To the Sailing Club!… midway on Saturday afternoon for a friendly WivGigs social row. This was always going to be a chaotic row with plenty of jeopardy and confusion for us to overcome.

The Rowhedge Regatta was in full flow ahead of launching. We also had the tricky task of landing at the public pontoon to pick up a potential new club member who wanted to give rowing a go.

The session got off to a comical start when the cox unveiled an interesting new look. A new pair of waders have been bought by the club. They are a luminous yellow with navy blue boots on the other end. It’s hard to take a cox seriously and follow their instructions when they look like a character from Rainbow.

A little more serious was the launch. It was tricky to find some space when a car drove down the sailing club hard. I was surprised to see this happen, especially so when the fella taking his car, where it’s not allowed to be driven, was a prominent sailing club member.

I was placed on stroke for the afternoon. We took the strategic decision to head downstream at first to avoid all the confusion and chaos of the Rowhedge Regatta.

We had our rendezvous with the Come and Trier on the public pontoon. The Come and Trier came: he tried and I think he rather enjoyed himself. I would give eight, or possibly nine out of ten for his early efforts.

We were then back down to our main crew as we dropped off the Come and Trier once again. The weather had cooled down slightly and so this was a good opportunity to pick up the pace.

There was still plenty of river traffic around. The Wivenhoe One Designs that were out racing. We also almost came a cropper when a tacking small dinghy decided to zigzag whilst on a course collision with us. We escaped all the madness and continued pressing on downstream.

We heard some loud music coming from one of the remotest parts of the estuary bank. How bloody annoying, I thought. There was a rather romantic couple with their extremely loud Bluetooth speaker. My anger evaporated when the fella fired up Row, Row, Row Your Boat for us.

I’m never one normally for all the nature bollocks that take place throughout a row, but I did enjoy being tracked for a couple of minutes or so by a beautiful Essex Blue butterfly. It seemed quite content to bob along with us and enjoy the company.

I got to jump out of the boat at the end during the recovery. The cold water of the Colne was most pleasing on what was an incredibly hot and challenging afternoon.

Regatta season is upon us once more. On Saturday we made our way over to the other side of the muddy banks for the Rowhedge Regatta. We were already on the wrong side of the river, and so it made sense to make this short journey across to Rowhedge.

As ever I managed to get time and tide all wrong. We were far too early. Regatta stalls were still being set up. Crowds were on the low side as young families were making most of the calm before the storm, and enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of cake by the quayside. I rather liked this low-key approach, especially with the Estuary Wilds' sun beating down.

Tea and cake were taken on a park side bench overlooking the quay. I say tea and cake - tea was bought from the nearby Rowhedge community hut, whilst I had already had the foresight to make a trip to Lidl for a couple of currant buns at £1.50 all in.

TUCK IN!

The tea was most certainly fine and was brewed to perfection. These minor points matter to me. The price was only £3. That sounds around fair, although I do bulk when thinking that I pay £2.99 for 240 tea bags from Home Bargains. Never let the finer fiscal details spoil a good day out, Jase.

We took a wander from one end of Rowhedge to the other. You could sense that the excitement was starting to build ahead of an afternoon of racing to come.

Local legend Mike Lilley was handed the mic and officially opened the regatta shortly after midday. I very much enjoyed his parting message of “good sailing, good drinking.” Tell It Like It Is, etc.

All we needed now was some water for the racing.. The tide is a very deceptive. What looks like a pathetic trickle of brown water surrounded by mud can soon become a bloody great expanse of fresh water.

The only nautical folk enjoying the water shortly after midday was a group of half a dozen jet ski riders. They are the Pirates of the North Essex Estuary Wilds. No one really wants to see them around.

My limited knowledge of these estuary parts made it quite clear that there was barely enough water to launch a kayak, let alone power a jet ski. I don’t think I was alone in secretly hoping that the Hell’s Angels of the Colne might get caught up in some of the crap down below. Sadly that comical moment was denied as the currents came rushing in.

Some bagpipes could be heard a little further down the Regatta front. Oh dear. We had other responsibilities elsewhere. The bagpipes were our signal to disappear.

And so that’s another Rowhedge Regatta ticked off, or rather not, as was the case. Similar to a cheese and cider festival that we enjoyed around these parts - where there was no cheese, or even cider for that matter - we witnessed the Rowhedge Regatta without seeing any sailing.

I returned for a walk along the trail in what must be the first time in over a couple of months. I had to get from Weird Wive over to Sunny Colch. The light drizzle meant that a bicycle ride was out of the question. I refuse to pay for public transport on a local level these days.

There was a spectacular high tide. It was almost breaching what locals optimistically call the sea wall.

Over on the other side of the muddy banks, and the restoration work of the collapsed sea defence now looks complete. All the machinery has been moved on and a natural approach has been taken to containing time and tide.

It certainly looks more picturesque than the industrial corrugated iron that was previously trying and failing to hold back the water. However it looks as though the natural approach to the banking isn’t that sturdy. I’d be interested to see how a sustained run of high spring tides can test out this new back-to-nature bollocks.

Elsewhere there were a couple of kayakers sharing their craft as they tried to move downstream. There was a good reason why A and I don’t have a shared his-and-hers kayak: We’d fall out spectacularly, much in the same way as the couple I clocked on Monday afternoon were doing.

The other end of the trail was reached. The rain became heavier. I felt smug in the knowledge that I had a dry bicycle back at base. Five minutes for J Bukey entrance of the week I just want you close

To the Kayak! …on Sunday morning.

Having been stuck in a Lidl queue, I was a little late for time and tide - which was a shame as there was an exceptionally high tide waiting for me down at the Sailing Club. It’s just a shame that it had started its outward trajectory.

A lot more organised than me was the WivGigs double Sunday morning crew. They were packing away just as I was preparing to launch on the hard.

Oh dear.

There was still roughly 45 minutes of water left available for me to enjoy before the spectacle of a lone nut job being marooned on the thick Essex mud became a reality.

I headed upstream against the outgoing tide. I had to dodge a few fishing lines with a couple of fellas on the jetty dangling their big rods.

Regatta preparations on the Rowhedge side of the river were already underway ahead of next weekend. Look away now if you are not a fan of bunting.

The highlight of the row was seeing a doggy enjoying his time on a paddle board. There was a human element involved as well.

For some reason there was an ever-present drone ahead of me. It was either Putin taking an unhealthy interest in a mid-fifties bloke wearing Lycra shorts or more likely some local snoop who thought I will make great YouTube footage.

Sorry fella, I don’t think I will get the clicks for you.

A late call-up to add an extra element of muscle for a Wiv Gigs social row on Thursday evening. Ten minutes before leaving the house and it was pissing it down with rain. The bloody Estuary Wilds weather wasn’t looking great. I dithered. I dithered for perhaps a little too long.

I finally made my move and made the short walk down to the Sailing Club. I was, of course, the last crew member to arrive, causing a little confusion. Apologies, Comrades.

It wasn’t all bad news with the bloody Estuary Wilds weather. The rain had subsided slightly and the sun was trying to make an appearance later in the day. My understanding of meteorological conditions isn’t great. But I do know that sun and the rain leads to a rainbow - or even a Madness single.

This was no time for skanking. We had two boats to launch. I headed off down the hard with Varuna. I had already christened this boat the relegation boat, with two West Ham crew members on board. Chances are that it might sink.

I was about to go on board when out came a call for a crew swap. I was seconded to sit in the first bow of Audacity. Extra bonus point as this particular seat in the boat gets to use the brand new oar.

We had a smooth launch. Soon we were heading downstream with the sun in our faces. All crew members had made the basic error of not bringing out the shades.

This was always going to be a short row. Time and tide wasn’t on our side.

We weren’t alone in making the most of the extra light as we approach the Solstice. We passed Defiance who looked at us as though they were all set for a training row.

We had a quick and economical turnaround at Buoy 28. The reflections in the water looked quite stunning. The WOD’s had their candy box cuteness with all the radiant colours on show.

We were a little ahead of time and so took in a brief detour upstream towards Rowhedge. A lone fisherman was dangling his long rod over the Wivenhoe Jetty.

Some pontoon training took place as we had a cox about to be signed off to go solo. Pontoon training is nothing like potty training, although it can get messy. Two successful deckings at the Rowhedge and Wivenhoe public pontoons were ticked off.

The lone cuckoo in Wivenhoe Wood was making a right old racket. I was more concerned about what was to come with the Wednesday evening bloody church bell practise. We recovered and I made it back to base in time before the onslaught.

To the Cong! …on Saturday evening. We made the shortest of short walks across the road for the latest in the Music Mix jazz series. Having live music right on your doorstep is an opportunity too good to miss.

We rocked up at the Cong and received some very distressing news: We’ve run out of wine. What are we going to do about it? Chin Chin, etc.

We decided on a teetotal evening. Who needs BOOZE when you have some of the finest music in all of Wivenhoe?

The Music Mix club nights are turning out to be a real highlight on the local scene. It’s genuinely a lovely, lovely setup. The tables are arranged in a really informal way to encourage conversation in between the sets. It has the feeling of a genuine jazz club.

A couple of Nina songs over the PA was a great start to get me in the mood for the evening. Mr Bojangless has to be one of the most moving pieces of music in the past century. No shit.

Shortly after 7:30 pm we welcomed the New Conrad Miller Trio on stage. I’m not sure if there was ever an Old Conrad Miller Trio but the new version was certainly a lively outfit.

They are a Dutch touring band, with plenty of stage talk in between songs to highlight some classic Dutch humour. Ha, bloody ha, etc.

The mood of the evening was set with the first song, Tripping. Even without the red wine I was still able to send myself into something of an out of body jazz experience. Steady the buffers, Jase.

All the songs were original numbers. What was quite remarkable is how the three musicians were able to fill the space so effectively. The music was powerful and uplifting.

The highlight for me was the samba rhythms that sporadically came out from behind the drum kit. All three band members were smiling throughout. This is always a good sign.

A short interval took place. You know you’re at the right kind of jazz club when an audience member puts in some eye drops during the interval, rather than injecting anything else.

The second set from the New Conrad Miller Trio picked up the pace. I was impressed by how they play as one, not individually. This is clearly a tight band with some very close friendships.

Some of the music became technically challenging to play in the second set. It certainly wasn’t technically challenging to listen to. The audience was in awe of some of the talent on display with the double bass and keyboards.

This is the end of the current season of Music Mix gigs. There’s a short summer break before it all kicks off again early autumn. You really can’t beat live music, especially when you’re home with a cup of tea, less than a minute later.

A little random quayside wandering, and we stumbled upon the opening of the summer season down at The Notage. There is a three-week run with the local artist Ernest Turner. It’s a name I’m familiar with, if not the artwork itself.

As ever with The Notage, the exhibition is very quirky, with random display boards laid out on the top floor. If you’re looking for a Newport Street Gallery minimalist experience, then probably turn away now.

We didn’t turn away though. The artwork and the random nature of the exhibits was rather appealing. Plus there wasn’t too much detail about Ernest, something which is always a bonus for me in these exhibitions. I want to look at the art, and not read an essay.

The brief bio details that were available explained how Ernest Turner was born in Wivenhoe in 1899. He came from a well-established Wivenhoe family. His father was a shipwright and his uncle was Captain Albert Turner, a professional yacht captain.

The term used in the exhibition to describe his style was naive. I’m not sure if this is a piss take or not. There was definitely an element of not really wanting to be an artist and creating his work as something of a hobby.

This gives a great injustice to the quality and playfulness of the work on show.

The story continued explaining how once Ernest had retired from working in the shipping industry himself, he took up the paintbrush. Initially he wanted to paint for money. Soon he became rather decent and managed to sell all over Europe.

This coincided with the town itself undergoing a major shift from the industrial to the more arty and academic. The small paintings created by Ernest capture a certain playfulness as you see this transition taking place in front of you.

Sculptures are also included. It was pleasing to see some ships in bottles forming part of the exhibition.

His body of work is a great snapshot of local history. It documents the boats of Wivenhoe and elsewhere along the estuary. It’s also some of the rarer moments where you can see the old Crab and Winkle line being captured as it shuttles along from Wivenhoe to Brightlingsea. That Dr Beeching was an absolute bastard.

Ernest died in 1977. The paintings on show at the Nottage are a wonderful memory of a town that has long since changed.

To the Wivenhoe Museum!… on Saturday lunchtime. Yep it was one of those kind of days. The pissing Estuary Wilds was getting right on my nuts. This was a kind of day for a five minute dash out somewhere within a local radius, and then be within safe distance to head back to base if need be.

Trouble is there’s not a great deal of options within a five minute radius of my house. The Wivenhoe Chapel Museum, to give it its full name, is the only option other than a trip to the shops. Needs must.

We’ve been meaning to go to the museum for a number of years now. It opened around a decade ago in an old chapel in the public cemetery. Each time we go past we joke we should pop in. We’re normally setting out on a bicycle ride and so stopping off is only a passing thought.

That all changed today. We were welcomed as we arrived by a couple of familiar and very friendly faces. We were offered the choice of either a guided tour, or just to ramble around and do our own thing. Being a loner in life, we opted for our own thing.

It is a pokey little place but full of many hidden surprises. I get kind of turned on by local history, but not in a massive BONER kind of way.

I did enjoy looking at the completest set of the Wiv miniature models. There was also some cracking map action taking place. Map makers from years gone by had little sense of scale - or even reality.

The 3D model from the bottom of the town dating back to 1959 was interesting. It showed the extent of the valley where some of the houses by the railway line peer up above from. There was even a replica model of an oak tree. Best not go trying to chop that one down, Comrades.

We were then kindly offered the opportunity to explore the magical software that J at the museum has put together as part of the Wivenhoe History Group. This is a unique package which takes in hundreds of old documents and allows you to merge them together.

In a very, very clever way we were able to see an early map of our road and house, and then overlay this with subsequent maps that followed.

We even ventured into the census to find out some names of past occupants. We knew our house was there but it didn’t appear on any census records. We have some more digging to do back at base with the deeds that were bundled up as part of the house sale.

I’m pleased we finally managed to pop into the Wivenhoe Chapel Museum. It brings an end to the running gag of: Hey! We should pop in there.

Been there, done that. We must do it again.

Another day, another walk. I’m rapidly running out of options around these estuary wilds parts in which to go wandering.

It doesn’t help that my bicycles are still behind closed doors. The scaffolding around the side passage is preventing any access. My legs are itching for a decent bike ride.

I made my way down to the river. There was plenty of aquatic traffic, as my walk was timed with another spectacular high tide.

The sailing club had some kind of dinghy race reaching its climax. I wasn’t the only person caught out on the shoreline when the rather loud horn was blasted out.

The weather conditions had taken a slight dip from the previous day. There was still plenty of sun, but the blustery winds made for favourable conditions for the sailors.

Not enjoying the wind so much were the two Wivgigs boats making steady progress back down towards the sailing club hard. I gave them a random wave, but I doubt they had a clue as to who I was in the distance.

I reached the wooded area along by the estuary. The Sunday afternoon walkers had dispersed. I had some bliss with Robert Elms in my airpods and a feature all about Northern Soul.

I reached the creek. I had a moment sitting on Fat Bloke’s bench. I took in my surroundings, and then retraced my steps and headed back to base.

I’m urgently in need of either some new routes or access to the bicycles once again.

To the sailing club! For the second time in two consecutive days!

A combination of bright blue estuary wild skies and also favourable high tide times was the lure that was too good to resist.

But where to paddle to?

Downstream and the great unknown? Upstream and the stinky poo smell of the Hythe? Or perhaps even a rare excursion up the Roman river?

The Roman river, it was.

We were keen to avoid what might have been a bit of a Gig Fest assault. Both boats for the rowing club had made their way earlier in the day over to Brightlingsea for the Gig Fest race downstream and back. The Roman river looked like it would be the quieter option.

It was a gentle paddle, making our way upstream and then cutting across the muddybanks for the Roman river.

We did pass one brave fella who was out wild swimming with his luminous yellow floating device. He was on his back and was actually scrolling away on his phone. Now there’s confidence for you.

We reached the mouth of the Roman River. It took some delicate manoeuvring to make our way around the mysterious brown patches.

That’s shit, etc.

Soon we had the tranquillity of the curves of the Roman river all to ourselves. We were even treated to a fly pass by three swans. You could feel the rush of air as they made their way ten meters or so above us.

Some paddle boarders then approached us from behind. This was a leisurely row for us. We came seriously close to the embarrassment of being overtaken by a couple of paddle boarders.

The Canadian geese could then be spotted sunbathing on the muddy banks. They deserved their rest, having earlier made a rifht old early morning racket, waking up half the town.

We reached the mill that signifies the end of the Roman river that is passable. We had timed the tidal times to perfection. We were carried out on an incoming tide, and we’re now ready to head back to the sailing club, floating along on the outgoing waves.

“Can you take some shit pictures?”

…asked my rowing companion.

“No, I don’t take shit pictures”

…came my reply.

“I’m a semi-pro photographer.”

“No,”

she said.

Can you take some pictures of the shit?"

The dirty dog.

The river traffic picked up as we headed back towards the sailing club. There was plenty of kayak action out around the Estuary wilds. We had the first spotting of the season of the ferry. I’m not sure what the aquatic equivalent of Chapeau is.