When the stars come out, the herons settle in the shallow pools; the wild duck fly from the sheltered decoys and preserved sanctuaries to more open feeding-grounds; a shot rings out on the August night from some reed-hidden gunner who has been patiently awaiting the evening flight. In contrast come the notes of a piano and song from a barge; along the bank is a row of lights from cosy cabins; the inn is thronged with boat-sailers eagerly discussing their common sport; then the last cheery good-nights, and silence falls over the lone marsh and winding river.
In the morning there is the splash of swimmers, blankets and bedding are put out to air on the cabin-tops, spirit and paraffin stoves mingle their scent with that of frying bacon and the wild thyme on the banks. About ten o'clock the little yachts spread their sails to the freshening breeze, and off they go. If we have ladies on board, they will probably wish to go to Horning Church in the morning, and can then sail in the afternoon with a clear conscience—a compromise approved by the strictest sabbatarian, who finds in the peace and quiet of Norfolk waters an assurance that neither the wind nor he is a sinner in the gentle movement.
After lunch the wind has freshened so that we take our bonnet off (off the sail, that is) and smaller vessels reef. The wind, too, is ahead, and we have to tack a great deal as we continue our course down stream. Still the river course is so tortuous that every reach is not a head one; sometimes, indeed, we can lay one reach on one tack and the next reach on the other tack. It is pretty to watch the yachts shooting from side to side of the river (which widens as we proceed); they lay over, with the water bubbling over the lee deck and the foot of the great balloon jib deep in the water. The long bowsprit sweeps over the grass of the margin as the helm is let go; the boat shoots up into the wind, is upright with fluttering jib for a moment, then off she goes on the other tack to repeat the manœuvre at the opposite shore. If the mainsheet is well handled the mainsail never shakes. As it loses the wind on one side it catches it on the other, the jib being kept slightly aback until the boat's head is well off the wind. It is no joke to handle the jibsheets of an 8- or 10-ton boat. In spite of soft cotton rope being employed, the chafe will try the horniest hand. In sailing the jib is worked to every puff, eased off or drawn in at every variation in direction or strength of wind. The man in charge watches the wind pressing down the grasses and reeds and darkening the water in advance, and trims his sheet to every puff or lull. If he does not, why, the boat is not sailing her best—that is all. The mainsheet man, too, is almost as particular. When there are hands enough to work the sheets no one thinks of making a sheet fast. The bends of the river are too frequent for that. Again, there is almost always another yacht ahead or astern, and you strive to overtake the one or sail away from the other, so that every day's sail is more or less of a race. In passing or meeting other craft the rules of the road are well observed, and the steering is usually so excellent that a space of six inches is considered an ample margin of distance from the other vessel. These narrow rivers soon develop considerable skill in this direction, and accidents do not often happen. The least rare is that of misjudging the rate at which a wherry is coming, and getting athwart her bows while tacking; but a direct collision is averted, and the yacht's bowsprit or mainsheet is the only thing which suffers.
Smooth-water bowsprit.
On the right we pass Ranworth Broad, a fine lake in two sections, the larger of which is now in process of being closed to the tourist; on the left the mouth of the narrow river Ant, which, after twisting like an eel for some five miles, opens into the navigable but shallow Barton Broad, of considerable size. There is a bridge over the Ant so narrow that the larger kind of vessels cannot get through.
The tract of marsh widens out and the view broadens. On our right is a mile-long channel leading to South Walsham Broad, part of which is navigable and part private. As an instance of how vibrations of movement are carried along water, a gentleman residing at South Walsham tells me that when the water near the staith is covered with a thin veneer of ice he can tell when a wherry entered the mouth of South Walsham Dyke from the river, a mile and a half away, by the ice rippling and cracking.
Passing the ruins of St. Benedict's Abbey on the left, we presently come to the mouth of the river Thurne, up which we sail for a few miles to Potter Heigham Bridge, where in company with several barges and yachts we moor, with the intention of visiting Hickling Broad and Horsey Mere on the morrow. The night falls dark and lowering, with flashes of summer lightning in the south lighting up the great distance of flat and treeless marsh; but no rain falls, and a quiet night and sound sleep bring us to the dewy morn of another glorious summer day.
Most of the larger yachts and pleasure wherries have centreboard sailing dinghies, and it is more convenient to take ours through the narrow arch where the tide-impelled current sweeps upward to diffuse itself over the terminal lakes, twenty-five miles from the sea by river, three miles by land. Here, save in the tourist-crowded month of August, may be found true solitude. The river runs through far-reaching marshes, a branch leads through a wilderness of water and tall reeds, the brown tops of the latter trembling against the clouds from our low point of view. Water, reeds, clouds; a kestrel hovering overhead, our boat gliding on clear, shallow water over trailing weeds and shoals of startled rudd; then the wider channel of Heigham Sounds, and at last the expanse of Hickling Broad. Four hundred acres it is said to be, but the reedy margins absorb a great part of this. Still, there is water enough to make the scene imposing, and the first thought of a boating-man is—What a splendid place for sailing! But looking down through the clear water one sees that the bottom is almost within reach of one's arm, and even in the channels there is only sufficient water for a wherry. It is obvious, therefore, that the shallow centreboard boat is the only type fit for Hickling. It maybe useful to mention that a recent judicial decision gives as the law that the public have the rights of navigation and passage over Hickling Broad, but that those of fishing and shooting are vested in the riparian owners.