Some years ago, thanks to a much-loved in-law, I found myself bobbing about on one of a few thousand boats massed on the water in a Cornish bay, watching about 40 tall ships leave Falmouth harbour and begin their race to Greenwich, further up the English coast.

Every craft that could float had been launched to escort the parade. You could call it a mast ball, which back then was not an event anyone looked at with horror...