APRIL 2016 http://www.yachtingmonthly.com 69Nick Ardley began sailing as a
child living aboard a spritsail
barge with his parents from the
late 1950s through to 1974. ‘Upon
marriage, I introduced my wife
to sailing, sharing my love for
salt, marsh and mud. In 1983 we
ordered Whimbrel, a Finesse 24,
from Alan Platt – she’s now part of
the family.’ http://www.nickardley.comNick Ardley
the boat to the Mate while sluicing
away the Colne mud. My thoughts
were cut off when she called
‘You take her’ as we neared the
entrance to Alresford Creek.
We’ve often sailed past the
creek but like many others,
it’s not until you enter that the
shoreside really comes to life. In
this case it’s a death, really: ghosts
of the past predominate. The
creek contains the remnants of a
bridge supporting Brightlingsea’s
single-track rail link, which was
destroyed in the 1960s.
We passed by the gaunt, rotting
lattice of a ballast jetty devoid
of vessels for 50 years. Ashore,
snaking inland are the rusting
cable pylons that once whooshed
buckets of sand and shingle down
into waiting holds. A notice stated
‘No Mooring!’Riding the spring tide
‘Look!’ the Mate said. ‘All those
moorings...’ A signifi cant number
of small shallow-draught craft
hide beyond the entrance. I
steered the boat through, aware
of the spring tide’s inward rush.
The Mate looked on, enthralled
by the birds feeding on the last of
the mud fl ats.
As I concentrated on the tide
threading its way along therill’s path, I was looking intently
for barge remains and a dock.
Suddenly, I saw what looked like
the bones of a spritsail barge,
poking from a patch of saltings.
‘Take over,’ I said, leaving the tiller
and grabbing my camera. There
in the cord grass were two rows
of iron knees rusted orange-red,
standing to attention like soldiers
on parade. ‘Wow!’ I shouted.
The Mate smiled and took over.
Later she told someone, ‘There
he was, dancing on the cabin top,
babbling about barges, while I
steered blindly up this channel...’
We stayed off the putty.
We were sailing through a land
beyond the sea along a watery
thread. Cord grass edges crepttowards us. Our objective, the
mill, had been sighted beyond a
seemingly impenetrable passage.
Suddenly the water colour
changed. ‘Look,’ I said, pointing,
‘the fl ow’s against us!’ We’d hit
the ‘fresh’ water outfl ow from
the mill stream. Now we were in
a canal-like channel between tall
reed beds. ‘Amazing,’ grinned the
Mate from the foredeck.
We turned just before a jetty,
where a motorboat was moored,
nosing the bow into the reeds,
and made our way out. On the
way I photographed the old barge
dock, seen earlier, below the
church. Leaving the creek we both
felt immensely satisfi ed with our
morning’s exploration. WA row of rusting knees is all that’s left of the spritsail barge Joseph
Having reached the limit of the
tide, Whimbrel creeps up the
freshwater channel to the Mill‘We sailed through
a land beyond the
sea, along a
watery thread’