So that's it then.  On Tuesday, with the Tamar flood giving us a good, strong hand, Stromboli rounded the tricky patch off Weir Point and for the first time in 723 days - two years all bar a week - our darling Weir Quay appeared over her bows. The all-so-familiar and lovely patchwork views of Devon (to starboard) and of Cornwall (to port) and, through the pulpit rails, Hole’s Hole, where the river coils westwards in a huge oxbow to pass under dear Pentillie Castle before striking north for Cotehele and Calstock.  I'd like to report that we coasted gently through those placid moorings in quite contemplative mood, catching a moment, perhaps, to reflect on a project completed. To bask, for a minute or two, in the mild glow of mission accomplished.  To relive the highs and lows of the last 9,751 sea-miles.  But the truth is, we charged up that river like a destroyer going to war.  (Well, as much as Stromboli and her Volvo can imitate a destroyer going to war.) We were facing - what I believe might be referred to in Corporate Speak –  a 'time-critical window'. Before closing time we must park Stromboli, take showers, drive to the Old Plough at Bere Ferrers, and, of course, consume a pint, steak, chips and red wine, perhaps even lots of red wine. 

Actually the final two days were as tough as any so far.  Realising that we are about to slide from their immediate grasp the Weather Gods  set to for a final fling and as we cleared S of the Scillies and turned E into the Channel they sent us a brisk ESE and a horrible steep chop.   So to make any progress we've had to motor-sail these last few miles.  And lordy was it grey?  There was a leaden, gunmetal sort of sky lurking over a leaden, pewter-grey sea. In fact, as I remarked to R, if you took all the grey out of the picture you'd have Stromboli, all ten tons of her,  miraculously suspended in a huge empty void. We plodded along until, just before nine a.m. and looking for all the world like another bank of low cloud, a dark grey bit of England finally emerged from a grey mist bank. This bit of England suddenly emitted a single flash. Then another.   Flash………….flash……….flash….     flash every five seconds. The Lizard lighthouse.  Land Ho!  Hoorah!

As we approached Weir Quay's Pontoon there was a bit of picture-taking and fog-horn sounding and whatnot  But once we stepped onto solid ground, hugs and embraces with our Weir Quay friends seemed unusually fleeting.  There was a certain amount of stepping back hurriedly and mostly upwind.  This, of course, reinforced the fact that our weather-proofs had remained firmly zipped up more-or-less for the last ten days.  We were fortunate perhaps that the council weren't there to greet us.  Our gear would have been removed forcibly, taken for incineration and any residue contained for eternity in wherever it is they put the waste from Selafield.

What followed though was very special.  The shower (despite having to share a towel with R) was a treat beyond words. At the Old Plough, the pint of Doom was truly exquisite.  The steak, chips and onion rings were pure ambrosia.  The red wine was nectar of the Gods.  But above all, we four (C had driven down to meet us and assist greatly with transport) sat in companionable company at a non-moving table in a simple English pub with knives and forks and glasses and plates - none of which required rescuing whilst eating.  At no point was there any real danger of dinners or (even bits-of-dinners) being lost forever below the cockpit grating.  Bottles did not upend themselves over cockpit cushions.  No boat-locker-flavoured Saltines were on the menu. Neither were Cuppa-soups. It was, quite simply, a true taste of heaven.

And one more treat was in store. To return to Stromboli involved boarding Sally - our little ‘Nutshell’ dinghy - from the pontoon at Weir Quay.  First to get in was the Mate.  As she got one leg into Sally, the dinghy seemed to think it would be amusing to slide away out into the river.  The Mate wobbled frantically - one foot on the pontoon the other in the dinghy. Any old salt (worth his salt) will tell you that from this situation there is but one outcome. And so it was. At least (at the Mate's insistence) we were all wearing lifejackets and hers popped with reassuring promptness.  Sad to say, they were her last dry clothes.

The End