July is the start of the new autumn. I hesitate to parrot my good wife on the subject of the weather, but the British climate really is the damned limit. No sooner had the restriction on staying overnight away from home been lifted, than the weather closed down. This, of course, was coincident with us embarking joyously on our boat in Devonshire. I did not mention this in the last blog, partly because I was overcome with the euphoria of being away from home and partly because moaning does not come naturally to me (stop snorting at the back). But honestly: it was so cold on occasions in Devonshire that, not only did we have the heating on at night, we even switched on the electric blanket on the elliptical bunk in the Master Cabin. The electric blanket is a new addition to the boat following the suggestion of friends of ours who have a second home in the South of France (we mix in affluent circles): they found that fitting and switching on an electric blanket after a long period of being away aired the bed nicely and took the edge off any feeling of dampness. Finding a suitable electric blanket that would fit our odd-shaped bunk proved difficult, but we finally settled on the sort that comes in the form of a fleecy over-blanket and duly stowed it in a locker for use in the winter. Halfway through our stay, the outside temperature fell, the wind blew mightily, and the good Devonshire rain came down. We sat in the saloon in the early evening, reading our books, lights on, the heating going full blast and the boat rocking with every gust. I announced that I was going to break out the untried emergency electric blanket to warm up the bed. To my surprise, there was some mild protest from the memsahib who, as I have stated before, does tend towards the philosophy of “no gain without pain”: it was the middle of July, she said, surely it was unnecessary; think of the electricity…But I fitted it anyway and switched to pre-heat. At the infantile time of 2130 we decided to turn in and read in bed, me climbing in first while she did things to her face, and Jane’s comments were a delight to behold,
“You must be baking in there…totally unnecessary…ridiculous…electric blankets in July”. Followed by (as she climbed under the covers),
“Oooh. This is rather nice…”. She purred like a cat and snuggled under.
And it really did take the edge off any dampness and chill on the unused bed, with the added benefit of doing the same thing for the occupants.
Of course, the weather wasn’t all bad for the full time we were embarked, but it certainly wasn’t what we had hoped for in July when one would expect consistently sunny days. We did get at least two sunny days and, on the first, we took APPLETON RUM out to sea to explore Tor Bay and look at two redundant cruise ships that are currently anchored there. Off we went with the sea quite calm and set course for the distant ships, which were visible on the horizon. I found a good cruising speed that was a compromise between engine noise and boat motion and we settled down for the passage of about 12 nautical miles (NM). When I first bought APPLETON RUM I was struck by how many of our friends asked if we would be travelling over to France or the Channel Islands in this new seagoing boat. I had to explain to them that, actually, after the initial fun of wizzing round on the sea and bouncing off the waves, travelling on a boat at sea is quite boring and tiring. APPLETON RUM’s top speed (I have now discovered) is only 12 knots (14 mph) and her comfortable cruising speed in nearer 7 knots (8 mph). It takes quite a long time to get from A to B at that speed and, as Jane is not a qualified watch-keeper, we could not sensibly travel overnight to exotic places like France or Jersey. Bear this situation in mind when you consider us heading for Tor Bay 12 NM away. We pitched, we rolled, we looked at the cliffs, we dodged lobster pot buoys, we avoided wicked-looking rocks that looked like dinosaurs. We sat and we sat, and the engines growled and roared. And those ships on the horizon barely got any closer. Finally, we passed Berry Head at the southern end of Tor Bay, and Torquay, then Brixham, came into view to port. And things started to get lively. Out of the shelter of the land, the calm sea developed something more of a swell and we really started to shift. We pitched into each wave, throwing spray over the bows and still those ships sat on the horizon. The windscreen wipers were going full chat and we were wedged into our seats. After about fifteen minutes of this we concluded that we were on a hiding to nothing. I would estimate that the cruise ships were still about a mile away, but the swell was getting worse. Where was the pleasure? So we gave up, turned, and headed back to the Dart. When we finally came back alongside we were exhausted from bracing ourselves, sticky with suntan cream, and half deafened from the constant engine noise. We really needed that drink.
Well, I have defended this government’s stance on CV19 all through this epidemic, but now I think they have finally lost the plot. Face coverings are to be compulsory in shops in England from 24 July, with a £100 fine for not conforming. The police say that they cannot and will not enforce the penalty, and there are unconfirmed reports that many shops will also take a flexible approach to the requirement. We have gone right through the worst of the crisis with no requirement to wear face coverings at all (indeed, they were discouraged) and now, as we are emerging, with CV19 deaths down to an average 80 a day in the whole of the UK, we suddenly have to wear them. It is illogical and the compulsion grates with me. Don’t get me wrong: I always foresaw that face coverings would probably be a quid pro quo for letting us out to mix again, and I can see their value in close quarters situations indoors when people converse (I, for one, tend to spit a bit when I rant – which is frequently); but wearing them should be left to our own common sense. I have read several scientific papers on the effectiveness of masks and face coverings, and the case for using anything other than the full surgical masks is very dubious. As to wearing them in the open air or alone in a car, their use is ludicrous. We now have a situation where we can go to a pub, restaurant, museum or library without a mask – but must wear them in a shop, where it wasn’t necessary even at the peak of the epidemic. The memsahib is apoplectic about the edict and vows not to visit a supermarket or shop while the restriction is in place (we will shop on line). Ironically, the government apparently believes that this mask wearing will increase confidence in customer safety and encourage people to go out and visit the High Street; I predict that the opposite effect will result, partly because of the gross inconvenience (you cannot speak clearly and your glasses steam up) and partly because it reinforces the fear that the Black Death is stalking out there. I remain astonished by the number of people who still believe that a face covering will protect them from the virus: it won’t; the aim is to protect the rest of society from you. And there’s the rub: soon, if you don’t wear a face covering you will run the risk of being that pariah in society, the Anti Social Person. Soon you will be glared at for not conforming, like the poor soul who forgets to wear a poppy in the weeks up to Armistice Day. And when will it all end? We are already down to only 337 daily new cases in England as I write. The total deaths in the UK (ie from all causes) is below the five-year average for this time of year. Will we still have to wear face coverings when there are zero CV19 deaths and cases, just in case we might catch a cold?
It has now emerged that the published data on CV19 deaths in the UK may be a trifle pessimistic. Quelle surprise. I alluded to this some time ago in Blog 44, when I said that just about every death imaginable was being included in the totals in order to satisfy a national Press clamouring for bad news. It would seem that my view has been confirmed. It has been revealed that Public Health England (PHE) – an organisation that I had never heard of until this epidemic – has been calculating and publishing deaths from Covid 19 by the simple expedient of taking the number of known cases of people who have been tested positive with the virus, then checking daily how many of them have died. Thus, a person tested positive in – say – March who has recovered, but has then been run over by a bus in July, will be counted as a CV19 death even though that was not the cause. Similarly, people who have died of old age, but earlier were tested positive for CV19 and either recovered or were asymptomatic, are also counted among the UK CV19 death toll. No wonder we are recorded as having among the highest CV19 death tolls in the world. I think the knives will be out for PHE when all this is over (if ever), for I understand the organisation is also being blamed for the poor early response and preparedness for the epidemic.
Hrrmph. Definitely a double hrrmph.
Following our policy of alternating a day at sea with a day walking ashore, we spent the next sunny day walking to the fishing port of Brixham, about ten miles away. It is a walk that we have done before and we know it so well that the waypoints have names. Incidentally, in contemplating this hike you have to take into account the geography of Devonshire: even one mile on a map in Devonshire will inevitably include several steep hills or valleys, especially in the coastal region, and will feel like ten miles. We trekked through the Wild Wood, slid down into the valley, passed The Babbling Brook, and scrambled up the Very Steep Path. Twice. Then, we slogged through the fields of wheat and barley (Jane pausing frequently to talk to the plants or photograph them), spent ten minutes trying to get across a busy road, then onward along a dog toilet, otherwise known as a public footpath, to Brixham where the whole up hill and down dale saga started again, though on narrow urban streets. Brixham was heaving: it was as if there was no epidemic at all. There were no bandits (people wearing masks in the open air or in cars) and Jane queued for the inevitable and mandatory ice cream with very little social distancing. We consumed these treats sitting on the harbour-side in great contentment and gazed around us. The people, oh my dear, “Nurse – the screens!”: tattoos, baseball caps on backwards, baggy shorts with elasticated waists that appeared as if they had been slept in, bare chests and beer guts (and that’s just the women), flip-flops, ferrel children…There were no “Kiss Me Quick” hats, but it was a close run thing. NQOCD, but I don’t suppose they thought much of me either as I gazed around as if I were a visitor to the zoo and had a boiled cabbage under my nose. The memsahib wanted to buy some groceries (why she inevitably does this when we are on a walk and without a car never ceases to amaze me) so we wandered up the High Street to the local Tesco. It was there that I had my excitement of the day. There was a Customer Service Operative (translation: a young lad) outside the door controlling entry to the store, the limit inside being 22 – see how I remember useless things. Near him, in the street, was a trolley for, what I thought, selling ice cream but which subsequently proved to be the now usual paraphernalia of hand sanitising. An older woman was standing beside it and I went over to sterilise my hands. Crikey! You should have seen the reaction. She recoiled from me as if I were a leper: physically jumped to one side with agility you would not expect in such an aged harridan. Jane said afterwards that she shot me a look of pure poison that would have shrivelled lesser people; me being me, I did not even realise that I had done anything wrong. Silly old biddy – I was no closer than a metre. I should have given her a reassuring pat on the back. The plan was to catch the bus back to the marina from Brixham (we had done ten miles: we certainly weren’t going to make it twenty, we are not Zulus), but we had forgotten that the bus queue would be spaced at two metres and that space on the bus might be rationed. We waited in a queue of the aged, halt and lame, rigidly spread a metre apart, for about ten minutes – the bus being due in half an hour. Across the road from the bus stop was a taxi rank. I nudged Jane and gestured. She pulled a face: we are of a generation for whom taxis remain an exotic luxury. Still…I wandered over and asked the price. It was £11. Hmm. The bus would have been free, but would have entailed a further wait of 20 minutes and a three mile walk (uphill, naturally) at the other end. It didn’t take us long to decide and we piled into the taxi (no face coverings, no sanitiser, chatty Devonian driver as if things were as before). Twenty minutes later we were back onboard, £11 poorer, tired, but immensely smug at the exercise we had taken. A hot shower onboard and – yes, you’ve guessed it, a glass of Plymouth Gin on the quarterdeck in the sunshine.
A huge box was delivered to our door the other day and we were baffled as to what it was or where it had come from (does your family do this: pick up a letter or parcel and wonder out loud who sent it instead of just opening the thing?). We eventually opened it and inside, well packed, was a bottle of Mary Rose Gin. It seems we had won a prize draw, entered by participating in a customer survey for our marina. What a lovely surprise. We tried it out on Friday – purely in the interests of research you understand – and found it very enjoyable: up there with the best (we had never heard of the brand before, but the bottle looked nice too). We are still reeling under the shock of winning a prize: I never win anything unless you count my dear wife (peace be upon her) on our wedding day. Speaking of whom, she has just appeared in the study with two home-made jam tarts and a cup of tea. Love is the sweetest thing. She has been engaged all morning in baking and preparing a meal for friends coming to lunch tomorrow. Jane loves cooking and her favourite hobby is baking cakes that neither of us dare eat. She ends up freezing the cakes in ready-cut portions so that they can be eaten later with a reviving cup of tea, usually after an arduous trek somewhere. We have a friend who is a fitness instructor, and she once said that calories and carbohydrate consumed after exercise do not count. Or I thought she said that: she has since told me that I misunderstood her statement entirely, but I have stuck to the mantra ever since as it sounds feasible and I can blame her for any extra pounds that ensue.
My birthday went well though I can no longer claim to being Jane’s toy boy, the two of us now being the same age. The special meal of tinned green beans, oven chips and steak from Marks & Spencer’s prestigious ready meal range (“It’s Not Just Food – It’s Marks & Spencer Food!”) was, by joint agreement, declared pretty awful. I am not sure what sort of boat shoe sole M&S used to create the steak, but it must have been a robust brand. There was nothing wrong with Jane’s cooking and the “steak” was the correct rare pink inside, but the meat otherwise failed all tests. However the wine was good and the company excellent so I enjoyed the day. Two separate friends made me birthday cakes and both were delicious. Being, now, sixty nine years old reminds me that the US Navy always found it hilarious that the Royal Navy frigate, HMS BACCHANTE (goddess of wine and debauchery) had the pennant number F69 on her side. I am sure the choice of name and number by the Ship Naming Committee were purely coincidences. Or not.
I mentioned our first boat, a narrowboat, in my last blog. It was onboard her that I worked up the crew into the efficient nautical unit that you see today, though there were difficulties and occasionally some indiscipline in the early days. I always recall when we were cruising the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal and looking for a mooring for the night. Usually on a canal you can moor anywhere on the towpath side and you simply stop at a picturesque spot (in my case, somewhere as far from other boats and people as possible) and hammer in long metal spikes for the warps. Unlike virtually all canals in England, which are usually quite narrow and only four feet deep in the middle, the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal is a shipping canal designed to take sea-going vessels so it is wide and deep accordingly. I had identified a good spot to moor next to some long grass or reeds, off the towpath, and very secluded. The crew disagreed on its suitability. There was a brief discussion during which the phrases such as “Master in command under God” were pronounced and the crew was ordered to get on with it and stop arguing. We stopped. The crew stepped ashore with the bow line, under protest. I don’t know if you have ever seen that film African Queen with Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn: there is a scene in there where Bogart is towing the boat, with reeds growing way above his head. Well, that was exactly the scene for us that day. From my place at the tiller, I could see the bow line disappearing into the reeds on the bank, but otherwise nothing else except the occasional bobbing head of red hair on the end of the line. The bobbing head of red hair was, as they say in the vernacular, “ giving it some”. Above the engine noise, I could hear snatches,
“Ridiculous place to stop….can’t see where I’m going…stupid people…should have pressed on to that other mooring…”
At that point Jane stepped into the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal.
And she said a very rude word.
But we eventually secured safely for the night (she didn’t fall completely in – just one foot and half a leg), and command and discipline was upheld. I told her at the time,
“There can be only one Master of this vessel. I will have a taut ship. We will have order here”. She seemed to accept this sensibly and (I thought) meekly.
We are much better at working together on the boat now. I just do as I’m told.
18 July 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 