‘So…’ my good mate began to say, adding, ‘what are you going to do when I’m in London on Wednesday?’

And without pausing, grinning wickedly, added, ‘why don’t you have a night down river with your mistress…’

Having recovered from a blush: I’ve never ever had ‘the enjoyment of a mistress’ I wasn’t sure the mate was serious!

She has, however, amongst her many girl friends, oft referred to Whimbrel as my mistress, so perhaps that was her tack…

The boat has many similar virtues, for sure, others it couldn’t provide, but one thing a boat can’t do is argue!

So, on the Tuesday of this last week, I gathered up all I needed and hightailed to the boat at Maylandsea’s finely situated marina. A few jobs were done before the tide neared and it was time to get the sails and such ready.

As the tide comes up Lawling Creek – although there is always a little water in the rill – duck, geese and a myriad of waders begin a frenetic gleaning, sieving the mud before it covers.

In Lawling Creek there has been a myriad of bird life all winter and into the spring. There are still numerous over-wintering Brent geese, but I haven’t yet seen any terns – late?

It was an easy sail down river and I just about reached the Nass before the turn of the tide. I stowed the main in clear water and sailed under the working jib towards the quarters channels, looking for the entrance to Mersea Fleet.

I spotted the line of buoys, then the perches marking the outer channel came into view. These withies have been marking the entrance here for around three years now: the channel has been threatening to close off – a result, I believe, of the beach recharge/regeneration of both Cobmarsh Island and Packing Marsh island.

Still no terns, I noticed. Normally by this time of the year they will be seen sitting atop various buoys, withies or anything else suitable.

Once inside, I chose a clear patch to amble forward and douse the jib before puttering to one of the many vacant moorings.

Looking closely at Packing Marsh Island, it is hard to believe that its time with us is that great. The beach recharge appears to have been attacked since done and it seems as if it is as it was a few years before hand.

I enjoyed a fine supper of fresh cheese topped bread, sausage with a onions with baby tomatoes… I washed it down with a bottle of ale!

Not long after sunset, the forward bunk was calling, so after washing up, a coffee and some chocolate found in my stores (stowed by my dear mate), I hit the hay!

The night was punctuated by what sounded like a raucous party on Packing Marsh Island. It wasn’t a bunch of ravers but a cacophony of gulls – the big variety – deciding that from time to time they would let humans know about them!

I awoke to a calm. Well, almost: there was a gentle east-southeasterly which barely ruffled the reflective surface of the ebbing tide.

The peaceful slightly high cloud morning soon developed into a glorious day.

Not needing the jib, I stowed it before setting about stitching up the ends to our deck lifelines. The stitching was degraded … I got one done and fitted before leaving. The other is being done back home!

In the glorious conditions I sailed off the mooring, gybjng round to head out, serenaded by the squawks of the hull population. I grinned for I’d had to clean the cabin top after a full decided to land earlier and use Whimbrel as a latrine…

Clearing Mersea Fleet I tacked out of the Quarters to round the Nass – a rite of passage and for a New Zealand friend – before heading for Sales Point on the Bradwell shore.

Closing the shore a ‘school’ boat crowded with outward bounders tacked across Whimbrel’s bow, forcing me to come round too – the person in charge, forward, lifted a hand saying something to the helm. Bad teaching was my view! Still they were out on the water enjoying themselves!

Shortly after, the ‘men in black’ roared alongside … the marine police! The conversation ran along these lines…

‘Where have you come from?’

‘Where are you going?’

Answering both, ‘West Mersea to Lawling Creek…’

‘Then…’

‘Home’ I said!

‘Oh, last of ebb out and flood in…’ the speaker said.

I looked at him and just said, ‘Yes…’

They left after saying ‘enjoy…’

Sorry, but neither I or the Mate have one iota of respect for our constabulary after the way they treated us during the Covid pandemic after we were threatened by an Essex sailor who touted the law. It was poorly dealt with. They are a waste of space…

Outside Bradwell Creek the Curran Trust’s Queen Galadriel was sitting serenely to her anchor. She did look a picture.

The tide was on the turn and Whimbrel’s speed increased accordingly and the distance to Stansgate Point was eaten away.

Passing the Marconi Sailing Club there were two yachts in launching trollers ready to go in. Ashore there were dozens awaiting a turn!

Sailing into Lawling Creek, I dumped the Genoa and reached inwards. As the boat scuffed the bottom, I rounded to stow sail and felt my way to a vacant mooring to await sufficient tide.

There were the usual seals basking in the mud with others in search of food in the water, crested grebe, duck, Brent’s and a myriad of waders to look at as I sat in the sunshine with my lunch.

The wait didn’t last long. We soon learnt at weary stage tge tide was sufficient to gain our berth. I slipped in after a momentary stoppage all ready to depart home to my mate upon mooring up: I’d missed her…

This was my first overnight sail of the year away from our new base – a new experience, but one I enjoyed very much. The ‘missing’ mate was a downer, but, hey, I’d had my mistress…