams and giant metal forms, like two cups standing together. These were to be the entrance locks. The place looked as though it was designed to produce a tumoult of water at a moments notice, so, I was wary about entering.
There was a notice high up on the wall telling me to contact the barrage operators on v.h.f. channel 18, and, a telephone number. My old "Seavoice" marine v.h.f. radio has not got channel 18 and would not gain a response on channel 16 (the calling channel). I got my mobile phone and realised that I had moved into a new mode as I phoned the number and gained a reply. I was now a post v.h.f. radio user. The mobile phone was more useful and I remarked to myself that it was like "Pay As You Go v.h.f."! The number of times I use the v.h.f. radio are so few that the mobile phone is probably cheaper than the annual v.h.f. licence fee of nearly thirty pounds.
In the city...
Tired after shopping for several hours I decide to rest and drink a coffee. An American style cafe' has me at it's counter with a "representative" (they are not waitresses anymore) gleefully asking me what on earth I would like. I say, "A filter coffee, please". she states, "It's all espresso based coffee here". I realise immediately that I would not get a mellow, rich, tasty, coffee, like a "koffee met koffee melk" in an Amsterdam brown bar. It was to be a cafe' Americano, one that has fathoms of frothy milk added onto an espresso. I don't like drinking steamed milk.
The clatter of representatives rushing through their caffein ridden duties drowned out all discerning thought. I would have preferred to have ran out and sat by a lake! I avoided impetuous action and ordered a cappuccino and a croissant. The whole show trundled into action again after my imposed thought spanner in the coffee works. I had not been slow, but I was far too slow for American coffee reps. I gave the right change instead of thrusting a note at the till in a reciprocal apocalyptic dance of spending.
A coffee grinder screeched like a dentists drill and piped opera reached a crescendo. It was mid afternoon and I resigned to play the coffee buyer. I asked whether I should sit down or wait at the counter. However, the croissant and coffee had been put on the counter under my nose, without me noticing, in another time and another place, while I had been dealing with the grinder noise.
I tried to speed up, making a ballet leap for the napkins, but all this did was made me feel as if I was a stressed out fool, unable to relax and go with the flow of cafe' life. Ironic really, I, of all people, know exactly what I like in a cafe'. Someone shouts over the piped opera "ONE DOUBLE MONTANA!".
The cappuccino is buried in a plug of milk froth and I need to get to an art gallery to calm down. Design and art give me reason and inspiration, transcending the opera and double montanas of urban life. Art and design exhibitions leave me excited about doing things, planning my thing, rather than fulfilling someone else's plan.
The Coffee Republic is quite a nice little cafe'. It is retro style with wooden flooring, simple, cream and brown, decor and sixties, white glass lamp shades. The coffee representatives are articulate and lively, but, it is so GODDAMN NOISY!
Back on board Juggler...
Waiting now, for the tides to be right. To arrive in Bristol and lock in to the Floating Harbour, I need a midday high tide, in order that I can set off across the twenty miles of scoured Bristol Channel in daylight. A four a.m. start is OK, but I would much prefer a fine sunny morning.
I am moored on a pontoon belonging to the Cardiff Bay Sailing Club, so far, despite my efforts to pay someone, it is free. Having some time to wait for the right tides I headed for Asda. Cardiff is some way away but Asda is just ten minutes walk.
Within limitations of quality, aesthetic appeal and consumer choice, I was able to satisfy all my needs in the arcades of Asda, now part of the American Wall Mart giant. I stocked up with charcoal briquettes to last me several weeks. I browsed the magazine shelves, looking at computer prices, under eye mascara techniques, Paula Yates's sad death, and, pictures of a naked Liz Hurley.
I was looking for articles about the Psion Series 7 handheld computer, a few steps up from the series 5 I have been using for nearly two years. I was disappointed due to the dominance of magazines about PC type hardware, using the Microsoft operating system. Psion computers quietly sit, out of the limelight, working wonders in the field and in my case, at university. I have my whole university course work stored on my Psion.
What if she loses it? You might say. All my files are backed up and stored on the web. If I lost my Psion computer or it broke, I would simply access my back up using a new one or any PC connected to the web.
The next thing I did in Asda was buy some socks and tights. After that I had a breakfast (All day breakfast, select your own items, all items 25p each) in the cafe' for around two pounds. In this way a supermarket provides for most of my needs, entertainment, food, heating fuel, clothing and social interaction.
The last, social interaction, is the leanest here in Asda. I am amongst crowds of people but very little communication is allowed by the unwritten codes of conduct. A brief word or two with the cashier girl, the same with the breakfast server. The rest consists of carefully maintained civil inattention. All body language is monitored for anomalies, threats or accidents, but ignored as if it was not being read. In this way a pluralism of differing users of a limited space, Asda, coexists with minimal conflict.
It is as if people suspend their prejudices, assumptions and stereotypes, temporarily in order to fulfil their own needs effectively. The space that is Asda has policies, rules and codes. There are security guards to monitor and enforce them. Crime is very, very low in supermarkets, apart from shop lifting!
Now I am ready for a walk in the cold breezy outside. I may find my way into Cardiff itself, but I suspect it is a couple of miles distant.
I found superstores offering pets, office and staionary goods, shoes, carpets, deep fried chicken, holidays, and, complete bedrooms. All in one retail park, an out of town area with extensive car parks and sheds, each the size of a football pitch.
Back on Juggler after my day in the "retail park" I have a residual idea which has stuck to me, like a burr, since visiting "Pet World". A cat!
I would call it "Catch" and push it constantly out of the port bunk, where I always sit. I would worry when it went off and moan about vets bills when it got influenza. But, I would have a cat! So, what type should I get, a tabby with no claims to pure breeding but plenty of quirky personality. Or, a black one with green eyes and one white paw. Perhaps the question should be, "would a cat want me"?!
With two sacks of charcoal, from Asda, aboard I set out from Cardiff Bay Barrage, to anchor off the Penarth beach. The barrage was being drained, to scour out the pollution, on Tuesday night. I would miss the tide towards Avonmouth if I remained, so I risked a night at anchor offshore.
The sailor is home from the sea...
Back in Bristol, now, it all seems like a dream. I miss the pull of the tide already. Juggler sits, salty and bright with travel, in her marina berth. On entering the River Avon a bulk carrier passed close by, it was called Aslan, which added to a profound moment of arrival, return, and, realisation that I already missed the wide sea, terribly.
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