keep on until we can almost see the sand, and then run up into the wind, and are off again on the port tack, but not for long; we are well inside the land now, and we need not trouble about marks and buoys. The Crouch is a splendid creek for sailing; there is 13ft. at low water where we are now, and we are just off where the coastguard vessel used to be, near East Neyland Clump, at Foulness. Abreast of Burnham there is 20ft. at low water, and we can sail right up to Fambridge at the same time of tide. Another point about the Crouch is that it is a downright honest creek; there are no bars or banks to hurt anywhere until we get opposite Cricksea Ferry, a mile past Burnham, and that is buoyed with a rustic log of wood, which, however, answers all purposes. Mouth of the Crouch. Hollywell Point. The river averages from three-quarters-of-a-mile to a mile wide all the way up to Burnham, and so we have plenty of room to beat up. The tide is beginning to turn against us, but the afternoon breeze is coming fresh, and in an-hour-anda-half from passing Foulness Point we are abreast of the coastguard ship at Burnham. These prudent sailors don't keep their ship afloat, however; they take a berth ashore; so she is hauled in, and takes the ground comfortably. This is in every way more convenient, as it saves the wear and tear of boats. From Burnham to Foulness Point is six miles, and from Foulness Point to the Whittaker Beacon is another six miles, and the mouth of the Roach lies half-way between Burnham and Foulness Point. We need not trouble ourselves about a berth, the river is broad and deep, and there is plenty of room. tidy-looking dredger. Get in See how she shoots up! The peak falls. All way is off We choose a spot astern of a the jib; down with the foresail. main sheet is hauled in. The her. "Yes! let go," and so for the third night the anchor holds us to the ground. What a glorious sail we have had, and what a feed we mean to have! There is no mistake about that. It is not a bit of use the clock saying it is only four o'clock, and not the hour any well-regulated digestion ought to want to dine. We don't care, we're not well regulated; we're hungry, and we feed. Ah, the joy of that after-dinner feeling as we lounge on deck and watch the dredgers getting under weigh. How sleepy and pretty the little place looks, shimmering in the evening sun. Burnham faces due south and never loses a bit of sunlight when there is any. New comers are always an object of interest, and we come in for our share. A coastguardsman rows off to us; a really surprising piece of energy. Did he sniff our dinner we wonder? Of course, we did not come right, we knew that before we got here, in fact we knew it before we started. An amateur never does come right. "Why, you could ha' come through Havengore Creek, by Wakering, and so saved all that way round." "Ah, so we might if we happened to be on wheels! We did try it, but found pulling her over the sands weary work; she I don't go so easy as a perambulator. We hadn't got a spade or we might have dug a channel.". "The tide was out, was it? Well you missed a pretty bit of sailing, anyway." He never winced under our scathing wit. And so our friend departed. But he really gave us a hint; we did not know we could get through inside of Foulness Island, and we resolved to explore a bit. In the gloaming we went ashore. Although the water falls about 12ft. to 14ft., the shore, hardly to be called mud, uncovers only a short way out from the sea-wall, and there are several landing-places. In fact we began to look on Burnham as a wonderfully nice little spot, and to be quite proud of our discovery. We thought we were miles away from town. It had taken us three days to get here, and we found we could reach Liverpool Street station in an-hour-and-a-half. It seemed absurd. Why wasn't it built over-where were the big new hotel, the rows of lodging-houses, the pier, and the concert-room? Alas, they may come soon enough, no doubt, so don't let us talk about it. The sea is not salt; the village is not one of the quietest, sleepiest, most independent, oystery places we have ever seen. The Crouch is not one of the most perfect of land-locked waters for sailing in, with a new expedition every day for a fortnight almost. The country round is not green and pretty and hilly, with old farmhouses and solemn old churches, with ancient memories of the fighting days gone by. No, let us keep Burnham to ourselves and dissemble "demnably." There is a long rambling comfortable old inn. They call it an hotel. But to our minds it is far too comfortable and old-fashioned and homely to be called an hotel. There are other inns too. All look well to do, with such a really respectable air of comfort. The seafaring folk are civil. and all dressed in good serge suits and seven-leagued boots. They looked as if the place agreed with them-such roses in the girls faces. But, no more of Burnham. We know it. If we stay here a few days it will only be to recover from the buffeting of the North Sea. We go on board; no need for lights; but we put up our ridinglight all the same, although there is lots of room for craft to pass without running into us. The stars are glimmering in the still water. The air comes fresh from the open sea. A marsh bird cries across the mere, and the night grows over the land. We turn in. |