CONSTANCE was like a dog with a bone as we bounded across Falmouth Bay under full sail. It was a fine midsummer’s day and the sea was shimmering beneath the long, shadowy body of The Lizard peninsula to the south. A 12-knot breeze had sprung up, just as forecast, and the rig creaked contentedly as the sails adjusted to the force of the wind. It was hard to imagine a better place to be at that moment.