It was a typical late autumn dawn in Devonshire: cool, bleak and with just a hint of coming rain in the northerly breeze. The sky was the colour of wet blotting paper and the sullen grey river ebbed its way past our berth, swirling with autumn leaves and the occasional log. Huddled in my wind-proof coat and lifejacket I observed all this as I stood at the upper helm position watching Jane expertly cast off our bow line for the last time in 2020. We were taking APPLETON RUM to the lifting-out berth where she would be scooped from the water, have her bottom cleaned, then be transported to the hard-standing for the winter. When she went back in, it would be to a brand new individual berth on a new pontoon, some time in the spring. A huge self-propelled barge had arrived at the marina the day before, bearing an enormous crane for driving in the new piles for the new marina pontoons; she had moored herself close to the access pier by the simple expedient of dropping a pair of legs onto the riverbed – look, no anchor or mooring lines. She certainly looked businesslike.
We had been up since before dawn because Jane had another of her “heart episodes” at 0400 and there did not seem much point in staying in bed after it was over. This time Jane insisted that we do not call an ambulance as she felt there was little point if it were not going to arrive for two hours like last time. The incident flagged up an interesting conundrum if I did have to call for an ambulance: how would the paramedics get to us? The main road gate and the access to the pontoons are both PIN-coded: would I have to leave Jane alone to open them for the ambulance team? Should I get her dressed and walk with her along the cold pontoon to the carpark, where she could sit in the car next to the (conveniently fitted) defibrillator? If I overcame the security hurdles for the paramedics, would they be able to get access to Jane on our unusual bunk on the boat? Fortunately the problem did not arise because Jane was adamant in not calling out for help, but I must give some thought to the problem in case it comes up again. Jane’s heart beat returned to normal at about 0530 but she still felt a bit rough, which is hardly surprising. You might reasonably ask, therefore, what on earth she was doing on the fo’c’sle and acting as deckhand for our move at 0830. The answer is: she insisted. I was all for getting the marina staff to shift the boat in our absence in what is known as a “cold move”, or asking one of them to act as crew for me; she wouldn’t have it. She felt the fresh air would do her good. Of course, the fresh air from somewhere near Iceland actually nearly blew her over the side, but she did her usual expert job with the lines and said afterwards that she did feel better.
Alongside the lifting jetty, with an air of finality, I shut down the engines for the last time in 2020 and went through my routine checks for closing down the systems onboard. After I locked the companionway hatch I gave the helmsman’s seat an affectionate pat and told the boat I would be back to see her in her winter bed soon, and there would be new adventures to come in a new berth in 2021 (look, if I can talk to a shed [Blog 37] then I can certainly talk to a boat). Jane and I disembarked and, after a last look around the developing marina, we set off back home.
The drive back home was different this time in that we decided to have a late breakfast in a roadside café called Route 303, where we usually charge the car. Normally we just sit and wait as the amps flow (it only takes 20 minutes) but my stomach was rumbling after being awake since 0400 and both of us felt like a bit of refreshment. You may guess from the name that Route 303 is on the A303 and has an American theme. It turned out to be better than expected, but we were puzzled to be asked – as we entered – had we booked? Who books to visit a roadhouse? Surely the whole principle of these places is the the visit is spontaneous. Yet, apparently, some people had reserved a table so the place must be popular. Fortunately they fitted us in and we had a nice break: I had the West Coast Breakfast which, fundamentally, was a standard English Breakfast of fried egg, bacon, sausage, beans, hash brown, tomato and (joy!) two slices of fried bread (the East Coast Breakfast was double the size); Jane had a toasted teacake. The bill came to about £12, which I thought very reasonable, and we would visit again. As we left, the queue to get a table stretched outside into the carpark, which rather surprised me given the cool temperature. But then, I don’t do queuing and I would not have waited, good though the food was.
It had been a good week on our final trip to the boat. We took her away on Tuesday to visit Totnes, a small market town about 12 miles upstream on the River Dart and only accessible by boat between three hours before and three hours after high tide. This last limitation on a boating visit means that a trip has to be well planned using tide tables unless one wishes to visit Totnes at unsociable hours. Tuesday was the perfect day to go, with high water at 1500. We had visited before, of course, though more often than not we had moored up, had a cup of tea, then set off back again. Totnes, while undoubtedly architecturally quaint, has a reputation in the Shacklepin family as being a hippy town: a sort of micro-California set in rural south Devonshire. Shops selling mystic trinkets abound and folk wander the streets in all manner of strange flowing garbs, usually incorporating the wearing of headbands or body jewellery (and that is just the men). This time we thought we should give the place a fairer assessment by looking around properly. Indeed, on arrival this time we did feel we had been a little unkind in our initial assessment. Totnes is a Saxon town (“Tot” meaning lookout and “Ness” meaning a projecting finger of land) that was – inevitably – taken over by the Normans, the resulting castle being given to one of William the Conqueror’s noblemen as a reward for liberating that part of the south west of England (a euphemism for slaughtering anyone who stood in his way). There is a steep High Street leading up through the castellated East Gate, where shops on both sides have overhanging first floors to form a shelter underneath. The areas are called the Butterwalk and the Poultrywalk respectively, and their purposes are self explanatory. It was all rather quaint and, if we had had time, we would have progressed to visiting the castle and the Guildhall. As it was, we browsed through the Totnes Bookshop (several shelves empty – we hope not a bad sign), tried another bookshop (mystic and spiritualist – left as quickly as we went in), then drifted back to the boat where the tide was on the turn and it was time to leave. We decided that, next time, we would visit the town by car to give us more time to wander. Thinks: must stop using the adjective “quaint”.
Our wedding anniversary found us in our favourite restaurant in Dartmouth, Taylor’s, with our friends Raymond and Carole. We were given a perfect table in the bay window overlooking the Boat Float (a tidal pond accessed by a tunnel under the roadway) and, from there, we were able to watch the world go by. Dartmouth, again, was heaving with tourists (known locally as grockles). I had asked a local, earlier, if this was usual at this time of year and he said it was unheard of: bookings for hotel accommodation, B&Bs and self-catering flats were well-up and solid into the end of November, which is good news for the economy of the place though bad news for grumpy people like me who find the slow-moving crowds somewhat frustrating. Anyway, to return to the lunch at Taylor’s: I had Spicy Butternut Squash Soup followed by Poached Fillet of Brill, with a Cream, White Wine & Wild Mushroom Sauce, then Vanilla Panna Cotta with Summer Berry Sauce. Jane had Roasted Beetroot, Creamed Goats Cheese, Almond Dukkah followed by Pan Fried Fillet of Chalk Stream Trout then Black Forest Chocolate Ganache with Whipped Cream. We washed it all down with a bottle of Sharpham Dart Valley Reserve from the local vineyard. The meal (excluding drink) came to about £40 each, which we thought was good value.
You may have noted from these accounts of culinary adventures that we rarely – if ever – take dinner ashore. This is not because we feature among that section of the senior community terrified of meeting footpads, snarks, leprechauns or rough sailors after sunset, but rather one of finance and risk assessment: dinner in any restaurant is always more expensive than lunch. Moreover, in Dartmouth, our return to the boat involves a tipsy ¾ mile walk along the embankment; a trip across the Higher Ferry; a ½ mile slog up the unlit ferry road that has no pavement; down a set of wooden steps into the Dark Wild Wood; past the Babbling Brook; up the path to the Marina Access Road; down into the marina itself; down the steep bridge onto our pontoon at low tide; and along to our boat. Overall, a three-quarter-hour trek, all in the dark. The slog up the hill from the ferry is usually the most challenging, as we know that – once we have landed – we have only ten minutes to make it up to the top before the ferry returns with its next load of cars that will be charging up behind us; it focusses the mind and the determination beautifully, for there is no pedestrian refuge off the road which, as I mentioned earlier, is unlit. So, no, we do not venture ashore at night and Jane provides, instead, excellent dinners: it is so amazing what she can conjure up in the small galley onboard. I do the drinks and the washing up. Afterwards, suitably replete and burping quietly, we only have to (literally) fall into our bed.
As I started these later blogs at the beginning of The Great Covid 19 Epidemic I feel duty-bound to give an update on the situation in the UK. It seems my assessment last time that the “second peak” of infections had levelled off was somewhat optimistic: the graph of daily deaths is definitely rising again, though with a much shallower gradient than in March and April. Hospital admissions are rising quite sharply but, as far as I can gather, patients are generally younger and more robust which, together with medical science being better at treating the disease, would explain the disparity between the infection rate and the death rate. A traffic light system to indicate the threat level in various parts of England has been instituted though, oddly and pessimistically, the lowest level is Medium ie there is no Low or Zero. Regions currently put into the Very High category, such as Liverpool and Manchester, are railing against the restrictions that go with it, claiming that they are being discriminated against. We in the south west of England are in the Medium category. The number of deaths that occurred in the UK as a whole on 17 October was 150 which, viewed dispassionately, seems not too bad to me for a country of about 66 million people.
I have just read a very interesting article by historian Gail Ham in By The Dart, a local periodical, comparing the present epidemic with The Black Death or Great Plague in Dartmouth. I won’t repeat the whole article (which, incidentally, can be viewed on-line at www.bythedart.co.uk), but several parallels can be drawn with our present circumstances. Infected people were socially isolated in three “pesthouses’”and guarded by “watchers” to keep them in (a parallel with the proposed “Covid Marshals”). As entire families were confined if only one person was infected, this guaranteed cross-infection and the death of the family. Money was raised by charity to look after people who were ill or in poverty. People fled the town as the plague arrived, leaving the infrastructure weak, with no external defences, no law enforcement and near anarchy. The records for one parish in Dartmouth in 1627 are still available and the graph of deaths quite interesting to examine.
Well, we weren’t feeling entirely right after that flu jab (Blog 62) that I described last time, but that was on the cards as a known side effect. However, after a week I was still feeling the effects, though Jane was pretty much OK (we men have a lower pain threshold than women, you know). I wasn’t suffering bad flu symptoms, you understand, I just felt not entirely right. It just so happens that we register with a Covid research project run by King’s College in London and log-in on a daily basis (they check that we are still alive). After a week of firing not quite on all four cylinders, I thought I should answer their query truthfully ie, no, I was not feeling entirely physically well. Back came an email asking me to take a Covid 19 test at the nearest centre and to bring a friend if I wished. So I went on line and was given an appointment for both of us in two hours. We drove to the nearby town and were given the kit to do the test ourselves inside the car. We had to park with two-metre gaps from other cars, which I thought utterly ridiculous (is the car going to catch the virus?) and swabbed, first, our tonsils, then (with the same swab) the inside of our noses (noted to self: make sure to do it in that sequence). The swab was placed in a phial, the phial bagged up in a sterile package, and the package dropped in a box on the way out. It was very slick, I thought, and – although we were told the results would come within 48 hours – I had the result the next morning after about 20 hours. It was negative. Overall, the whole thing was very well done and belied tales in the press of people having to travel 300 miles to get a test. As you ask, I am fit and healthy again now, with a wet tongue and a long glossy coat.
As we were cruising off nearby Slapton Sands the other day I reflected on the contrast between the peaceful scene of green Devonshire hills, golden sands and turquoise sea and what it would have been like there 76 years ago. In late 1943 plans for D-Day were well advanced and the war planners had earmarked Slapton Sands and adjacent beaches as being the perfect place to practise D-Day landings on Utah Beach, destined for the US First Army. The geographies of the shelving beach and surrounding countryside were almost identical. In early November 1943 the government requisitioned not only the beaches, but also 30,000 acres of land – about 5 miles inland from the beach – for war use: some 180 farms, about nine villages and several hamlets, 750 families and overall about 3,000 people were told – with only a few weeks notice – to move out of their homes and find accommodation elsewhere. They were encouraged to fend for themselves, but help was available to move and find new homes, though the latter could involve being billeted with other families in a stranger’s house. A billeting allowance was payable after moving to new accommodation, but this stopped after the first two weeks and board and lodging then had to be paid to the host householder. The families were promised that they could move back after the area was no longer required (this would be after D Day but, of course, that was not disclosed at the time) and any damage would be rectified. As the residents moved out, the American forces moved in and the whole area became a strictly restricted zone. The area was not just used for practising seaborne landings: the navy also actually shelled the land to practise naval gunfire support for D-Day and used local landmarks as targets. One hotel was totally destroyed and several churches and many houses were badly damaged. But the biggest tragedy that must surely haunt the area has only come to light relatively recently and occurred on 27 April 1944. Overnight a US convoy comprising a mixture of landing craft of various sizes, and carrying members of the US VII Corps, 4th Infantry Division was approaching Slapton Sands for a practice landing. It was attacked by a flotilla of German E-boats, which had managed to get through the naval escort, and carnage ensued. Further casualties were caused by “friendly fire” from the shore, the defenders having been issued with live ammunition to fire over the attackers’ heads to harden up the raw US troops. It is now known that 197 US sailors and 441 US soldiers died on that night: 638 US servicemen in total, and more than the actual loss of life on Utah Beach on D-Day. The whole affair was hushed up at the time for obvious reasons, but remained under wraps for many years later and – even now – is only grudgingly admitted by the US and British authorities. A salvaged American tank now stands on the shore at Slapton Sands as a testimony to that very tragic event.
So here we are, back home at last in a cold house that is only just starting to warm up after a week with the heating on “holiday” setting. We had long hot showers last night, luxuriated in the one-push flushing lavatory, used the electric blanket for the first time and had a lie-in this morning. Ashore at last: home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill. What’s that? Jane? Oh, she’s fine now. I gave her buttered eggs on toast for breakfast and I think she is currently employed in scrubbing the front doorstep. Which reminds me that I must get her a new scrubbing brush and a bar of Sunlight soap.
18 October 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 