Some way off the North Coast of France

Some way off the north coast of France, there's an island that's surrounded by fierce tides. It's rolling hills and chalk cliffs look down upon it's wrecks, and hide its secrets. On the Downs, and by the shoreline, the Autumn leaves turn golden, rusty, and red. Some drop, to be blown around by the wind, then crunched under foot by the marauding hoards arriving by boat, blown in on that same wind.

Politely the Harbour Master at Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, tells us the harbour's full. Our Rally is split. The boats that arrived early are rafted-up inside. We leave to anchor outside.

Two weeks later we try again, and drift into the quiet seclusion of Bembridge at the eastern end of the island. Avocette is the party boat. Then it a hike across the causeway to the local yacht club for a warm welcome, victuals, and beer.

It has been a kind autumn so far. Blue skies and warm breezes, have seen Avocette dropping her hook in her old haunts, and the Beaulieu River in the New Forest, and most often of all, in Newtown Creek. It's migration time. Butterflies, Swallows, Martins, Ospreys and Peregrins all flying south. My favourites, the Swifts, are long gone, having left, as usual, during the first week of August. In their place are the winter visitors, waders and the geese - thousands of them! I must get up the marshes...