Tom Cunliffe

Before my defection to the Baltic Sea, my home mooring for 30 years was up the Beaulieu River on the West Solent. There’s a useful waterside pub a couple of miles in, handy both for the marina and the scramble-ashore dinghy pontoon favoured by those unwilling to empty their wallets for a South-coast walk-ashore berth. Back then, I could often be found at the bar taking a breather after a tough beat from Dover, or just enjoying a warm-up by the fire. One time, I was halfway down a pint with an old pal who’d been on the river since before I was born, when a young man in a smart Musto jacket offered to buy us both a drink. Neither of us was ever known to refuse refreshment, so we shuffled our stools to one side and he settled in to join us.