Westward we rolled, 3km out in the English Channel, our canvas pulled taut in sweet red curves to catch every last breath of wind. To starboard lay the green hills of south Devon.
Gannets zoomed past us on switchblade wings, almost touching the water as they glided between the waves, and high overhead a jetliner drew a chalk mark across a sky of cornflower blue. I thought of the passengers strapped in their metal tube while we were as free as the air and I wouldn't have changed places. I was sailing from Brixham to Falmouth with 80 tons of maritime history under my feet.
Provident is a traditional Brixham sailing trawler, a living monument to a vanished breed. Laid down at Galmpton on the river Dart in 1924, she was a true workhorse of the seas, tough enough to haul a heavy trawl for six hours at a time in all weathers. In their heyday in the 1890s, Brixham had at least 200 such vessels - the world's biggest fleet of wooden sailing trawlers.
Today only a precious few are still afloat, and Provident, owned by the Trinity Sailing Foundation, is part of the UK's National Historic Fleet, in the same league as HMS Victory and Cutty Sark. Last year, she was given a complete makeover, including a powerful new engine.
A RUST-RED SKY
Provident's 70ft-long, green and black hull bears all the hallmarks of her class, but it is her glorious spread of rust-red sails that draw the eye - with all sails set she has 255m² of canvas aloft.
Dave Carnson, her skipper, is a genial Ulsterman who left Belfast to avoid the Troubles and never went back. "All skippers love their boats," he says. "Get to know them and you discover they have a heart and soul. They talk to you, and if you listen you'll learn how to get the best out of them."
In addition to the crew of four, eight of us had signed up for the four-night voyage to Falmouth - two women and six men of mixed abilities, from experienced sailors to those who barely knew port from starboard.In Brixham, having been given life jackets and a talk on safety at sea, we were quickly introduced to the mysteries of sheets and halyards as we sailed out past Berry Head.
In no time we were joined by eight dolphins, which leapt joyfully around us until they tired of their sport and went rollicking off as we nosed into Dartmouth harbour for the night.
Anchored to a buoy in midstream, we dined on board before turning in. With accommodation for up to 12 passengers, life below deck is less than spacious, but wedged on my narrow bunk, I felt as snug as a woodworm, sleeping not on a sack of straw like the old-time trawlermen, but under a cosy tartan duvet.
A DREAMY INLET
Awoken by the crying of gulls, I emerged on deck to find the harbour embalmed in sunlight. Dominated by the ramparts of the Britannia Royal Naval College, the town itself is built to last, its granite stairways and narrow streets thronged with bistros, art galleries and pubs.
After breakfast, we hoisted sail and put to sea again, sailing to round Start Point and arriving at Salcombe in mid-afternoon.Tucked away in one of the West Country's dreamiest inlets, Salcombe has the distinction of being the priciest seaside property hotspot in Britain, an accolade shared with Sandbanks in Dorset.
But, arriving by sea, you are hardly aware of its presence until suddenly its harbour entrance opens up before you, revealing a sheltered anchorage with a foreshore of idyllic, sandy bathing coves.
The following day we set off early to resume our westward journey. Once again the sun shone warmly. Our sails flapped in the light airs and the sea was a glassy bottle green.
By midday we had passed Plymouth.
SLEEPING TO CHURCH BELLS
As we drew closer to the Atlantic, the sea began to change from green to midnight blue, and the land changed also, with hardly a tree to break the windswept Cornish skyline.
The further west we travelled, the wilder the coast became, its gaunt cliffs pierced by caves and chasms, until in early evening, rolling down the silver path laid by the setting sun, a haggard headland called the Gribbin loomed ahead of us, its daymark raised like an admonishing finger to announce the imminent presence of Fowey.
Lulled to sleep by the sound of church bells, I woke to find the weather had changed. Fowey's slate rooftops were lagged with mist, but by the time we left our mooring the sun had returned and the wind blew strongly from the west, whipping up white horses all around us as we beat away towards the Dodman, the highest headland on the South Cornish coast.STILL SHE MOVES
We dropped anchor off Swanpool Beach on the outskirts of Falmouth. There we lay until our last morning, enjoying a lazy breakfast on deck before cruising into Falmouth Roads and coming to rest behind the National Maritime Museum, an appropriate berth for a doughty old relic of our seagoing history.
Only then, at the end of the voyage, did I realise what a privilege it had been to sail with such a friendly and forgiving crew. I would miss the skipper's cheerful banter but the real star of the show was "Provi" herself. Long after I had gone ashore for the last time, I could still feel my body rocking to her easy rhythm. - The Sunday Telegraph
PLAN YOUR TRIP
Trinity offers traditional sailing holidays in the West Country, Channel Islands, Brittany and the west coast of Scotland, from £295 for a three-night voyage...