Wonder what’s round there?
That certain something round the corner
The weather has cheered up slightly, and the sheets are coming off the boats in the yard, and their owners, lightly coated in spilt varnish, have begun to talk to each other. The conversation has strayed from its beginning–where will you be going this year and for how long, shocking thing the cost of diesel, bloody trawlers–to specifics; and landed up, as so often, with Headlands I have Rounded.
Someone from the south mentioned Portland Bill. Nasty thing, the Bill, they said. Portland stone is great stuff, St Paul’s Cathedral made of it, and the lighthouse is unusually pretty, but the race. I mean the race. Up and down and up and down and God knows when it will all end. Terrible account of someone’s Corribee filling and sinking, pierced one of those waves instead of bouncing over it. Of course, you can dodge it by going a few miles offshore but who can be bothered to...?
Nah, said someone else. Portland? Children can do it in their little waterwings. If you want a good one you need the Mull of Kintyre. Ten knots of tide and if you get the wind over it, well, I hope you have lit plenty of candles in St Kieran’s in Campbeltown. Plus any minute now they will be putting in tidal turbines or so I read, dirty great propeller things that will chew you up boat and all...
Nah, said someone. There’s the inshore passage, easy peasy, or the Crinan Canal to bypass it altogether, most agreeable experience, plenty of exercise in the locks, never more than a couple of miles from a pint. If you are talking about real headlands you should think about the Lizard. Bit of a thing, the Lizard. Ebb thundering out of the Channel, good big westerly blowing against it, sorts out the men from the boys and the, er, girls from the girls...
Nah, said someone. The Lizard? Five miles offshore and you’re laughing. No problems of any kind except for a touch of swell that, all right, has come all the way from New York. Ardnamurchan, now. That’s what you call a headland. Westernmost point of mainland Britain, seabed full of lumps and bumps like the Montana badlands, nasty cold black waves rumbling in with white teeth on top of them and a sort of timewarp that makes minutes seem like hours and hours seem like lifetimes. Oh, yes. Ardnamurchan is what you call a real headland...
Nah, said someone. No tide to speak of off Ardnamurchan, plus you’re allowed to decorate the boat with sprigs of heather or something after you have rounded it. Suitable for flower arrangers but not really much of a difficulty. Land’s End, though. Now you’re talking. Shocking amount of tide, rocks all over the place, an inshore passage that swooshes you along assuming you get it right, and then down comes the fog and round the corner you go, trusting to luck, and the nearest port of refuge is St Ives, good luck with that again, and Padstow, miles away...
Further discussion
Nah, said someone, above what was now a bit of a hubbub, how about the bottom left-hand corner of Wales? The Bitches in Ramsay Sound is one of the only places in Britain you can sail past surfers using the standing wave to get their jollies. Then there are Skokholm and Skomer, and you can either go through Jack Sound, eight knots of tide plus rocks, or make a loop round the outside of Skomer and into the Wild Geese race and associated rips where, if you are lucky, you will find a bit of smooth water about the width of a cart track with dirty great waves jumping on either side of you. And then you are in Milford Haven, charming bit of shelter, and you notice that that thing you thought was a large island not marked on the chart is actually three hundred thousand tons of tanker coming your way...
At this point, someone noticed that a small person of non-seagoing aspect had been towed into our little circle by the dog they were taking for a walk. All eyes focused on this strange creature–the person, not the dog.
“Why, then,” said the person, “do you go to these places?”
There was a bit of a silence. Finally, someone said, “To see what’s on the other side.”
Then we all shuffled back to our varnishing.
‘Of course, you can dodge it by going a few miles offshore but who can be bothered to?’