Diary from Queen Galadriel
We recently welcomed a group of women for a sailing weekend onboard Queen Galadriel. The group like to challenge themselves each year and try something new, and this year they chose a voyage on Queen Galadriel, sailing from Ipswich and back. Read on to find out how their adventure went…
The gathering of the She Who Dares motley crew happens at Ipswich Haven Marina on a bright, April morning. We carry no parrots or a pirate flag but have enough luggage to board a transatlantic package steamer set for emigrant lives. This is our maiden voyage, and a new experience for the Cirdan Sailing trust, who are used to taking youth groups or corporate parties on board, not a bunch of adventurous middle-aged women. Our tender arrives, Gollum, and she water taxi’s her precious cargo to the queen. Galadriel waits for us, stately and graceful, as we ungracefully scramble aboard.
Across the deck and into the belly of the ship we tumble,
Around the large galley table shift and stumble,
There are briefings and introductions to the crew,
We give our names before sailing the ocean blue.
Charlotte, our seaworthy skipper, at just twenty-six,
Felicity, the bosun, nineteen, already knows a few tricks,
Daithi from Donegal takes us days to get his name right.
And Matthew, the engineer, make our trusty crew for two nights.
We split into galley crews. Ours begins the preparation of lunch below decks, while the rest haul and heave the sails above, as we sail along the Orwell. Cooking for sixteen is an unexpected challenge, a case of too many cooks do not spoil the broth, as all our meals are delicious and healthy, cooked with love and managing minor irritations. We’re grateful a separate crew is given washing up duty, or there may have been a mutiny!
After a giant lock, Galadriel slopes through the estuary towards the wide-open sea, past Felixstowe, a quaint seaside town that sits under blue skies behind dockside cranes and military beaches. When some of us find our sea legs, we take it in turns to climb out over the bow and swing in the hammock-like bow slips, where we could mimic that iconic Titanic scene, but we’re too old and wise for any Leonardo.
Our hearts go on that first day, captured by the charm of Galadriel and the crack of the sails rising. We navigate our way around the vessel, learning the workings of the toilets, (the heads) nearly losing our heads hauling onto the top bunks, and tripping on python thick ropes that we coil like snake charmers. By the afternoon, Galadriel’s sails are up and full, filled with hope and fair winds. We catch a sunset first night and pose on the deck, unlike Fishermen’s Friend’s.
That first night, the ship is steady, while we are not. Several women of a certain age wobble frequently to the heads where the sound of the roaring flush of the water loo and the regular rhythm of the pump toilet goes on and on and on into the night, until I realise the sound is the clank of ropes against the mast above my head, and not the heads. Sleep still escapes us.
Day two dawns bright, and we’re becoming old hands on the ropes, tenders and fenders, although the complexities of shipping knots still escape some. The completion of the ships log is less taxing, the bridge computer works it all out for me and I begin to relax with the movement of the ship, my mind unknotting as we sail to sea and the strange kingdom of Sealand, stranded on a platform like the shell of an oil rig. We tack around the small island and the lonely occupant leaves his weatherboarded long house, and waves to us. Who thinks it is the stranger sight? A solo figure on his small island, or twelve brightly dressed women clinging to a ship like limpets?
Tacking back towards Harwich, the ship skips, racing over the waves, yet despite the sun polishing the sea glass green, my swimsuit stays in my bag. It’s a little too cold, even for me.
That evening, Historic Harwich looms out of the half-light. We drop anchor as the wind gets up to a force four and Galadriel bobs while we slip waterproofs over our pub clothes, Gollum leaping in the swell below while we slide down the hull and dance across to the dock, shore leave granted for one night only.
On dry land we sway a little as we walk, we stop and chat to the old sailors, fishermen, cyclists and locals, recounting the joys of our trip. We walk a portion of the Harwich historic trail, past many pubs, including The Swan, which has been adapted into a tearoom and live music lounge.
‘We don’t have a licence.’ the owner explains. ‘So, if anyone asks about the band, we tell them, they’re just practicing.’ Doubling back, we find our pub, The Alma, opposite the former dwelling of Christopher Jones, captain of The Mayflower. It was his favourite pub and is barely a stagger step across the street from his house.
Inside, the pub is warm and welcoming and we’re grateful that someone else is cooking our food, and for the large glasses of wine. One of our crew has a slip of rum, but we must keep our powder dry, our skipper runs a tight ship, a dry boat, and we cannot return drunk on grog and flip.
Making our way back to the dock in the dark, we climb back into brave Gollum, two shuttles back to the ship, she sinks low to water level, and to start, there is much gleeful giggling.
‘It’s like being on the log flume at Alton Towers,’ someone shouts. After ten minutes in choppy seas, we grow quiet, we can’t our ship and our laughter evaporates in the spray as we hold on tight, dipping dangerously in the cold swell, praying we make it back to Galadriel.
All are damp or drenched, but we sleep better that night, until a 4.30am phantom alarm and the slaps of water, and I think of bilge pumps failing. Are we sinking? The wine has stoked my imagination, all are safe on board.
Next morning we swab the decks, singing sea shanties as water from a fire hose soaks our feet. My old friend and I sing the one we know by the Sex Pistols, quietly under our breath, giggling like schoolgirls. There are moments to soak up the April sun, before we creak into action again and sit on deck, stacked like dominoes, hauling ropes for tacking.
‘2:6, Heave.’ We chant, swaying side to side like the Kool and The Gang dance.
‘Ooops upside your head.’ The crew look on, bemused, too young to know this one, and wondering if the lack of sleep has driven us hysterical.
We take it in turns to race Gollum across the river, almost losing the outboard in our enthusiasm, making doughnuts and figures of eight that cut across the wake, while others take turns to inspect the engine room, or brave a climb up the main mast. A handful make it over to the crow’s nest, which is like the ‘tea tray of doom’ when She Who Dares did high ropes. I make it two thirds of the way, my legs coursing with adrenaline, before I decide either my jelly knees are moving too much, or the rigging. That’ll do.
As we make our way back to port, a porpoise swims alongside and waves a brief goodbye, rounding off our incredible trip with the Cirdan Sailing Trust. I think we’ll be back.
Jools
Please click here to find out opportunities for adult groups to join us for a sailing voyage.
