“And we jolly sailor boys were leaping up aloft, with the landlubbers lying down below”. Ahoy, landlubbers and shipmates: I’m back from the boat, wind-burned, weather beaten, bruised, aching in most joints, and smelling faintly of diesel oil. This last characteristic is a little odd, bearing in mind that conditions onboard are not so primitive as to prevent us from showering every day, which we do, and the boat is kept spic and span; but there it is: we come back home and cannot wait to have a full shower and change. This thing of cleanliness is an interesting one, as I have just read that the sales of soap and deodorant are less than in previous years and there is an inference that people are, well, simply not bathing or showering as much as they did, because of the malaise of lockdown. How disgusting. It doesn’t surprise me, however, judging from the mode of dress in the streets, with many people apparently wearing what they slept in (baby doll nightdresses excepted). What have we become when some people think it is acceptable not to wash and self discipline has been lost? When I was a little boy playing with lumps of coal as toys, my family did not have a bathroom: faces and hands were washed at the kitchen sink in cold water and the bath was a galvanised tin tub filled every Friday, by hand, with kettle-loads of water and taken in front of the coal fire in the living room (I cannot remember how the tub was emptied afterwards). We once stayed with my uncle in Westmorland (as it then was) and his house actually had a bathroom; I can still remember the delight in taking my first proper bath and diving under the water for the plug (I was a bit smaller than I am now). Having a shower on my father’s ship was a further novelty and delight. Yet here we are in the 21st century, with all the modern conveniences, and some people are so lazy that they allow themselves to marinade in their own filth just because they are working from home and don’t have to meet anyone. I don’t call that progress.
Anyway, we had a good time on the boat, which had survived the winter and her lay-up remarkably well. There was no damp and there were no leaks. The only odd thing was a plague of dead flies (or should that be a plague of flies which had subsequently died?), with corpses everywhere. We only had to clean up Batch 2 – our friends in Dartmouth had already very kindly hoovered up Batch 1 for us while the boat was ashore. The phenomenon was very odd and we had not experienced it in previous years though, when we used to stay in a self-catering holiday cottage very nearby, the fly problem was a known hazard probably associated with rotting seaweed on the river bank. I do hope it does not re-occur, as we found the corpses in some very obscure places over the course of several days, and it was a ‘pain’ to clear them up.
The weather was very good for the whole week, with blue skies and turquoise seas every day, and relatively mild winds. The only drawback was that it was very cold overnight, dropping to 0 degrees Centigrade on occasion, and the wind was bitterly cold. We normally get our weather from the south west, bringing with it soft refreshing rain; this last week, however, we had winds from the eastern sector, veering from north east to south. Jobs of one sort or another usually keep me busy onboard, but we ventured out to sea on Saturday and, in a fit of mad adventure, we decided to visit the six redundant cruise ships anchored in Tor Bay. Historically, Tor Bay has always been regarded as a safe anchorage and was often used as shelter in bad weather, for example by the Channel Fleet blockading France during the Napoleonic Wars. We have had the ambition to cross Tor Bay before, but have been beaten back by heavy swell. This time, we were determined to press on and, to our mutual surprise, we succeeded. We motored around to Brixham first of all and explored the harbour, then continued across the bay to Torquay, taking in – in passing – two Holland-America Line ships and a TUI cruise ship anchored quite close in to the shore. Both Holland-America ships looked quite forlorn and mildly neglected, not flying any colours though registered in Rotterdam. We did not enter Torquay harbour, but pressed on further east around Hope’s Nose to Hope Cove, where two P&O liners and (our particular interest) the Cunard cruise liner QUEEN VICTORIA were anchored. We had sailed in QUEEN VICTORIA for a short trip in 2018 (Blog 27) so we were familiar with her, though she did not occupy the same place in our hearts as QUEEN MARY 2, in which we had sailed to Australia and back (Blog 1 – Blog 26). Nevertheless, QUEEN VICTORIA was owned by Cunard and we quite like the company despite the fact that it is no longer British and calls cabins “staterooms”, so we made the effort to circle the ship, keeping well clear in accordance with a large faded banner on her side warning vessels to come no closer than 50 metres for security reasons. I am not sure what they thought the threat was or how they thought anyone could board the vessel, given her very high freeboard; perhaps they had heard rumours of pirates based in the the flesh pots of Brixham. Like the other anchored cruise ships, QUEEN VICTORIA did not look her best: her paint was faded, her hull was superficially rusty in parts and her superstructure looked in need of a good wash down and touch up. When you see these ships close-to in harbour, on a cruise, they are usually pristine; on the day of our visit the ship looked a bit careworn. I would have thought she would need to be dry-docked and given a quick re-paint before she was suitable to be seen in public again; the work needed was greater than could be achieved by putting a few hands over the side on stages. Circuit of the ship complete, we set course south and headed back to the Dart. I think the mistake we made in previous ‘long’ trips was in remaining outside and conning the boat from the upper helm. While pleasant in terms of the view, this position is noisy and, after a time, quite cold and distinctly wearing. Retiring to the wheelhouse, as we did on this trip, we found the noise to be much reduced and the atmosphere to be markedly warmer; Jane could lounge with her feet up on one of the settees, like Cleopatra entertaining her Mark Antony, while The Master did his manly thing in conning the vessel. The only snag was the poor visibility caused by the salt spray on the windscreen, the fact that the windscreen washers appeared not to have survived the winter (they were later found to have not been switched on at the master switch), and the fact that the windscreen wipers – rarely used – had disintegrated. But hey, who needs visibility in a boat steaming close to the craggy Devonshire coastline? We lived a little dangerously and survived. By the way, note my excellent use of the passive third person back there.
The coastline of Devonshire and Cornwall does have a very characteristic appearance. It resembles the back of a dinosaur, with sharp craggy points, steep sloping cliffs with terrifying footpaths; further rocky outcrops emerge from the sea, as if some giant had tossed them there. Here and there are beaches and coves, but – on the whole – the appearance is quite forbidding and you can well imagine how there have been so many wrecks around that coast. I am very wary when navigating around the area. The most frightening place I have ever visited (by land) in that regard was The Lizard, in Cornwall: the violent pounding sea foaming among the rocks sent a shiver down my spine. Pity poor sailors on a stormy night around there.
The country has been in mourning all week following the sad death of HRH the Duke of Edinburgh on 9 April. We were flying our ensign at half-mast and it was my intention to honour the one minute’s silence prescribed for 1500. Entirely coincidentally, at that time we were entering the River Dart and passing abeam of Dartmouth and Kingswear Castles. I stopped the engines and removed my cap for the one minute, reflecting that it was here, in Dartmouth, that Philip – at that time, the Prince of Greece and Denmark – met Princess Elizabeth in 1939. They had first met briefly in 1934 when they were children, but the 1939 meeting was – apparently – the ‘clincher’ despite the fact that Princess Elizabeth was only 13. I very much admired and respected Prince Philip, not least for the fact that he was plain-speaking and a real (as opposed to an honorary) naval officer. As well as supporting The Queen for over 70 years, he had done much to modernise the royal household and a great deal for youth charities: the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme has been particularly successful in inspiring young people to strive towards excellence. He will be sadly missed though, at the age of 99, he was on borrowed time. Later, at home, on watching the recording of the funeral, we were deeply moved by the ceremony and felt so sorry for The Queen, masked and sitting alone and forlorn in St George’s Chapel at Windsor. Poor woman.
We did not manage to cruise up river to Totnes this time around, because the tides were not favourable. As I have mentioned before, it is possible to navigate up the River Dart all the way to the delightful market town of Totnes for a period three hours either side of High Water; unfortunately the river is too shallow for most boats outside of these times and it is not possible to remain alongside in the town at Low Water (unless the boat is suitable for taking the ground). The trip from Dartmouth to Totnes takes about an hour and the route takes you through the very scenic and picturesque Dart valley, the river twisting and turning on its way, but well-marked by navigation buoys. The villages and hamlets of Dittisham, Galmpton, Cornworthy, Stoke Gabriel and Duncannon are passed in the distance on the way, but mostly the scene is of verdant Devonshire fields and woodland. There are several places where you can just drop the anchor and relax in the tranquility: at Bow Creek, you can anchor and take a small dinghy up the creek to the village of Tuckenhay where The Malsters Arms nestles at the end (older British readers may remember the late TV chef Keith Floyd, who used to own the pub). There is a very good vineyard, Sharpham Estate, further up, that is worth a visit for its white wines though – alas – it is not possible to get alongside the estate quay in bigger boats (we visited it by car). Trip boats from Dartmouth do regular runs up to Totnes when the tide is right, and the voyage is worthwhile – particularly if part of a ‘Round Robin’ ticket which funds the boat trip up, a bus from Totnes to Paignton, the steam train from Paignton to Kingswear (across the river from Dartmouth), and then the ferry back to Dartmouth. The ticket is flexible and the trip can be taken in either direction. Another very good trip is an excursion on the River Dart paddle steamer, the KINGSWEAR CASTLE; this is brilliant, not only for its novelty and the steamer’s virtually silent operation, but also for the immaculate Edwardian internal fittings. Her engine and boiler were salvaged from the original vessel of that name in the early 1900s, and the wreck of her predecessor lies in the River Dart near Sharpham. We embarked on an evening trip in KINGSWEAR CASTLE a few years ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. I had a good chat with the Chief (and only) Engineer, a schoolboy who appeared to have just left the 6th Form and whose face went totally blank when I asked him about boiler feed water quality; and with the Master, in his mid twenties, who confided in me the difficulty of manoeuvring the paddle steamer because the paddles cannot be controlled independently and wash over the rudder is minimal. Details of trips are at https://www.dartmouthrailriver.co.uk and, no, I don’t get a commission for advertising – quite simply, the trips are very worthwhile and the commentaries knowledgeable. The Kingswear steam train, by the way, passes very close to our berth in the marina and chuffs its way past on a regular basis in season, heading for Greenway (the late Agatha Christie’s summer home), Churston and Paignton (where you can change and join the main railway line for London). Sometimes it feels like we are part of a Janet & John children’s book of the 1950s. We have done the steam train trip, but it is very expensive at £19.60 each, single; it is something you should do once, but probably not get into the habit of doing unless you have just won the lottery or are heavily into saturated steam and the Stephenson Link.
Summer has come: it is official. I have started to bring out my cream and khaki trousers from the Winter Drawer to replace my thick corduroys and moleskins, and I will shortly be airing my short sleeved shirts. As if further proof were needed, Jane has shed her vest and started doing things to her legs to complement the toenail varnishing reported in Blog 80; she appeared bare-legged at breakfast this morning and, clearly, the die has been cast. April has been sunny every day and we have had no rain. It is only a matter of time before some official or other declares a national drought and a ban on hosepipes. Mind you, as mentioned in Paragraph 2, it has been distinctly chilly in the morning and it is quite cool in the shade; but the sun makes such a difference to one’s feeling of well-being.
Covid deaths are right down and bumping along the bottom – “in the noise” as electronics engineers say, and typically less than 20. Rates of death, hospital admissions and positive test outcomes are all falling, averaging 27% a week. Our next milestone is 17 May, when we can mix indoors at home, in a pub, or restaurant. Currently, we can eat or drink in a garden, at a restaurant or at a pub provided it is outdoors, but having seen the cold wind blow napkins and other loose items off the tables on the embankment in Dartmouth I would suggest that al fresco dining is only for the determined or the hardy at present, and we won’t be doing it.
Now tell me, what is the point of cushions and candles? What purpose do they serve? The former clutter up chairs and sofas and prevent you from sitting down properly; the latter clutter up every horizontal surface and, paradoxically, are never lit. Why do women buy them? Why are there so many cushion, candle and bric-a-brac shops around? It is a complete mystery to me.
The plants have invaded the Garden Control Tower (aka the Conservatory or Breakfast Room) again, just like last year. There are mini pots, trays, spillages of soil, and fruit flies everywhere. Jane waters them daily and coos over them on a regular basis, to the detriment of the attention given to me, the Master of the Household. Protests have invoked defiance and insubordinate responses, and, until a few days ago, it looked like this mini Kew Gardens was here to stay. A glimmer of sunshine, literally and figuratively, heralded the plant removal to the outside greenhouse, but my relief was short lived. You see, Jane has bought a large tomato growing contraption from Lidl: basically it is a very large tub with a false bottom and an articulated framework reaching up to the skies. She expressed the intention of filling it with compost, planting her tomatoes in it, and locating the huge thing in the corner of the Garden Control Tower. She went through the motions of asking my views and when I said I wasn’t keen because of the lack of space and the potential mess, she took that as an approval. I was promised that the incursion would only be for a short time, while her little red tomatoes were getting used to life in the open air. Anyway, graceful in defeat (as ever), I offered the opinion that she would need help to move this heavy monstrosity into its new home and told her to let me know when she was ready. I was upstairs doing something Very Important that evening when, from downstairs, I heard an almighty crash and an anguished cry of,
“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! NO! HE’LL KILL ME”
I shot downstairs, thinking that she had injured herself and there, in the conservatory, was Jane on her hands and knees with the tomato pot overturned on the tiled floor. Soil and water were everywhere: up the walls, spattering the chairs, over the windows and over Jane She had tried to bring the thing in herself and had failed in that endeavour. I refrained from embarking on a lecture in Health and Safety, or on messy garden items being brought indoors – just about. Strangely, she declined my help and I was told to clear off after the third paternal sigh and shake of the head. An hour later, the mess had been cleared up and the tomato tub had been exiled to the garden shed, never to show itself in the Garden Control Tower again. Triffids: they’ll never catch on.
I wrote, last time, about the wearing of ties and the general deterioration of sartorial standards among men. This set me pondering again on the general theme of the message one sends by one’s choice of dress. I recall the story of a rather pompous British businessman who visited his son in Hong Kong when it was still a colony, and came back with the gift of a tie from his generous offspring. He wore the tie proudly at several cocktail parties back in Britain and pontificated frequently about how successful he was as both a businessman and father. The novelty of the tie was that it displayed one of those 3D images, viewable from different directions and the image was in bright Chinese characters; it was certainly very distinctive. At one party, someone asked him about the unusual tie, which he took as an invitation to explain his son’s upbringing, his subsequent success in Asian business, and his own growing business empire. Basically, he was a pompous ass on these occasions and asking for his balloon to be burst. At last, New Hope arrived in the form of a fellow guest who spoke and read Mandarin. Listening to the businessman’s lengthy explanation, he just smiled without comment. Later, he confided to a friend,
“That guy doesn’t have a clue of the message he is sending to others”.
“Well, that could be true. What specifically?”
“The writing on his tie”.
“Why, what does it say?”.
The Mandarin speaker whispered into his friend’s ear and invoked a mighty laugh.
The pompous businessman’s tie, with its novelty 3D image apparently said, after translation,
“My bum is a peach”.
I wonder if anyone ever told him?
23 April 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 