He informed me that he used to sail a lot when he was in the Royal Navy; indeed, he and a group of like-minded sailors thought nothing of sailing out to the Azores. Now, he preferred motor boats, but he still missed the sailing.
"I live in Norwich," he told me.
"Ah, that's why you've got yellow and green colours in your sweatshirt," I replied.
"No, those are the colours of my rugby club, the Crusaders."
I learned the fellow had no fond feelings for Ipswich, and compared it to Great Yarmouth: a fine front but deteriorating as you get into the back streets. But to be fair, he acknowledged most towns had something akin. He was suffering this morning. The previous evening he had been with the Norfolk Yachting Agency party. "I mixed a lot of the vine, then the grain last night, a bad move, and now I am paying the penalty with a hangover from Hell," he whimpered. I wished him a safe trip and left him to suffer in silence.
I then had a chat with the couple who were awaiting fuel filters. They too had sailed to Holland before. They related how they once reached Gouda, when they became stuck between two bridges when a violent thunderstorm struck the area. I was blissfully unaware that the Dutch don't open their bridges during such storms. There was no specific place to tie up to, but the couple noticed all the Dutch vessels tying up to anything ashore, so they followed suit. A chance to explore Gouda. The pair discovered a bargee gathering at the town, with barges from all round Europe attending. Many were decorated with flowers. They recounted how they watched in amazement as a Czech barge crew loaded a huge Gouda 176lb cheese wheel on board. Crumbs, that must have lasted months.
We had hatched an itinerary for the next few days based on distances and tides. Today, we would sail down to Bradwell, and the following day we would head down to Burnham-on-Crouch in order to meet up with Paul and Deborah there. We would have liked to stop off at the RHYC (Royal Harwich Yacht Club) instead of Bradwell since other yachting friends: Ian, John and Sue, were travelling there from Woodbridge today. However, trying to get from RYHC to Burnham-on-Crouch the following day would have been a serious challenge due to tides.
It wasn't long before we were tied up in the Ipswich sea lock, mesmerised by a gull paddling around looking for open mussel shells clinging to the lock walls. All too soon we were out of the lock, the last one on this trip, and heading down the River Orwell towards the open sea. Between Pin Mill and Levington, I spotted first Sue and John, and then Ian heading up to RYHC. We waved and tried to exchange words, but I couldn't make out what they were shouting, so I just bellowed out we were heading for Bradwell.
The River Orwell
Orwell, delightful stream, whose waters flow
Fring'd with luxuriant beauty to the main!
Amid thy woodlands taught, the Muse could fain,
On thee, her grateful eulogy bestow.
Smooth and majestic though thy current glide,
And bustling commerce plough thy liquid plain;
Tho' grac'd with loveliness thy verdant side,
While all around enchantment seems to reign.
(I.I.Shewell)
As we passed through Felixstowe docks, a large MSC containership was being spun around by three tugs. It was a different picture 150 years earlier.
 Ship Spinning at Felixstowe |
Barge and small coaster traffic came to Felixtowe, but it was of such a small scale that when the National Dock Labour Scheme was created in 1948, it was not drawn into it. The Dock Labour Scheme created restrictive working practices which made most British ports slow and expensive. Gordon Parker, who controlled a large Norfolk corn handling business, became so exasperated by the difficulties of trying to speed up King's Lynn that he bought the dock basin at Felixstowe to handle his goods.
Parker bought the dock basin in 1951 and two years later the whole area was devasted by the East Coast Floods. Parker and his general manager, Ian Trelawney, set about repairing the dock and improving trade. Felixstowe was always unionised, but the port workers came off farms, out of shops and other local occupations and did not have a long tradition, like the dockers from the established ports, of non-cooperation with port managers. While other ports struggled with their labour relations Felixstowe moved goods quickly and started to expand.
Another stroke of luck for Felixstowe was that the dockers in the large ports refused to handle containers. The Felixstowe Dock Company welcomed containers, and the Landguard Container Terminal was built in 1967. Although Grangemouth had opened a few months earlier, with Felixstowe being near the open sea, it soon became the main British container port.
We left the port behind and rejoined the open sea, weaving amongst lobster pot buoys as we skirted Walton-on-the-Naze. The sea was a tad bouncy, and a cold wind had got up. A shipping forecast hedged its bets by announcing that over the next 24 hours the wind would be coming from all points of the compass. Very helpful and comforting to know that.
It was a 7-hour slog from Ipswich to Bradwell. The only light entertainment was a huge plume of black smoke from the firing ranges at Foulness, and Rex's selected highlights from a Kenneth Williams book he was reading.
One such excerpt concerned itself with Williams staring in "Carry on up the Khyber". At one point Williams was dressed in his golden attire and making love with the main actress - in the film of course. All of a sudden Williams broke wind, the producer screamed cut, and the actress screamed, "This is outrageous behaviour!"
"Well, even Rudolf Valentino blew off at times on set," retorted Williams.
The producer quickly responded with, "Yes, but those were the silent movies." How Rex giggled.
Not long after, when we were safely ensconced in our berth at Bradwell, I heard a man shouting, "Wait for grandad boys!" Then again, "Wait for grandad boys!" Two very small lads were marching down the pontoon in their wellies. Then grandad appeared, quickly scampering after them. I later came across them looking for the lady who sold lollypops, with grandad trying to chivvy them along.
The Outward-Bound Centre adjacent to the marina was buzzing with lots of children playing outdoors games. It is heartwarming to know these activities and centres still exist, and have not rolled over to the tsunamis of iPhones, tablets and screens.
Bradwell, or Bradwell-on-Sea as it is also known is a small Essex village on the Dengie peninsula, near where the River Blackwater meets the North Sea. It was a Saxon Shore Fort in Roman times, known as Othona, with 12-foot-thick walls and a moat, but little has survived. The Anglo-Saxons knew the area as Ithancester and it has also been called Bradwell-juxta-Mare and Bradwell-next-the-Sea in its long history.
In 653 AD Saint Cedd was sent by Pope Gregory to found a monastery and bring Christianity to Essex. The building has survived as the old chapel of St Peter-on-the-Wall and it is the oldest church in England. When a new church was built in the centre of Bradwell, the old church building was used as a navigational aid to shipping. By the 17th century, it was being used by a farmer as a barn. However, in 1920 it was restored and reconsecrated although the chancel, apse and tower were long gone. Today St Peter's Chapel remains a place of pilgrimage and is always open.
In the 13th century, Bradwell built a quay and from it, wool was exported. Records from 1478 show a ship called the Christopher carried wool from Bradwell Quay to Calais.
During the Second World War the airfield sited to the north-east of Bradwell Waterside was a front-line station, and named RAF Bradwell Way. Before the war a small grass airfield was sited there for refuelling and re-arming the aircraft used by pilots practising shooting and bombing at the ranges on nearby Dengie Marshes. In 1941 the airfield was enlarged, swallowing up the pre-war grass landing ground, and three concrete runways were laid down. As it was quite near the coast, and many aircraft in distress landed there, it had a Fog Investigation and Dispersion Operation (FIDO) system installed to help pilots find a safe landing in foggy weather. Many night-fighter squadrons were based here, equipped first with the Douglas Havoc, then the de Haviland Mosquito, the ubiquitous multi-role-combat aircraft of its time. The airfield was also used as a jumping-off point for fighters escorting long-distance bombing raids on Germany, and such types as the Spitfire and North American Mustang could be seen. A recent memorial, in the shape of a crashed de Havilland Mosquito, has been placed near to the edge of the airfield to remember all those who lost their lives in defence of Britain in the war whilst based at RAF Bradwell Bay.
In more recent times, Bradwell-on-Sea hit the headlines as the site of Bradwell A Nuclear Power Station. It was closed in 2002 and has since been decommissioned.
This stretch of the coast is one of the only sandy beaches on this part of the coast. The area known as Bradwell cockle spit is popular as a haven with families and dog walkers due to its close proximity to the Saltmarsh Coastal trail, spanning 75 miles of stunning coastline in the Maldon District.
We dined in the Green Man in the evening, always a favourite. This 16th-century establishment was once a smugglers inn. Rex spotted a stranger walk by wearing a Knebworth Concert T-shirt. Rex had gone to that concert back in the mists of time, and he wondered whether the wearer had attended too. He scooted off to find the chap for interrogation. He returned 20 minutes later. Yes, the fellow had gone to the very same concert, and the two had spent a while discussing their music tastes.
Back on Duonita, we listened to a couple of episodes of Sorry I Haven't A Clue, followed by a scintillating lecture from Rex on the history of how accountability in doctors' practices has evolved over the past decades, the politics and back stabbing routines, and how the NHS is still trying to unify its IT systems.
Time for bed I thought.
 I Believe It's Your Round Rex |