There cannot be many people who get up at 0500 just to visit a boat, but – heh – we have had no real excitement for five months, so this was a special occasion. In its magnanimity, HM Government has permitted us to leave our local area as part of its relaxation of Covid regulations; just for the day mind – we mustn’t get carried away: we must be back by midnight or, to be strictly accurate, we must not put head to pillow anywhere other than on our own beds at home. Jane and I wanted to make the most of our day onboard APPLETON RUM and we knew that travel to Dartmouth would take about 3½ hours each way, so rising at 0500 and leaving at 0600 seemed the optimum way to achieve our goal. Of course, as the clocks had gone forward on Saturday, the start time of 0500 meant getting up in the dark, which did not prove to be a pleasant experience but, still, needs must. Travel down to Dartmouth was prolonged more than usual by my cunning plan to take a different route to avoid delays on the main road into Torbay, the A380. This road is busy at the best of times, but I had discovered that extensive road works on both carriageways were still on-going from last year (what has the Highways Agency been doing for the last six months?) and I had no wish to be stuck in a tailback for half an hour. Instead, I had identified an alternative route into the Torbay peninsula using the A379, a narrow scenic route down the western side of the Exe estuary taking in the seaside towns of Starcross, Dawlish and Teignmouth and crossing into Torquay via a bridge over the River Teign; the distance would be the same and we could combine avoiding the hold-ups with a little sightseeing (these are the same towns that the main London – Penzance railway goes through, and I had always wanted to see what they were like from the road). Oh dear. I should have been warned by my own use of the adjective “scenic”: the detour was like stepping back 50 years. Our first experience of memory lane came early, when we spurned the M5 motorway at Exeter and took, instead, what used to be the old A38 through the outskirts of the city. There we sat in a traffic queue during Exeter’s morning rush hour, being overtaken by pedestrians and cyclists, and choking on lorry exhaust fumes: stop start, stop start…We eventually got through that and hit the open road (poop! poop! as Mr Toad would say) that led down the Exe estuary to the first port of call, Starcross. This was more like it! Devonshire as it used to be: beautiful scenery, blue sea, lovely little cottages, not much traffic…which was just as well as, in places, the road was so narrow that only one vehicle could get through, so there was a bit of stopping, shuffling or reversing. Our initial euphoria lasted about as far as Dawlish, where the “quaint” road started to twist and turn in a series of sharp bends that would have done justice to the Monte Carlo Rally. Speed dropped to less than 20 mph. Through Teignmouth we crawled, in the wake of a huge lorry built in 2019 and trying to negotiate roads built in 1850. It was not pleasant. I think the novelty wore off in Dawlish Warren after I missed the turning for the main road and ended up on the truly scenic route, taking us past holiday parks, caravan sites and dreadful holiday architecture, with the sea view obscured by the railway embankment. I remarked to Jane that I was baffled that the road was so difficult, for I used to take part in car rallies on these Devonshire roads in the early 1970s; but then it dawned on me that cars were so much smaller and narrower in those days – if you look at a 1960s Mini today it looks like something Grumpy or Sneezy might drive. Also, we young men were totally invincible and fearless when we drove in our youth; maturity brings with it a sense of mortality. At last, we escaped Teignmouth and crossed the River Teign (missed the turning again), emerging into the conurbation that is now called Torbay. Tor Bay itself (the bay, as opposed to the conurbation) was dotted with cruise liners sitting out the epidemic at anchor and, among the many, we saw our old favourite QUEEN MARY 2. It was lovely to see her again and it invoked fond memories of our lengthy voyage in 2017, but heaven knows if we will ever tread her decks again. We treated ourselves to a battery recharge at Lidl in Torquay before weaving our way through the busy town, then Paignton, then Churston, then finally Kingswear, where the marina is. I looked at my watch: what with the charging of the battery, the detours, the wrong turnings and the 20mph speed limits, it had taken us 4 ½ hours to get there. We could have been in Newcastle in that time, and all to avoid the original roadworks on the A380 Ho hum: you win some you lose some. Starcross, Dawlish, Dawlish Warren, Teignmouth: been there, didn’t buy the tee-shirts and, no, we won’t be going back, though thank you for asking.
The new floating marina at Noss was an absolute delight. Gone were the rusty steel pontoons covered in red lead, ring bolts, chains, welded patches and trip hazards; instead we found a vast labyrinth of new wooden pontoons, decked out with discreet foot-lighting, neat electrical points and shiny new cleats. The original bridge onto the pontoon from the hard used to be so steep at low tide that I had christened it the Death Slide, in reference to the hazard of trundling a fully loaded trolley down it, Jane hanging onto my belt with one hand and the guard rail with the other. That had gone and had been replaced by a long, modern, bridge and a gentle incline. We sought out our boat in the nest of masts: aha – there she was, in her roomy new berth, looking as smart as a new pin and just as shiny. We boarded, not without a little trepidation as to what we would find inside after five months. Do you know, she was in mint condition inside apart from a mass of fly corpses: there was no musty smell and no damp; the engines fired up first time, as did the onboard diesel heater. I think APPLETON RUM was pleased to see us and welcome us back. As to the day, the sun shone, the sky was blue and, despite the cool light breeze from the south, Jane and I sat on the quarterdeck sipping cups of coffee, just taking in the sheer enjoyment of being away from home and gazing at the rolling green hills and the busy riverscape once more. It was absolutely delightful. So might the Count of Monte Christo have felt after his escape from the Château d’If. I was tempted to take the boat out for a shakedown, but we had quite a bit to do by way of re-stowing our dunnage (which had been removed for the winter) and re-making the bunk in preparation for our return in mid April, when we would be permitted to stay overnight as part of the second relaxation stage of lockdown. Also, Jane forbade it in case the engines broke down (oh ye of little faith…). Our local friends, Raymond and Carole, came down to see us and we spent a very pleasant hour in the sunshine, sharing a cup of coffee and some home-made lemon drizzle cake, which Carole had thoughtfully baked. What a joy it was to meet our friends again and to hold a conversation without the assistance of Facetime. Alas, what with the stowing, the bed making, the chatting and the fly corpse removal, it was soon time to set off back home again. We took the direct route this time. Despite the roadworks on the A380, we were back home again in three hours, and treated ourselves to fish and chips from the local chip shop (stuff the diet). We crashed out early, utterly shattered after a sixteen hour day, but it was well worth it.
Pondering on that remark of, “ye of little faith” in the context of things mechanical, set me reflecting on 50 years of a career in engineering. Science still fascinates me. In my first boat, a narrowboat, I had fitted a diesel-powered hot water heater: a lovely bit of kit about the size of a shoe box that worked a treat onboard, except whenever I had completed my annual planned maintenance on it. To show its contempt for someone fiddling with its innards it invariably would resist starting for several attempts after these little interludes. I took along a very good friend of mine, who was also my Commander (E) in HMS NONSUCH, for moral and professional support once when trying to start the thing, but he could offer no suggestions as to what was wrong. On one occasion, we thought it prudent to retire to the other end of the jetty as the heater went through its start phase, the after end of the boat being completely obscured by white smoke.
“You know, Horatio”, he said, ”between us, we must have eighty years of extensive engineering education, training and experience. Yet all we can do with this thing is stand here and look at it”.
I thought it a very profound observation.
It is a source of infinite amazement and delight when an engine runs, a ship floats or an aircraft flies – particularly so when I happen to be onboard one of the last two vehicles. All those theorems and approximations actually work: fascinating. The hardest thing to overcome when flying, however, is pondering on the fatigue life of aluminium alloys when I watch that wing flapping, or on the centrifugal force exerted on turbine blades. Mechanical things that work are still a revelation to me but, you know, it’s not easy being an engineer.
You will have gathered that England has passed its first relaxation milestone (or is that a ‘step’ – I have lost touch with the current terminology?). We can now leave our local area and can entertain in our back gardens (or on a picnic) in parties of up to six people – hence the adventure down to Devonshire for the day. The next relaxation will be on 12 April, when folk can stay overnight in self-catering accommodation on holiday – though only as one household. I use the name ‘England’ advisedly, by the way, for Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland still have their own timetable for emerging from close arrest, primarily in order to assert their own identities (“because we can…”). It is ridiculous that the UK is not tackling this epidemic as one country, or that we have started to refer to its component parts as “nations” as if they were a tribes of Arapaho, Comanche or Iroquois Red Indians, but that ship sailed long ago. Weekly UK deaths attributable to Covid remain below the level of the 5-year average for this time of year and are now negligible in comparison to deaths due to other causes. As I write, the statistics are: Covid deaths in the last 24 hours, 52 (dropping 38% weekly); hospital admissions 273 (dropping 24% weekly); first dose vaccinations given, 31.3 million (61% of the adult population), second dose given stands at 5 million (increasing exponentially). There has been a brief hiatus in the vaccination rollout owing to supply problems, but we are assured that the programme is still running on time. The European Union continues to threaten to ban exports of the vaccine and some of its officials have been thoroughly unpleasant in their comments regarding the UK’s progress with vaccinations as measured against the appalling roll-out on the Continent, which is suffering severely in a third wave of infections. Socially, the warm weather this week has combined with the minor relaxation on travel to produce parks and beauty spots full of people sunning themselves; this has brought on frowns of disapproval on the part of the authorities who, like Oliver Cromwell and his Puritans, disapprove of all pleasure, freedom and enjoyment. Public outdoor mixing may continue at Easter, though the weather forecast is for a return to chilly or even Arctic conditions: ah, the English Bank Holiday, you just can’t beat it for coming up trumps with the weather. Last week, riots took place in Bristol, ironically initially starting as a demonstration against a new bill in Parliament that would give police the power to curb violent protests; notwithstanding the motive of the demonstrations, I believe the (ongoing) problem of unrest may be a symptom of something greater, namely the safety valve lifting after a year of being confined. Britons are still banned from travelling overseas unless on official business, and face fines of up to £5,000 if they go anywhere near an airport. Oh, to be in England…
Drunk on our new-found limited freedom, Jane and I decided to visit Bath, my old stomping ground where I ended my naval career in the design division of the Ministry of Defence (Navy). A city some 30 miles inland from the sea may seem an odd choice as the location for designing and supporting ships of the Royal Navy, but it stems from World War II, when the Admiralty (as it then was) moved the naval design departments out of London to avoid the bombing. Several hotels and buildings in Bath were commandeered for “the duration”, and many a warship was designed in the bathroom of a Georgian hotel in the city. After the war, the departments remained in Bath: some in dedicated “temporary” single-storey hutments at Combe Down, Lansdown and Warminster Road, and some still in commercial buildings or hotels. The Empire Hotel, in the centre of Bath overlooking the scenic weir on the River Avon, was still in MOD ownership as late as the 1990s before being sold and converted into a very expensive set of exclusive flats (my memory was that the building was falling apart when still in MOD ownership, with several areas closed off for safety reasons). As the Royal Navy shrank, so the infrastructure to design and support the Fleet shrank with it and, gradually in the 1980s and 90s, the MOD offices in the city returned to commercial ownership. The MOD began to move out of Bath towards the end of the 20th century in favour of a huge purpose-built complex on the outskirts of Bristol, and finally left the city entirely in the early part of this century. The “temporary” hutments at Combe Down, Warminster Road and Lansdown were demolished, and the sites have now been sold for housing. The site at Combe Down, known as Foxhill, was where I was based several times and I have very fond memories of working there. It was idyllic: pleasant, semi-rural, plenty of parking and an easy commute from my lodgings in Wiltshire. I rather suspect that the good burghers of Bath did not realise the extent to which there was an MOD and Royal Navy presence in their city until 1998; in that year, the Chief of the Defence Staff decreed that all military personnel working in MOD establishments should “show the flag” and wear uniform when on duty (before that we were required to work in plain clothes in a civilian environment). A rash of blue uniforms and white caps appeared all over Bath: officers shopping in their lunch hour, visiting cafés and relaxing on park benches. I heard at least one citizen wondering how they had managed to get a warship so far up the River Avon. And now the Navy has gone.
Jane and I had not been in Bath for quite some time and thought that a walk around its beautiful Georgian streets would be a nice change after walking round the muddy countryside, but first we had to get there: we were amazed to find a main trunk road, the A365, completely closed off in Wiltshire and were forced to divert down country roads that we had not driven on for many a year. More road works followed as we took a Cook’s tour of the county of Wiltshire, but we eventually staggered into Bath after a journey that took more than twice as long as it used to. We found the city to be surprisingly busy, bearing in mind the present situation: the sun had brought out the inhabitants en masse and the parks were full with people picnicking, playing tennis, or simply revelling in the mild weather. Bath was as beautiful as ever, and we took great delight in walking down the familiar boulevard of Great Pulteney Street, with its fine Georgian buildings and wide pavements, and across Pulteney Bridge with its mixture of shops and cafés (alas shut). There was a distinct lack of the usual hordes of tourists, but there was a plethora of schoolchildren, the schools having only just broken up for Easter that afternoon. Of course, all the shops were shut and boarded up, which rather took the edge off our enjoyment. We walked through the covered market – normally a thriving microcosm of mixed retail activity – and found only a hardware shop and a cheese shop open; everywhere else had tarpaulins across the counters or shop openings. Here and there graffiti had increased its desecration and the overall impact of everything being shut almost projected an image of a city abandoned to the Morlocks. Paradoxically, incredibly perhaps, the traffic wardens were still in evidence and the city council was still charging the princely sum of £2 to enter the exclusive Parade Gardens: the city not quite dead yet, then. I read somewhere that Bath has become the first city in the UK outside London to introduce Clean Air Zones, with a charge imposed on certain polluting commercial vehicles (private cars are exempt); that will be interesting, as I wonder how it will affect the residents and shops taking deliveries. I believe a day curfew on commercial vehicles was imposed in Ancient Rome, so how very appropriate that Bath should follow suit 2,000 years later. Certain pedestrian zones have been created too, but that should not be problem to us as – from memory – driving in inner Bath was always rather difficult anyway; we always used the Park and Ride when visiting. Notwithstanding the closed shops, art galleries, cafés and Abbey, we still enjoyed our stroll through Bath, revisiting familiar areas and noting changes from our last visit, but it soon became apparent that the cold front predicted by the meteorologists was on its way: the wind had veered to the north and – insidiously at first – began to make itself felt. By the end of our stroll we were marching at a swift and determined pace back in the direction of the car, which we had parked on the outskirts of the city. A swift return home (by an alternative route) followed, and we were finally able to sit down in our Drawing Room, exhausted yet cosy, and take onboard a hot-crossed bun and a nice sensible cup of tea. Such an exciting day.
Well, my new waistcoat came (Blog 86) and I am absolutely delighted with it. It cost a few bob, but the expense was well worth it for the quality of workmanship and cloth, both originating in the UK instead of the Far East. Our industry needs all the help it can get at the moment and I am happy to support it when I can. I don’t know about you, but we have saved quite a bit during this epidemic through not dining out, not going to the theatre, not going on holiday, or not entertaining at home. There is a lot of scope for boat improvement there, but I haven’t mentioned it to Jane as we haven’t received the last bill from our shipwright yet. If you do not own a boat, then let me advise you that such a possession will give you a lot of pleasure, but take note of the acronym BOAT: Bring On Another Thousand. Alternatively, restrict your ambitions to the variety that fits into a bath tub.
Now whatever happened to the OHMS brown envelope? For the benefit of any non-British readers I should explain that OHMS stands for On Her Majesty’s Service and communications from HM government always came in a brown envelope with OHMS written across the top. You never see these letters now, and I missed the demise, whenever it happened. Such communication was rarely good news as, in my experience, it usually presaged a tax demand from HM Inspector of Taxes (as it then was) or took the form of that naval precursor of disturbance, the Appointment Letter from the Director of Naval Officers’ Appointments. Unlike officers of the Army and RAF, who are posted to new jobs (though not in a brown envelope unless you count those in an army uniform), Royal Navy officers are appointed. Since the time of Nelson, naval officers have had a degree of say in where they will go for the next job and – theoretically – can decline a certain appointment in favour of another, though such behaviour could well damage their career if exercised rashly (see my later paragraph). The wise naval officer always researched the best appointments coming up before discussing his or her future with their Appointer so that a fruitful two-way exchange of ideas could take place, the needs of the Service always taking priority in the final outcome. I always remember a friend of mine telling me that his Appointer had offered him the job of Dock Master of the floating dock at Faslane, in Scotland. When my friend declined the job (I cannot imagine why), the Appointer remarked (in the manner of a used car salesman),
“It’s a good job…”,
to which my friend replied,
“Then you won’t have any difficulty in filling it, will you?”.
Alas, the two way exchange and flexibility in the naval appointment process has not always been universally applied and, since the days of Admiral Byng (court-martialled and shot on his own quarterdeck for failing to stop the French from taking Minorca in 1757) the Royal Navy has been known to exact a harsh revenge on those who buck the system. By the end of WWII, submarine commander Lieutenant Commander Alastair Mars DSO DSC and Bar Royal Navy was exhausted and bankrupt after six long years of war, based in the Mediterranean and the Far East. He hoped for a spell ashore, or at least based near his home in Scotland, in order to sort out his personal affairs but – instead – was sent on the Staff Course in London. Still having difficulty in managing on his naval pay (which was, at that time, very poor), he was then seconded to the New Zealand Navy for service in a cruiser. Service in Hong Kong, followed. Several times he tried to resign or retire, but his applications were refused. I should, perhaps, explain that in those days (and when I served up to 2002) a naval officer could not resign his commission like you read in books or see in films (I cannot comment on the other two services); he could apply to retire, but approval was not guaranteed and there was no formal notice period laid down: release could be any time between 6 and 15 months, depending on Service needs, and that made obtaining a civilian job difficult (ratings could leave the Navy with 18 months notice which, although lengthy by civilian standards, at least gave them a firm release date). Nowadays officers are on contracts with mutual decision points throughout their career, but then it was different. Mentally exhausted and virtually destitute, with his wife ill, unable to resign or retire, Mars hit on the idea that he should simply decline his next appointment. He also decided that the standard naval Appointment Letter that directed him to a new job was not, in fact, an order as defined by the Naval Discipline Act. The Appointment Letter was invariably of the form,
“Sir, I am directed to inform you that the Admiralty Board have appointed you to Her Majesty’s Ship NONSUCH [or whatever] in the rank of …..You are to report for duty on….”
and it would end with a mimeographed signature of some civil servant or other; it was not signed by a Superior Officer as defined by Queen’s Regulations for the Royal Navy. For that reason, Mars decided that an Appointment Letter was not a formal order. When he was duly appointed to a naval shore establishment in Portsmouth in 1952 (which he had declined), he decided that he simply would not go and he sat at home waiting to see what would happen. After a few days, a police van drew up outside his flat and out stepped a policeman and two Lieutenant Commanders – the Naval Provosts-Marshal for Portsmouth and London – in full uniform, black gaiters and boots. They arrested Mars for being absent without leave then, later, charged him with wilful disobedience. To cut a long story short, he was tried by court martial onboard Nelson’s flagship, HMS VICTORY, found guilty, and dismissed the Service. The national newspapers were up in arms about the treatment of this highly decorated submarine ace, and questions were asked in Parliament, but that cut no ice with their Lordships and the later Appeal was dismissed out of hand. Still, as his solicitor pointed out at the time, Mars had at least managed to get out of the Navy. Mars’ story is told in his autobiography, Court Martial, published by Frederick Muller Ltd in 1954. The moral of the story is that, yes, you as a naval officer can decline your appointment, but it is best not to push your luck. Commander Mars died in 1985. Things are so much better now – I would assume that their Lordships learnt something from the experience.
2 April 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 