Sailing Sabbatical in England

Table of Contents

Every morning I still dream of sailing, and when I wake it takes a while to realise I am no longer aboard. For three months I was there, day and night. Home again, though everyday life has yet to catch up with me. Whatever shape it takes… first, a fresh start. I am still making sense of all I experienced and the people I met. Here are a few things that meant the most to me.

3 months of sailing — a wealth of experiences and 1950 nm covered

A summer of extremes
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The summer of 2026 will go down in Europe’s climate history as one of the most extreme and devastating since weather records began. Even in southern England and Brittany I had a taste of it, though it was not as hot there as elsewhere. Almost 8600 people died from the heat in England and France, and around 14,000 in Germany. Southern Europe saw the highest temperatures, with Spain and France among the countries affected by major fires. The climate crisis and its present effects were among the subjects I tried harder than usual to put out of my mind during my time away. For me, it was an “endless summer”: glorious weather, high temperatures, little rain and no fog. In the English Channel the weather was settled, and thanks to the high over France, the wind sometimes came from the north or east, too.

Sailing into the night
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There is something wonderful about sailing into the night. Ideally, all the preparations have been made in daylight, the Passage Plan covers everything that matters, and the forecast is good. Then the sun goes down, more and more stars appear, and perhaps the moon rises too. In the morning light, the new bay or harbour is easy to make out, and soon a warm bunk awaits. I had spent the night at anchor in Worbarrow Bay and motored round to nearby Lulworth Cove in the morning. After a few more hours’ sleep, I had something to eat and prepared for the night passage. Once the anchor was up, there were the strong tidal streams off Selsey Bill to contend with. When planning the passage, I had decided to keep 7 nm off, as I intended to cross Lyme Bay to Dartmouth anyway. The moon made it a very bright night, and for hours we slipped quietly and easily through the darkness. The Windpilot steered Lucy, leaving me free to let my thoughts wander. A few short naps, with an alarm set, were wonderfully refreshing. Listening now and then to a few chapters of an audiobook about British society and culture (“My dear Britain”, by Annette Dittert) added another dimension to my experiences of the past few weeks. Before sunrise, a dolphin came very close, and a whole pod kept me company for a long time. Am I on the right course? What lies ahead in the dark? Only a few navigation lights are visible at first. Gradually, more details emerge, and eventually I can identify buoys by their light characteristics. From far out, I have only a broad sense of where things lie; as I draw closer over the hours, more and more detail becomes clear. My circle of perception contracts. Straining to see into the darkness is no use. A few distant lights offer bearings, while close around the boat I can see little of the sea in the glow of my own navigation lights. There is no sense of depth at all. Everything is black or, at best, silvered by the moon. At last the sun brings back the colours, the surroundings take shape, and distances become apparent once more. The chill of the hours before dawn gives way to the sun’s warm rays. What a pleasure! How glorious to enter the mouth of the River Dart in the early morning, see Dartmouth Castle, then round a bend and catch sight of the little town of Dartmouth. And to find a vacant berth on the yacht club pontoon. Make fast and straight to my bunk? No — I spot someone with a coffee and want one too! It turns into a Full English Breakfast with two large cups of coffee. Suitably fortified, I tumble into my bunk for a few hours’ sleep before carrying on.