It was now the 26th of June, Men of Harlech told us a force eight gale was imminent. I peered out through the hatch. It now seemed a long way to the promenade. We hadn't dragged anchor, the tide was in. I had stripped off my wet gear earlier this morning, dropped onto the bunk then fell into a dreamless sleep. Now we had to get into Ramsey before the gale arrived. The drizzle was still falling, wet gear jacket on, up into the cockpit. Both anchor lines were tight. I switched on the engine, by this time M was on deck to help. The fisherman neighbour had disappeared into Ramsey, I called the harbourmaster on the VHF, no answer. I knew we would have to be in by 10.00hrs or we would have to wait another six hours. I called again, still no reply. This was a commercial harbour, there should be a watch.

A few more minutes, "Come on M we're going in, harbourmaster or not". I explained the breaking out procedure for the anchors then went forward. The CQR came out easily, the fisherman's was stuck. M brought Tranquillity forward until the anchor line was vertical, I hauled in the line and made it off. Eventually, our rocking broke it out, we were free. We negotiated the old pier, through the twin breakwaters, into the channel for the outer harbour. The radio crackled, it was the harbourmaster, and a few minutes conversation revealed all. He had been supervising the off loading of a coaster when he heard our call, but didn't believe we had come through yesterday's weather from Liverpool. He had clocked us with his binoculars then gone back to his office to call us on the main radio. After telling us to wait at the mouth of the inner harbour while he opened the road bridge to the inner harbour, jack of all trades this guy.

We turned to port at the end of the breakwater; a shoal to starboard had a couple of ropey looking moorings so I picked one up and we waited. The road bridge was visible from where we were. Eventually it swung through 90 degrees and we were called in. The man himself was stood next to the bridge as we approached, "Anywhere you like after the bridge" he called, "see you later", and off he went. This was another new adventure, mooring against a drying harbour wall.

Most of the spaces were occupied, it looked like we would have to raft up against someone else. "There's a space there" said M, sure enough, next to the public toilets was a 40-foot gap. The depth was down to 2.5 metres with the tide ebbing. After turning around we tied up in the middle of the gap. Water and electricity connected, we were ready for any force eight. I was just into my second cup of tea when a call from the dockside brought me on deck. It was the friendly harbourmaster, Do you know you're on the scrubbing grid?" he enquired. I dug into my memory banks, we were over a series of metre high concrete slabs placed there to allow ships to dry out then scrub their bottoms between tides. The sign on the dock wall read, Beware Scrubbing Grid, No Mooring. "Suggest you moor alongside the Moody 33 50 yards downstream". In our haste to find a place, neither of us had seen the sign. "Thanks very much, we'll do that right away". Power and water off, warps off, we drifted downstream, reversing against the flow, M took our stern line around the Moody's bow cleat, that stopped our drift down stream. Then I climbed aboard and made off our bow line to his stern cleat, stuck our extra fenders between us, that was that. "What about the power and water said M" neither would reach.

By this time we could hear water rushing under our floor, looking over the side the tide was now low enough for us to sit on our bilge keels, the rushing noise was the water slapping against the bottom of the hull. I heaved a sigh of relief, luckily, the Moody alongside was also bilge keeled and wasn't a problem. Another piece of good fortune, I had bought an extension cable on our last trip to Maplin's Electronics in Liverpool. After plugging them together, we were back on mains power. "We'll worry about the water later M, remember we've two five gallon containers".

Later just before lunch, we walked back to the scrubbing grid, if we had stayed there we could have come seriously unstuck. The smell of Fish & Chips cooking drew us to the main street a short distance away. "Two cod, one portion of chips, mushy peas, plenty of salt & vinegar" was the order. Back on the boat M buttered some bread and we sat down to our feast. "What about all this food we've brought?" "Shurrup, you're on holiday" I quipped as we both tucked in.

The harbour top was about an eight foot climb up a ladder set into the wall, as the tide came in, we could just see the road, then the tide fell, and the wall reappeared. I got to hate that bloody wall, I had to blame something on our failure to get to Scotland. So, like Shirley Valentine, I blamed the wall.

Ramsey is like New Brighton on a Sunday, very very quiet. It has one main shopping street, a public baths, a life-boat, a derelict pier and the port. We were destined to spend quite a time here, but only suspected we would. The three-day forecast was rubbish, only a fool would venture out in it. After a couple of days of tinned food, we went shopping. The main street boasted a small supermarket plus three glorious fish shops. The fish was fresh in most days, one of the Island delicacies were "Queenies". Queenies are baby scallops about an inch to two inches across. We had brought our wok as I enjoy cooking and eating Chinese Food. A pound of Queenies, a tin of Uncle Ben's Fried rice, peanut oil, garlic, onions, you're in business. I experimented, the first time we tried it, then refined it a little.

At the time of our trip, Rick Stine had just started his TV series on cooking fish. One particular wet afternoon, after a number of libations, feeling slightly pickled, I decided to put on my version of Rick Stine's "Taste of the Sea", "Eric's taste of Ramsea". After setting up the video donning my pinny I went to work with a parody of Stine plus all the other TV chef's popular at the time. Complete with regulation open bottle of wine and large glass, from which I occasionally quaffed a draught.

The nearer I got to completing the meal, the more inebriated I became, M was rolling about with her hand over her mouth trying not to spoil the soundtrack and my imitations. I had to keep stopping as the camera lens was steaming up with all the culinary activity. After a half-hour of suppressed laughter we were ready to eat. The final scene showed me plating up, then both of us sitting down to eat, My final words being HMMM, deeelicious. and Shift, you're hogging the camera. I switched off the camera, we both collapsed into gales of laughter. That and the bloody harbour wall were the highs and lows of Ramsey.

The swimming baths were just around the corner, so we used the showers, then had a dip in the pool to get rid of the clammy feeling of living full time on a boat in damp weather.

Then, fully refreshed, a notice in the foyer alerted us that the local charities were holding a joint event on Sunday, and included a display by the RNLI. Sunday dawned bright clear but windy. We made our way to the promenade to join in the festivities. The highlight being the dry launching and recovery of the Life-Boat. By dry launching I don't mean it didn't get wet, because the tide was out the boat was brought out of it's house on a trailer, pushed onto the beach down a ramp, into the sea then floated off.

The crew then put the life boat through it's paces at high speed, close to the shore, all very thrilling. Feeling suitably benevolent towards the RNLI after the stirring display, we wandered over to their jumble stall, whose proceeds were for the RNLI. "Look at that" I pointed out to M, "a portable telly" M looked suspicious, "does it work?" she enquired of the stall-holder, "perfectly" he replied, "how much?" "£15.00" was the answer. "I'll give you ten" I offered, "It is for charity sir" he simpered, "Ok £12.50, not a penny more" as I started to walk away. "Done sir, you've bought a TV set". After handing over the money, we carried it back to the boat.

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