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To the Quay late on Saturday afternoon for the Wivenhoe Regatta. We weren’t alone - half the town, and half of North Essex seemed to have been shipped in for all the aquatic fun and frolics.

With our friends from National Express East Anglia playing silly buggers once again, all routes into Wivenhoe were strictly via water only. Which is all rather appropriate for a Quayside event.

The chaps from the Romford Navy even made a special guest appearance in their blinged up pieces of plastic that somehow pass as boats. Next time remember to read your Wivenhoe bylaws, fellas - nicking a mooring and almost forcing the legitimate owners to be left stranded at sea isn’t exactly smooth sailing.

Hey hoe.

This was the only damp squid in what was otherwise an ACE afternoon down at the front. The participants in the raft race may tell a different story - getting wet was definitely part of the event. I only wish the boys from the Romford Navy had experienced the same sinking feeling before barging into the town.

For the record, I have been asked to point out that the good ship Papa’s Chip Shop won the raft race. The first homemade craft to pass the finish line had no formal association with Mr Papa and his fine fillets of fish; he was simply the adopted name in which to nail your colours to the mast. Or even oil barrels.

The boys from the Black Buoy experienced a Cambridge Boat Race sinking feeling, even before they had lifted anchor on the old Sailing Club hard. I suspect perhaps this was all part of the plan. I felt it picky to point out that sellotape isn’t actually waterproof.

We strolled up towards the Rose and Crown to try and gain a better vantage point. Local stalls, local conversation and local booze slowed us down. Brian next door looked resplendent on his balcony, conducting the brass band as they broke out into Rule Britannia.

What was wonderful about the Wivenhoe Regatta was the impromptu parties that were breaking out along West Quay. BBQ’s and booze seemed to appear outside every house. The Regatta is merely a convenient excuse in which to come together.

Our canoes didn’t make an appearance - too busy on photographic duties. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it, Comrades. Give us a year to find our sea legs, and we’ll be back next year, still not knowing our port from our starboard, possibly ramming the Romford Navy.

Blogger overboard.

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