barge

In a darkened room in Maldon, Essex, a ship’s lantern illuminates the laundry drying on a web of ropes suspended from the ceiling. Between piles of sailing memorabilia, 86-year-old Barry Pearce is flipping through a yellowing logbook, watched by his mongrel, Winkle. It feels more like a ship’s cabin than a terrace house. Pearce is one of a handful of surviving skippers who delivered freight on the Thames by sailing barge, the flat-bottomed trading boats famous for their striking red sails that were endemic to the river’s estuary until the 1960s. He remembers the names of every vessel he worked on – Remercie, Edith May, Colonia.

In the 19th century, the ochre sails of thousands of Thames sailing barges pierced the skyline as the craft carried cargo from the Thames estuary and beyond in and out of London. Their shallow draft allowed them to snake far upriver in as little as a metre of water (bargemen would boast that they could sail anywhere there had been a heavy dew). Their ingenious rig, with sails that could be set and stowed with the help of winches, meant around 150 tonnes of cargo could be shifted by just a skipper and mate – often accompanied by a guard dog. This efficiency allowed them to outlive all other commercial sailing vessels, surviving until the 1960s, when Pearce himself took the helm.

Today, only about 30 Thames barges are still sailing, either as private homes or leisure cruisers. Two of them – Pudge and Centaur – lie like beached krakens on the oozing mud of Maldon’s Blackwater estuary. Both are owned by the Thames Sailing Barge Trust, a charity run entirely by volunteers, including Pearce. Every summer, both vessels can be hired as private charters for groups of up to 12, or you can book a berth on one of their one- to three-day public sailing cruises. They also offer events such as children’s art days throughout the year.

I’m here on a scorching evening at Hythe quay to spend the weekend exploring the River Blackwater and Essex coast aboard Centaur, a barge built in 1895. Itineraries are flexible and based on passengers’ interests. For us it involves sailing up the Blackwater, a Pimm’s at Tollesbury Marina, and a swim off Shingle Point and wander around West Mersea on Mersea Island. Our motley crew consists of three trainees overseen by skipper Chris Martin, who teaches boatbuilding at vocational training organisation Circles Alternative Education.

There are also six passengers, ranging in age from 18 to 76, in five cabins, which are basic but comfortable (each has a wash basin). Although I am the only one who is not a competent sailor, Martin makes it clear that helping to handle the barge is optional.

Unwisely, given our 3am departure to catch high tide, I sink several pints with the two youngest members of Pudge’s crew in the Little Ship Club on the quay. A behemothic man wielding a squeezebox sings sea shanties as salty couples slow dance nearby. “I only know of one or two people my age who are into barging, and I find that disturbing,” yells 25-year-old Charlie Francis over strains of Bound for South Australia. “Barging was the lifeblood of the east coast. We should be proud of our heritage and celebrate the communities working to preserve it.”

After a few hours in my bunk, I make it on to deck at 4.15am. The moon is a slice of radish in a lilac sky. We’re bearing away from the wind and, having set the sails, the crew is already on their second round of tea and custard creams.

As dawn paints its peachy palette, Martin turns the great wheel. He points out Blackwater landmarks that only a local would know: the green buoy known as the Doctor, where early 20th-century fishers left spirits for the alcoholics supposedly drying out at Osea Island’s temperance resort; the pub where, as recently as 20 years ago, Martin witnessed a smuggler wordlessly deliver two dripping bags while regulars stared determinedly into their pints; the hulking trawler, Ross Revenge, which is still home to Radio Caroline, the former pirate station – another relic kept alive by volunteers of the Blackwater.

Where the river opens into the silvery sea, the wind picks up and the barge rocks gently against the tide. My eyelids are heavy and the slowness of the whole experience is working its magic on my screen-frazzled brain. Martin calls for the staysail to be unfurled, a 20-minute task that rewards the barge with another knot and a half of speed. “This life is the antithesis of the digital age’s obsession with instant gratification,” he says. “Sailing barges may not be able to teach us much about cargo any more, but they can teach us the value of slowing down, doing things with our hands and spending time in nature.”

As we make our stately, seven-knot progress, 370 sq metres of rust-red canvas billows above and fingers of salt marsh slide by. With so little distraction, the coffee tastes lip-curlingly bitter, the bacon sandwiches as saline as the deep. I settle on a coil of rope to scan the horizon for porpoises, but soon drift into sleep.

A swim from a sandbank near Tollesbury is followed by a meander through West Mersea at golden hour. Clapboard cottages framed by hollyhocks sit beside sailmakers and chandleries converted into trendy cafes. We drop anchor in the Blackwater estuary and beneath a blazing sunset tuck into lasagne on deck. I haven’t felt this present for months. It’s all such a delight I begin to feel concerned about the trust’s future. Sailing barges cost between £30,000 and £100,000 a year to keep afloat. The trip I’m on costs just £220 including meals, while the Trust’s annual membership is only £37.50.

Although the trust offers training in many of the skills needed to maintain the barges, sourcing the timber is becoming increasingly difficult – and expensive. “Centaur’s exterior planking is pitch pine from the Mississippi basin, which is incredibly durable, but has been virtually exhausted,” says Martin. “And so much of the timber trade has been replaced by plastic.”

The trust also offers free training for future skippers, including the mate on our trip, 18-year-old Ben Weldon, the son of a local shipwright. However, it typically takes 2,000 hours – or 10 years – and the dropout rate is high.

While the trust has recently been awarded £28,090 from the National Lottery Heritage Fund to develop a bid for the £4m needed to restore Centaur, it seems wrong that responsibility for keeping this thread of Britain’s maritime story from unravelling rests on so few shoulders. Sailing may be associated with privilege, but we are a seafaring nation and this inheritance belongs to all of us.

On Sunday morning, our last on board, a westerly fills the sails, and the tea-coloured Blackwater wrinkles beneath the bow as we beat our way back towards Maldon. “Lee ho,” Martin calls, showing me how to spin the wheel to help the crew tack. “So far we’ve used less than a gallon of fuel to do 50 miles. Pretty extraordinary, given that a family car does about 30 miles to the gallon.”

When I asked Pearce at the start of the trip why keeping Thames sailing barges afloat is worth the fight, he looked blank, as if such a question had never occurred to him. He showed me a pencil sketch of a barge he had drawn at the age of 15 in Greenwich, left half-finished when his skipper had poked his head through the hatch and invited him below for dinner. Now, more than 70 years later, he bends once more over that drawing as though no time has passed.

Eventually, he half-whispers: “Well, they’re just lovely, ain’t they?” He glances toward the window. Nearby, Centaur waits on the mud for the returning tide.

The trip was provided by the Thames Sailing Barge Trust. The next weekend aboard Centaur departs on 14 August, £220 for two nights’ full board; three-night trips depart on 3 September (£350 on Pudge, £320 on Centaur) and 18 September (£290 on Centaur). A variety of one-day sailings are also available
from £55 to £125pp