Ahoy, my hearties. I write to you from the high seas, well my yacht alongside a pontoon on the River Dart with the high sea a mile downstream, but the principle is the same. We are still bouncing around even if we are alongside, and the wind is howling through the rigging like a banshee. July in Devonshire: a brisk Force 3 from the south west, overcast, mist, drizzle and 18C. You can’t beat it. “Bracing” , is one adjective you could use. But the thing is this: we are, at last, away from home and in a different environment, with different scenery, different walks to do and the opportunity to breath in some fresh sea air. That has to be worth a great deal. Jane really takes to these little visits to the boat and revels at playing the deckhand/cook. I think she secretly enjoys my authoritarian style as Master and Commander, though she tries hard to conceal it, just as I have to suppress a naturally relaxed and benevolent style of leadership. Her competency as cook is a given, of course, and her deckhand skills are coming along, though her terminology and language skills need a little more work: after 18 years of boat ownership she still calls fenders bollards, the bows the front, the galley the kitchen and speaks of going downstairs. I sometimes despair of converting her, but I suppose I can’t have everything.
Like many naval officers, I planned to buy my own boat on retiring and duly “did the rounds” of boat shows and magazines to identify that 30 knot motor cruiser that would take the family to the Channel Islands at weekends and the Bahamas in August. This ambition foundered on the hard rock of hard cash as the size of my terminal gratuity from a parsimonious Royal Navy became apparent, and it soon became clear that I would have to readjust my sights significantly. The 30 knot cruiser became a 30 foot canal boat or narrowboat; the weekend destination became Dorchester on Thames; and the annual excursion became Hampton Palace. Hey ho, at least the navigation was easy and I didn’t get seasick. We cruised many of the inland waterways of England for about 14 years with our narrowboat and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, but it had only one large open-plan cabin and the double bed had to be converted from the settee every night. Moreover, all the conning was done outside and there were occasions when, kitted out in full foul-weather gear, I looked like someone advertising John West Kipper Fillets. I remember once coming below after mooring in a blizzard, frozen stiff. So I hankered again for that twin screw motor yacht that would take us, if not to the Bahamas, at least to the Channel Islands (and preferably back again): one with separate cabins and space to take friends with us; one with a wheelhouse from which I could con the boat in warmth and the dry. I mentioned this to Jane as we lay alongside and she claimed we could never afford it. I disagreed and we placed a bet. Within four months we had found APPLETON RUM (not then her name) and sold our beloved narrowboat, and I started stamping my personality on my new charge. Jane was not at first keen on the new boat (I discovered many months later that she was totally opposed to the purchase – I hadn’t realised in my enthusiasm). She thought that the cooker onboard was antediluvian, the refrigerator falling apart, the main saloon very shabby, the boat smelled of boats (?) and the Master Cabin looked like a bordello. This last criticism baffled me a bit at first, not least because I could not believe that such a delicate little flower as my wife would know the meaning of the word. It turned out that her description was based on the fact that not only was the deck of the Master Cabin carpeted, but also the bulkheads and the deckhead, giving the cabin a cosy, furry, intimate feel. The final proof that justified her description was the elliptical-shaped double bed which, I can only presume, she thought would encourage gratuitous and licentious sailor-like behaviour on the part of her husband, who, before her very eyes, was already taking on a new persona as a 21st century version of Captain Bligh of HMS BOUNTY.
Anyway, we replaced the cooker and refrigerator, fitted a heating system, reupholstered the saloon furnishings, disinfected the bilges and deep-cleaned the rest. We compromised on the bordello bed by renewing the mattress and fitting a bolster (I made that last bit up – someone has to warm her feet at night). Of course, it all cost an absolute fortune, but the RUM makes for a good holiday home, some great fun, and the perfect means of supporting the marina and chandlery industry with large amounts of money.
It must be the sea air, for we always have good appetites and sleep well on the boat. Not having a television, and radio reception being variable, we tend to read a lot and to go to bed early (2030 is the record for retiring) . One could reasonably suppose that going to bed early would lead to rising early too. This is true for me, but not Jane, who would cheerfully count the rivets in the deckhead until 0930 if left to her own devices (she is taking a dogwatch zizz even as I write, making up for sleep lost when our son was a baby in 1979). I think the great thing about the boat, and the reason why it is so relaxing, is that there are lots of things you could do, and some things you should do, but very few things that you actually have to do. There are no deliveries, no appointments, no visitors, no noisy children outside: just the sea, the sand and the gentle lap of the waves on the hull.
The nearest significant habitation to our mooring is Dartmouth, with my alma mater – the BRITANNIA Royal Naval College – towering magnificently above the town with its mellow Edwardian architecture and ship’s bell striking the progress of each watch every half hour. On the river, the naval cadets are still wizzing around in whalers and picket boats at all hours, practising coming alongside, picking up buoys, and retrieving men overboard – all accompanied by lots and lots of authoritative shouting and firm leadership. Excellent. It is as if I had never left.
We took a trip to Dartmouth to see how the town had faired during lockdown and found most people and shops behaving almost normally. The trip boats were running again and the Dart Valley steam train was, once more, chuffing its way along the riverside. A handful of pedestrians wore masks in the street (a practice that we thought weird, given the stiff south westerly breeze blowing), but most folk wore none. Unlike in our Big City at home, roads had not been narrowed to make way for pedestrian social distancing (there would be no road left if they had) . All shops had sanitiser at the entrance, and a few shops limited the number of customers, but most seemed to have adopted a sensible approach, leaving customers to do their own social distancing. I bought Jane her customary ice cream in the Dartmouth Ice Cream Company and she declared herself very happy as we sat on a park bench, people-watching, while she consumed it. People watching is great fun. Apart from counting the bandits (those wearing face masks in the open air or in their cars), we observed one man with a black beard and a top knot, who was undoubtedly a Dothraki (only Game of Thrones fans would understand the allusion); three Captain Birdseyes (long white hair and beard, Breton cap); many grockles (Devonshire term for a tourist) from Yorkshire or Lancashire; and several groups of the affluent yachting fraternity (faded Bermuda shorts, Gucci deck shoes or sandals, loud drawling voices talking about spinnakers). And what is this thing of wearing a baseball cap backwards? Didn’t their mothers dress them properly before they went out? They will be putting their shoes on the wrong feet next. After wandering around, we concluded that the town was as pleasant as ever, but we could not avoid noticing the number of independent shops that were either temporarily or permanently closed, the shabby and unpainted benches on the embankment, and the dirty pavements soiled by dog faeces. This last saddened me, for it is rare to see in Britain these days, but Dartmouth (maybe Devonshire as a whole) – for some peculiar reason – has always had a high dog population. That said, there is no reason why the owners should not pick up their pets’ mess. Yuk.
Despite relaxing the CV19 restrictions, the number of daily deaths from the disease continues to fall, and stood at 16 for the whole of the UK on 6 July, though the number of cases is falling at a slower rate. The emergency hospitals were mothballed some time ago without ever receiving a patient, but their rapid creation remains a credit to the system. The carping by journalists regarding the government’s response to the epidemic, a feature of the whole crisis, continues. I must be the odd one out, or perhaps it is because I never received that degree in hindsight and on-line epidemiology, in thinking that the government has performed reasonably well in very difficult circumstances. At least one survey shows that confidence in the government’s handling of the cris is now down to 24% (from 59% at the beginning of the epidemic). I have not agreed with everything the authorities have done, but I would not criticise them at length on their response. Even the experts cannot agree on a common approach to the virus, so heaven help a politician tasked with trying to satisfy everybody. I thought the lockdown was essential to prevent our hospitals from being overwhelmed, but otherwise think the Swedish approach would have been better. Shutting the schools and “furloughing” workers until October has been a disaster for the British economy which, at the end of the day, has to fund an enforced idle workforce. Many will undoubtedly disagree with my scepticism, but I am used to that: I have never been in tune with the majority of the populace (though that doesn’t necessarily make me wrong).
As outlined in the last blog, the pubs and restaurants in England were allowed to reopen on 4 July and a great eruption was expected. Not living in London or other large city, I cannot comment first-hand if that was the case. Certainly sleepy Barsetshire barely opened an eyelid, and although we noticed a queue of four (each 2m apart) outside our local pub the establishment was certainly not throbbing then or since. My dentist said that some pubs in our nearest Big City opened at 0600 (bizarre), but I have seen no reports of rowdy behaviour. Overall, the take-up is reported to have been quite muted and publicans have reported that they will need a much greater footfall if their pubs are to become viable. Journalists seem to think the tentative response is because of a fear of infection, which may be true in some places, but Jane and I think the reason is more likely to be the present onerous precautions that take any pleasure out of visiting a pub or restaurant at the moment and, perhaps, uncertainty with the procedure: social distancing, masks, registering name and address on entry. We think it is just not worth the hassle, but we may try a restaurant in Dartmouth when it opens in a fortnight.
Always up with the latest news, I read that in Canada the police are investigating tyre marks on a rainbow-painted crosswalk (the North American version of a pedestrian crossing I think) because they think it might be a hate crime. Presumably the Mounties have nothing else to do now that the Gold Rush has ended. As far as I can discover, this is not a joke.
It is my birthday tomorrow and we will be taking the RUM out for a spin on the open water to celebrate. Steak and chips (courtesy Marks &Spencer “two courses and a bottle of wine for £12 deal”) are planned for birthday dinner. A very good friend and neighbour has baked me a fruitcake for the Big Day and we have been eyeing it up ravenously all week, every time we have our afternoon tea. Tea in bed has been promised by Jane and it is just possible that she may also perform the ceremony of Colours for me too, at eight bells in the morning watch (0800 – do try to keep up). We hoist the blue ensign in APPLETON RUM, a rare privilege granted to commanding officers in the Royal Naval Reserve and those in the Royal Naval Sailing Association. I am punctilious in observing the Service customs onboard though I have relaxed the practice of using the bosun’s call to pipe the “Still” for Colours and Sunset. Jane, of course, just rolls her eyes at these ceremonies and has been known to opine, “it’s just a flag”.
Well, the mist has cleared over the headland and the wind has veered to the west and dropped very slightly. The sun came out briefly as I started this paragraph – but it has now disappeared again. A herring gull is breaking open a mussel for its supper by the simple expedient of dropping the mollusc onto the steel pontoon from thirty feet (damned clever these seagulls). Jane is flushing the heads by pumping out the pan with the customary 35 strokes (having a boat brings you closer into contact with the baser side of life and she really joins into the spirit of this evolution). The sun is well over the yardarm as I feel the urge for a Plymouth Gin. Time for a shower and a change into Night Clothing, I think; Rounds are at 1930.
Keep polishing the brightwork and remember, if you must throw up, then do it to leeward.
9 July 2020.
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 