Around seven, dressed in our shore-going best, we found our way back to the Black Dog, as we got near, I expected to feel the throb of traditional Welsh music, hearing the famous Welsh tenors straining their vocal chords. Instead it was Tom Jones on the jukebox with a load of druids rabbitting away in Welsh, that died away as soon as we walked through the door.

After selecting a table next to the pathetic smoking excuse for a coal fire, long past Welsh coal miners would turn in their graves to see. We asked for a menu. "Usual chef's off tonight boyo's, you'll have to put up with Taffies cooking if you want summat 'ot." "Let's try the Chinese we saw this afternoon". I suggested. Neil stood his ground. "What can we have?" he enquired, "weeell you can have gammon egg and chips, gammon pineapple and chips, egg chips and sausage or, we can do you a burger on a bun. "Where's this fantastic pub grub Neil?" I whispered. "She told you chef's off tonight" he hissed. "I'll have the sausage, bet they are home made aren't they?" he twinkled at the waitress, "bet they're not" I said under my breath. "And you my lovely" as she turned to me, a fixed smile showing her nicotine stained teeth. "I'll have the gammon egg and chips, god help my stomach". She smiled then flounced off.

Neil was trying to coax some life out of the fire when two couples walked through the door and sat down. They then proceeded to carry on the argument, which had obviously begun outside. Eventually our meals arrived; Neil's sausages were like pink baby's fingers with no resemblance whatsoever to being homemade, "told you so" I smirked. My gammon was edged with a thick swath of fat with a dense hairy rind, an excuse for a salad with watercress and raw sliced onions accompanied the plate. "Very nice" I lied, grimacing at Neil who was tucking into his sausages with great gusto. The argument between the couples raged on. Suddenly a loud slap was heard, then a hushed silence, one of the women had given her partner a right whack.

The aggrieved partner glanced around the room, his cheek reddening visibly. He stood up gave her one back then stomped off. The woman held her cheek, burst into tears, "he'll never marry you now Gwyneth" said her companion.

The meal over Neil was content to stay to watch the rest of the Cabaret, "Come on" I said after paying the bill, "we're off back to the boat".

Outside, half an inch of snow had fallen, so we slithered and slid back to the Marina, the ramp down to the dock being particularly hazardous. After a nightcap and a good laugh about the day's events, we retired to bed, Neil inside a sleeping bag with the duvet wrapped around him like a shroud. "If you're dead in the morning, I'll sew up the ends then bury you at sea". "Just stick a gag in your gob to stop the snoring and I'll be happy" he replied.

Next morning as I struggled into consciousness, I could sense the bow cabin was full of smoke. I switched gears and was soon fully awake fearing the worst, fire at sea. The smoke seemed to have cleared, then I realised, it wasn't smoke it was my breath condensing in the freezing atmosphere of the bow cabin. I'd left the heating off forgetting we were plugged into shore mains. After shrugging off my sleeping bag I drew back the curtain separating the bow from the saloon. There curled up in the foetal position was Neil, very still. Was he dead? Food poisoning or hypothermia? "Neil, Neil are you awake or dead?" "Grunt, cough, groan, wasup, wachuwan? no he wasn't dead just waking from hibernation. Kettle's on, Weetabix is it? I enquired. "God I'm frozen stiff" was the reply. "Here, drink this" as I handed him a steaming cuppa. Eventually he came round and took notice, the hot drink slowly reviving him. "Thought I'd have to get out the needle and thread" I jested, it fell on deaf ears. Instead he was rubbing the inside of the saloon windows which had a thin coating of ice. "There's ice on the decks" he exclaimed, "be careful going up that ramp to the bog, you've still got to get us back through the Swellies".

Neil went out to the facilities first, his way of avoiding the washing up, he was back pretty sharpish, " be careful on that ramp" he advised as he came back into the cabin. I gingerly navigated the icy decks and quayside then slithered across to the ramp, looking up to the summit I had a chuckle. In the frost you could make out a set of footprints that stopped just short of the top, then a set of hand and footprints as he had slid to the bottom. "Have trouble on the ramp Neil? I enquired on my return, "bloody lethal isn't it?" he answered without an explanation.

Our passage plan for today was to get back through the Straits across Conwy Bay, then anchor under the lee of the Orme, where Neil had anchored previously. The forecast wasn't brilliant as we slid through the oily smooth water towards our date with Lord Nelson. I asked Neil to steer while I un-shipped the anchor and flaked the chain out on the foredeck; I hadn't anchored before in Eclipse so I wanted to be sure we would be OK. As I was trying to thread the first links of chain down the hawse pipe, so that gravity would eventually take over, I sensed a large green mass to starboard, it was one of the large channel buoys marking the route, we skimmed by it. I whipped around and shouted "Neil, where the hell are you?" there was no sign of him. I was just about to rush to the tiller when his bob capped head appeared over the sprayhood with his devilish grin, "that got you going Eric eh?" Another of Neil's pranks, before the day was out I was to get my own back one hundred fold.

On the way back through the Swellies, Neil related the story of how he had deliberately gone around the wrong side of the Swellies rock, (which you can if you know what you're doing) frightening almost to death the crew of a yacht going in the opposite direction, who thought he would smash his boat and sink himself. "Would you like me to show you the route?" "On your bike Neil, not in my boat".

Once out of the protection of the narrow confines of the Straits, the wind came up and the waves heightened. The scenery was fantastic with the winter sun highlighting the snow-capped Mount Snowdon off our stern.

The further we went towards Puffin, the more jaded Neil became. "How about if we forget anchoring off the Orme and go straight back to Liverpool?" I suggested. Neil mulled it over, "You mean pick up a mooring off Tranmere and spend the night there?" "The tides are ok to get back up the river, don't fancy a night at anchor over there", pointing at the Orme in the distance with the surf crashing at it's foot. He agreed so we settled down to the long slog back to Liverpool. The genny was fully out and the first reef in the main. We shot through the top of the Straits, very different to when we arrived. The gap between Puffin and the island was three times bigger than our traumatic last trip through, I hadn't fancied being at anchor where Neil had suggested, it was too much like being boxed into a corner, a very dangerous corner in this weather.

The distance from Caernarfon to Liverpool the long way round, without the Rock Channel is around seventy miles, It was about 16.00, dusk as we passed the Orme. Neil was now asleep more than he was awake and had refused lunch, a bad sign. He was obviously confident I could find my way back to the river, or maybe past caring. Just before it was completely dark, Neil stirred and said he was going below for a while, obviously not himself.

He hadn't been gone more than half an hour when the wind shifted and the main started to fret. I left it for a few minutes, then tried altering course to get back onto the wind, useless; it had to come down. The autopilot was on so I didn't call Neil. After releasing the main halyard I hauled in the reefing lines to drop the sail altogether. It didn't have a bag to furl into so I clipped on, went forward, carefully bunching it together to stop it flapping. The wind was now a good five our speed had dropped to around four knots, if we were to make the tidal gate on the river, further action was needed.

Page 3       <<< prev page     next page>>>