Where the wheels won’t take you

At the end of July I answered a phone call from our good friend Mackie. This particular conversation had started in the pubs of Penzance. At the time I had put it down to the ale and nautical surroundings. Truth be told, some of our best plans have been born across a thickly varnished table in a dimly lit corner of a Cornish pub.

‘Hey mate, Ian is sailing over to the Isles of Scilly and has space for us, are you keen?’

We live on the edge of the Penwith peninsula, a land that holds a tangible magic. Between the ancient granite boulders and brine beaten shores, sheltered places can be found. Wooded valleys that trick you into thinking you’re in the tropics. High places with ancient weather dulled forms. This land has been lived in for time uncountable. Through choice or necessity it is hard to know for sure, but find yourself in West Cornwall on a late summers day, and you wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.

The Isles of Scilly hold that same magic, in a timeless way. A group of small islands located 30 miles from the Cornish coast. As if not ruled by the same unstoppable flow of the mainland. The wild seas that hem them in have kept that magic close.

I am somewhat of a novice sailor, I had spent a fair bit of time in dinghies. Sailing around old fresh water filled gravel pits. 20 feet of water between you and a layer of goose poo. I had sailed on a cruiser around a Mediterranean island as a teen and my father is an accomplished sailor. But since I was a teenager I had spent little-to-no-time on a sailboat.

The call left me with a smile on my face and a very slight, but growing, anxiety. This feeling grew somewhat as the departure day approached. The night before I had a restless sleep, with wind blowing on the windows of our small flat. Bear in mind that in the world of sailing and adventures, this is fairly tame. However the trip had a certain allure to it, like I was stepping foot into a childhood dream of pirates, of vagabond friends and desert islands.

Morning came and I met Mackie at the end of our road. We braved the rain to make the short walk to Penzance harbour. We agreed to meet Ian on the quayside as he finished his overnight leg.

“It will be safer and quicker for me to pull alongside the sea wall and for you to climb aboard”

Not giving in to the idleness of fear, we jumped off the wet quay, bags thrown on board. No time to drop anchor here, just a second swing around and we were on. Ian had sailed solo from Plymouth, through the night with little sleep. Having never met him I am filled with admiration for this alone. Quick hello aside, I am handed the tiller whilst Mackie and Ian, old school friends, caught up.

I sent Lauren a text whilst trying to hold a steady course westward out of Mounts Bay. If I timed it right she might glimpse us pass through the small bit of water at the bottom of our road. Then out to sea. Past the pub we cycle to, past the cardinal mark, past Land’s End.

With a growing sense of foreboding, the tide and wind started working against one another. The swell rose and our boat shrunk down to its modest 22ft. It is as close as you can get to a campervan on water: the scale is the same, the cabin that sleeps four, a small galley with liquid fuel stove, pull out chart table and dark, warm teak interior. That same feeling of excitement you get when sharing a small space with friends, it was all there on this boat.

Burying its bow into rolling lumps of ocean. Surfing sidelong down the other side. We reefed the sail down to its limit and set our course. My knuckles were white for the duration of the crossing. We saw one other sailing vessel during the leg. A large ocean-going craft, the other end of the spectrum from Ian’s modest cruiser. We saw the Gry Maritha, the cargo ship that services the Scilly Islands heading in the other direction, back to the safety of Penzance harbour. She was rolling pretty severely. Past Wolf Rock Lighthouse on our port side and we soon lost sight of land.

When in life, you find yourself in situations like this, where a large proportion of your safety is invested in a small craft, it is liberating for the soul and terrifying for the notion of self. Deep in thought, I remember dolphins breaking the surface around the small boat and tearing me from fear and into the exhilaration of what we are doing. Putting our faith in Ian’s ability as an experienced sailor.

Once the small shadow on the horizon becomes clearer, we realised eight hours had passed. The large swell in open water subsided. We pulled down the sheets and motored into a calmer channel between St Martin’s and St Marys, past huge granite rocks that thrust out of the water. We anchored in the shallow water just off an empty beach and enjoyed a quick beer to quell the nerves and toast the crossing. The topography of the Scilly islands is a rarity in the UK. The likes of which are only really found around the islands of Scotland. Pristine white beaches giving way to lush green. We took it all in as we traversed the island in search of the pub.

The days that followed passed by at a slow pace. There was mackerel to be caught, stories to hear and islands to explore with bare feet. In our small craft we sailed the shallow tidal channels between the islands, setting anchor to explore each beach. Finding sheltered coves for the evening. Rowing ashore to find the pub and rowing back in a zig zagged line, across a black stillness by the light of a full moon. We fell asleep in our bunks while the whole world gently moved.

I have always had a fascination for the ocean-going craft. Designed and built to go pretty much as far as you are willing to take them. With moving parts, each with a specific function, attached all over. Ian bestowed a patience and hospitality to us stowaways. Asking questions of speed and wind direction. What rope to pull and how to start the inboard diesel engine. The whole weekend was the perfect mix of childhood adventure and practical lesson. The small boat became our floating home.

Red wine, fresh fish and a quick dip.

The return leg back to Penzance was a calmer affair, the sun shone as we whiled away the hours with idle talk and cheese sandwiches. In fact the wind dropped all together a few miles from Lands End and we were treated to a balmy late Summer’s evening as we slowly passed the cliffs of Western Cornwall. Mackie, well versed in the geography, recounts the names of each beach and small inlet. Past Mousehole, a few craft already set at anchor for the evening. Across Mounts Bay we pass fishing boats heading out for the evening. I realised had been smiling the whole weekend. We saw the town where we live from sea and all seemed right in the world.

Back to the same quay we jumped off days earlier, we climbed the rusted ladder off the deck. A solid handshake and the promise of future trips. Ian pushed off on his way back to Plymouth.

Thank you to Ian for the wisdom and hospitality onboard. It was quite possibly one of the dreamiest trips I have ever been on. 3 nights around the various islands wasn’t enough. Thank you also to Mackie for the wine and for being true to his word, and to the boat for showing us that adventure vehicles don’t always have wheels.