One young man (would have been gentleman, but for the ‘f’ word) achieved his three ambitions for 2009 when on Monday15th June he crossed the Arctic Circle, caught a monster cod and was sailing in Norway. The cod was caught in fifty metres of water over a sea mount, where we think thirty pounds of fish bent the line and caused great excitement as we all peered over the side to welcome him from the depths.

Sadly we were never to know his true weight as there were no scales on board. After the exertions of reeling in, Number two adjourned to the smoking snug, under the upturned dories, and rightfully basked in his achievements.

To tell you fully of our shipmates there was
Number 10, the Skipper,
Number 11; 'it's time to put the fishermans up' First Mate,
Number 3 'snoozing for England ,
Number 9 'Mr. Photograph'
Number 5 'preparing for retirement' ,
Number 8 'the tea maiden' ,
Number 2' fish on, fish off '
Number 4 myself.

In the early days of our two week sojourn to Arctic climes the sea was a cold, steely grey, a suppressed, glassy mass, slipping past silent islands of rock that began life in another more violent age. Staggeringly anything of a size to be built on sported a house and jetty, picturesque and colourful they lifted the rocky outcrops from their stark monotones. Even more amazing was that all were connected to the grid; slender telegraph poles rose from the ocean and marched their relentless path across the islands dipping seaward to the ocean floor and then up again at the next island.

The skies were mesmeric when the sun shone, azure blue backed by ranks of serried clouds. Then again they were lowering and low, guarding peaks from our ever seeking view and camera lenses. For this latter purpose number nine stalked the decks on an unending quest for the perfect snap, ‘making a picture’ as the Dutch say. We never saw them because they were heading home to be primped and preened on the computer ready for first prize, we hope, at his local camera club.

As for the good ship Trinovante, she thrust on through the seas; comfortable, solid, robust and of pleasing lines; she is a pleasure to sail on. A credit to her builders, numbers ten and eleven, Trinovante took all the seas in a comfortable fashion. We did do our fair share of motoring with the Perkins 130 horsepower engine humming in the background as we ploughed our furrow through to colder climes and then later, with the engine cowling raised, we utilized the latent heat to dry our rain sodden romper suits.

With all sails set, including the fishermans, she appeared purposeful and eye catching and by day ten we, the crew, reckoned that we had mastered the terminology and could find the appropriate sheet, halyard, jig tackler and topping lift, discuss luffs and leeches, and the Lofotens loomed ever closer, their icy peaks and crevasses rising from the floor beneath. To think for centuries the Lofoten people plied their cod fishing trade in craft far flimsier than ours for the ‘gold’ of the stockfish, a commodity worth a king’s ransom in a protein starved winter.

The Lofotens came at last, beautiful, isolated, quaint, charming, but reminiscent of a Hitchcock thriller with deserted streets, no lights, no people and no dogs to disturb the peace. Perfect, but empty, on our arrival at a very civilised hour. However, the next day the mood changed as the whaler came in sporting a purposeful harpoon on her bow and her annual quota of minke whale meat.

Once, on our final day, these seas were disturbed by a pod of two dozen pilot whales, sporting around us while blowing and squealing; it was an unforgettable ending to our wonderful voyage.We certainly all learnt a lot and enjoyed a lot and it was a shock to enter the hustle and bustle of Bodo airport, at the end of our trip, and then later the melee that was Heathrow. We will miss the Trinovante, her owners and Norway.