Blog 98. ‘Ping’

Nobody works, nobody goes to school.  That was Jane’s sage observation when I complained about how busy the River Dart and our marina was, midweek, mid July, before English state schools had broken up for the summer holidays.  She was, as ever, quite right.  The NHS automatic ‘Covid Track and Trace’  system uses a smartphone App that interacts with everyone in your vicinity, swapping personal details electronically using Bluetooth.  If anyone you have been physically close to subsequently has a positive Covid test result, then the system sends a message  to you and all others who were near the victim (‘ping’) and tells you to isolate for ten days, whether you subsequently test positive or not.  It sounds very swish, and I suppose it is, but the App is so sensitive that everyone within Bluetooth range of a ‘diseased’ person gets ‘pinged’; it can even ‘ping’ people in the house next door to a Covid-infected person.  Net result: thousands of people are ordered off work and (supposedly) isolating and many industries are struggling to keep afloat.  In schools, whole ‘bubbles’ or year groups are sent home if one pupil tests positive – again, even if pupils test negative.  The whole thing is, in short, a complete pot mess and a paradox.  It is a paradox because, according to surveys, more than half of the English are frightened to go into a building without wearing a mask despite the covering no longer being a legal requirement from 19 July; yet Wembley stadium was packed for the recent football extravaganza (no masks, no distancing); so was Wimbledon for the tennis; and the beaches and seaside towns of England are packed solid with holidaymakers.  I just don’t get it: either you are terrified of catching Covid and never go out or mask up, or you aren’t.  Who are these people who are terrified? Certainly they aren’t football or tennis supporters, or holidaymakers in England.

As I predicted in earlier blogs, Boris has not only wimped out of the decision to remove Covid restrictions, he has done one worse, something that I did not anticipate.  The government lifted all law-enforced restrictions in England as planned on 19 July… but then advised everyone to continue following the restrictions anyway.  Boris has passed on responsibility for our well-being to individuals, relying on our common sense and judgement (good),  but has also authorised local authorities, public transport, shop, venue, theatre, restaurant and pub owners to impose their own rules as a condition of entry.  Thus, the dog is off the leash and we are at the whim of every petty-fogging, risk-averse little service provider or council official who is terrified of coming out of lockdown.  The prime minister has given us freedom with one hand and taken it away with the other; instead of a consistent (if unwelcome ) policy we now have a whole host of varied ones.  London Transport (or TfL to give it its proper name) requires passengers to wear masks, but some national rail companies do not; passengers on a train passing into Wales or Scotland could be without masks one minute, yet required to wear them next minute as they cross the border, even in an empty carriage.  Visiting a town or venue now brings with it uncertainty, and the spontaneity that we hoped to regain on 19 July has failed to appear: will this museum, shop or restaurant still demand that I wear a mask, or will the decision be left to me?  What price our much vaunted vaccination programme, with 71% of the adult population double jabbed?  Positive test results (I refuse to call them infections) have peaked and are now falling.  Deaths and hospitalisations are still rising, but can be expected to peak and fall as they follow the trend of the test results, and the levels of both remain low, currently averaging about 60 deaths a day in a UK population of 68 million people (0.000074%).

Ironically, the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Secretary of State for Health were ‘pinged’ themselves and had to self isolate, despite them being double-vaccinated and with no symptoms.   This makes a mockery of the government’s campaign to encourage younger adults to accept a vaccination: what would they gain by doing so if even the double-vaccinated still have to isolate, infected or not?  We have also moved from instances of genuine illness necessitating isolation and care, to some sort of ethereal non-existent condition that, despite all logic, demands that people isolate themselves ‘just in case’ on receiving a ‘ping’.  The ‘pingdemic’, as the media have labelled it, is causing as much economic damage as the real epidemic did a year ago and there is now another run on goods in the shops as the logistic infrastructure is decimated by people having to leave work, whether ill or not, because they have been ‘pinged’.  The government has refused to reduce the Bluetooth sensitivity of the NHS Covid App, but has made certain key jobs exempt from the ‘ping mania’, though employers have to apply to do this; however, exemption is being resisted by the unions.  No surprise there. Some people have deleted the NHS Covid App from their smartphones to avoid being identified in this manner; I know I have.  The situation is totally ridiculous.  Covid rant over (for now).

After I wrote the last blog I was chatting on line to Rupert, my son, about The Football Match in which England lost the cup to Italy.  Contrary to my assertion in Blog 97, I actually did watch the match right through, partly to keep Jane company (she had been pressured into watching it by Rupert) and partly because I thought it my patriotic duty.  It was all right: I could see some of the skills involved and get some inkling of the excitement that fans felt; I thought the Italian team seemed to be taking the initiative much more than the English team and deserved to win, but then what do I know?  Anyway, I was pontificating on all this with Young Lochinvar when he revealed that – contrary to what I wrote in my last blog (which he doesn’t read) – all that extravaganza was not the World Cup.  It was the European Cup, or Euro.  Do you mean to say, none of you could have told me?  And we have to go through the whole thing again next year for the World Cup?  Oh my God.

So anyway, we were sitting in our garden at home, sipping a gin and tonic and basking in pleasant sunshine when a large brown rat appeared, wished us a pleasant day, and continued on into the undergrowth. Jane practically had a heart attack. I pointed out that the poor chap was only looking for a home, perhaps seeking a bijou residence for himself and Mrs Rat, but it cut no ice with Jane. She hates rats. We immediately deployed rat poison left over from the incident of mice eating the garden shed (Blog 83) and I was detailed off for sniper duty, armed with an air pistol. Jane is now so terrified that she will not go into the undergrowth for fear of a rat running up her leg. It never rains, it pours. Watch this space for more news of Roland and family.

The British Isles were sweltering in a heat wave last week and the reaction of the population passed from the, “Whoa, what a scorcher!” phase to the, “Thank you very much, but can we return to normal now?” phase.  Monday 19 July was the hottest day for us, at 32C in the shade.  At the time, we were back on the boat earlier than planned, a much anticipated visit by friends being cancelled because one of them was ‘pinged’ (see above) and had to quarantine for ten days; they tested negative for Covid, but still had to isolate.  Very disappointed, but free of an obligation, we shot off early to the boat and – in hindsight – made a sound decision: the heat wave hit as we arrived.  It is ironic: after a year moaning about the wind and cool temperatures in Dartmouth, we were now crying out for both.  There wasn’t any wind – even at sea – but I did achieve one of my ambitions: to swim in the translucent green waters while at anchor in Scabbacombd Bay, near Torquay.  Naturally, Jane remained very firmly onboard, the sea not being up to Caribbean standards.  I also managed another plunge a week later, this time in Ladies Cove near Dartmouth.  That bathing platform on the boat and its little ladder finally came into its own.  And let me assure you, dear reader, that in all that swelteringly hot un-British weather with the deck too hot to stand on when barefoot, the English Channel on both occasions was absolutely perishing.

You may think that when a boat is at anchor in a sheltered bay, then she is at rest as if lying alongside a quay.  Alas, that is not the case.  Even when at anchor a boat is subjected to the wind and, more significantly, the swell.  Everywhere we anchored, APPLETON RUM rolled like a destroyer in a hurricane; rolled, in fact, more than she did when under way.  The natural swell in the sea was exacerbated by idiots happy carefree fellow citizens zooming around in fast speedboats or jet skis, creating a massive wash.  Nowhere was sheltered from the swell, and it was very uncomfortable.  We did, however, manage to find tranquility by anchoring in the river itself, this time at the mouth of Dittisham (pronounced ‘Ditsum’) Mill Creek.  We dropped the hook just on the edge of the mud shoal, a good distance from the only other boat there.  There was a bit of wash from passing boats and inflatable tenders, but it was bearable and we settled there for the night.  To the south east, hidden by Higher Gurrow Point, was the village of Dittisham with two thriving pubs, a popular al fresco restaurant, and many, many, tourists;  to be avoided, therefore, by misanthropes such as I.  To the north, high on a hill and looking down onto the river, were two very imposing estate houses designed by John Nash in 1805: the easternmost was Sandridge Barton and the westernmost, higher up, Sandridge Park.  The estate was the birthplace of the Elizabethan explorer John Davis and both houses (I subsequently discovered) were available for holiday let.  I did not find the rental fee as, when I looked, they were both fully booked – or perhaps off the market.  Since each grand house had about six bedrooms and they had swimming pools, it would be fair to say that the rent would be more than two pounds, ten shillings and sixpence apiece.  More affordable, perhaps, would be Sandridge Boathouse right down on the shoreline to the east of Sandridge Barton, and accessed only by footpath and steps or (I guess) boat.  That looked bijou, quaint, very secluded and peaceful, comprising just two bedrooms, but with power, heating, freshwater and a modern kitchen.  Again, I was unable to find the cost of rental, but I thought the expense would be worth it if one craved a hermit-like existence like me.  Apparently renters’ luggage is delivered by Land Rover across fields to the top of the footpath/steps, but the renters themselves must make their own way by shanks’ pony.  Treat ‘em rough and they love it (or so it is said).

It is a curious facet of human behaviour that some people crave company.  You must have come across this if you have ever had to use a public lavatory cubicle, been camping or, for that matter, if you have ever parked in a large empty carpark seeking peace and quiet; some clown inevitably comes along and uses the next cubicle (though there are seven others free), pitches their tent, or parks their car right next to you.  So it is with anchoring in a secluded anchorage.  When we anchored in Dittisham Mill Creek on a Monday night there was one other boat there, and we chose a spot as far from him as practicable, affording both him and us some privacy.  One other yacht appeared during the evening but, again, dropped anchor far away.  The next day we took the tender up river to explore the village of Stoke Gabriel in the blistering heat and, when we came back, we found that another yacht had arrived.  This one, proving the Shacklepin Theorem of Over-Sociable People, had anchored about fifteen metres from us.  He was so close that I could have tossed a peanut over onto his deck without any effort (and if you have ever seen me throw something then you will know that that is not far).  Why did he do that?  Boats and ships do swing at anchor under the action of wind and tide and, although they often move in unison, there is a degree of individual randomness in the way they lie.  Consequently, when anchoring you always leave room to swing, keeping an imaginary circle clear according to the radius of the amount of anchor cable let out.  This ‘clingy’ boater had not done that.  Fortunately, we planned to move on so his positioning did not cause a long-term problem, but I was baffled and irritated by his choice of location.  Shortly after our return with the tender we weighed anchor, but even that manoeuvre was rendered difficult by the other boat’s closeness: he was practically on top of my boat’s anchor.  Crazy, these people: lavatory cubicles, camp sites, car parks, and now anchorages.  No wonder so many people are being ‘pinged’ for Covid isolation (see above).

Thinking of lavatory cubicles, I did hear of a (reportedly true) story of a chap who had an odd experience in one (it’s OK, there is no need to issue a Snowflake warning of an unsavoury story). 
This chap went into the lavatory cubicle and was sitting there at ease, as you do, when – right on cue – someone entered the cubicle next to him.  There was the usual rustling of clothing and a pause, and then the bloke in the next cubicle said,
“So, how are you doing?”
The first chap was a bit nonplussed.  For a start (interesting piece of info here girls), unlike women, men just do not talk to each other in public lavatories; no, not at all.  Secondly, a cubicle in a public lavatory with your trousers down is not really a place to indulge in small talk.  Still, he was English, and the English are too polite to ignore strangers if directly spoken to.  So after a hesitant pause, he replied,
“I’m fine thanks.”
“How’s the wife and kids?”
“Erm, yes they’re fine too.  My eldest, Justin, is 9 now and the youngest, Victoria, is coming up to 3.”
“Anyway, I was wondering if we could meet up for a drink some time?”
“Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment and I don’t really…”
“Tell you what Pete, I’ll call you back later.  There’s some prat next to me keeps interrupting me and taking the Mick when I’m on the phone.”

Mobile phones are the bane of our lives in my opinion.  I hardly use mine except in emergencies, though I do use it to search the internet occasionally or to consult a map.  To do that, I stop, move off the path and undertake the operation in private.  I hold any conversations briefly and very quietly, and answer calls almost with embarrassment for fear of disturbing others.  If indoors, I leave the building to talk. This is not so for modern man (or woman) it appears.  Full-blown private  conversations are clearly audible as people walk along the street; worse, the new trend is to hold a video conference as they walk, holding the phone – not to their ear, but in front of them like a mirror and bellowing as if hailing the masthead.  We hear a lot of it in our marina, our berth being unfortunately located at a sort of nautical crossroads in the interlock of pontoons, a positive hub of human interchange:
“And how is my little poochy poo….”
“Yes, mummy loves you….”
“I know darling, it hasn’t been the same since I had the hysterectomy…”
“Well, she said she was size 10, but I’ll swear she wasn’t less than a size 14…”
It is amazing the personal information that people proclaim to the world in loud voices, and their interlocutors can be heard even louder.  On one occasion a full conversation on the boat just ahead of us was clearly audible even on our quarterdeck as we sipped a sun-downer.  I could have made a fortune selling shares in the company discussed (if I had any).  I am just waiting for one of these pedestrian video conference callers to walk right off the pontoon as they rabbit on, oblivious of their surroundings and all around them.  I shall laugh like a drain.

The cancellation of our friends’ visit left us with a mound of food, so we brought it down with us to the boat and invited our Dartmouth friends, Raymond and Carol, onboard for a three-course Sunday lunch.  I have commented before on Jane’s ability to produce scrumptious meals in the tiny galley onboard, but this time she exceeded even her previous record.  The temperatures down below in a heat wave and with the oven on can be imagined, but she still came up trumps and a good time was had by all, the entire  event being well lubricated by champagne (to celebrate the Freedom Day that never happened) and chilled white wine.  We had Peaches, Watercress, Mozzarella and Parma Ham for starters, followed by Chicken Breast stuffed with Peppers and Goats’ Cheese, served with Crushed Potatoes, a Parsley, Garlic & Oil dressing, and Broccoli. We finished off with English Strawberries and Cream. The weight we must have gained from the food and wine was offset by the pounds we lost in the heat.  It all made me think of the conditions that our ancestors must have endured as they explored the world, all dressed in the best Lancashire broadcloth, shirts, breeches and tricorn hats, with no air conditioning and with only primitive bathing facilities.  Heaven knows how they managed in the heat.  And, by golly, how they must have stank.  There is a very good historical novel called Shogun by James Clavell, which describes the conditions in Japan in the 16th century when an Elizabethan sailor is shipwrecked there.  The Japanese civilisation at that time was much more advanced than that in Europe: the people were very clean, bathed regularly, and their houses were immaculate.  In contrast, the Europeans bathed, if at all, perhaps only once a year; often slept with their livestock; and carpeted their rooms with straw or rushes, changing the material every few months.  Consequently, the Japanese view of Europeans was that they were filthy stinking savages not worthy of respect.  The English character in the book eventually comes to appreciate the Japanese way of life and particularly revels in receiving hot baths and dressing in looser, cooler, clothing.  The only downside to Japanese life at that time was that, despite being civilised in so many ways, it still ran under a feudal system and any peasant who failed to show respect to their betters was summarily beheaded.  Still, it’s a small price to pay for a hot bath and a pretty garden with miniature trees.

Mid-stay on the boat, we spent a very pleasant interlude enjoying a cookery demonstration and three course lunch at the Glazebrook House Hotel in the village of South Brent, further inland.  I had found the hotel, quite by chance, as I was surfing the internet some months ago and it was flagged up when it met my stringent criteria for a get-away weekend at some time post Covid.  The hotel, set deep in the Devonshire countryside yet conveniently close to the A38, proved to be quiet and very civilised.  The demonstration and subsequent meal were excellent and we were so impressed by it all that we booked ourselves a three-day break with dinner for next October.  It was not cheap, but it met all my criteria for a perfect break in Devonshire: close to Dartmoor, no dogs, no children, no riff-raff (I made up the last characteristic, but you get the gist).

“Kee-haw! Kee-haw! Kee-haw!”. 
We were woken at the crack of dawn by herring gulls wearing hobnail boots, pattering on the deck a foot above our heads.  I suggested to the birds – who are, after all, God’s creatures just like us – to please desist and go away, but they did not appear to speak Anglo-Saxon.  I banged on the deckhead and that eventually worked but, by then, I was wide awake and the damage was done.  Jane, of course, just muttered something about chrysanthemums, turned over, and went back to sleep.  I got up, cleaned my teeth, washed and shaved.  Creating my usual double espresso in the galley, I repaired to the upper deck with my cup and saucer to survey the riverscape.  It was, as it usually is at that time, tranquil and inspiring.  The sun had just appeared over the eastern side of the valley and its rays were already steaming off the dew on the seat covers on the quarterdeck, and evaporating the early morning mist on the river.  Not yet too hot, the atmosphere was what I would call Standard English Summer (this is opposed to Standard Scottish Summer which, in my experience, contains hail).  Sitting in the upper conning position Command Seat, and sipping on my coffee, I revelled in the whole passive experience.  I did consider shaking Jane and inviting her to join me, but wisely resisted the temptation.  Today, I decided, I would wash down the boat and give her a good leathering (the boat, not Jane).  Four hours later, with a bacon and egg sandwich under my belt and Jane spring cleaning down below, I was soogeeing down the superstructure oblivious to the cooling soapy water that splashed over my bare legs and feet.  It was going to be another hot day and I judged that I had better wash off the soap fairly quickly before it dried on.  I removed the hose from its stowage in the wash-deck locker, plugged it into the tap on the pontoon, and started to sluice the boat down copiously.  There was a squawk from somewhere on board.
“Good”, I thought, ”I’ve managed to get that damned herring gull”.
My ornithological analysis was disproved, however, when an irate strawberry-blond head appeared through the hatch.
“Do you know the windows are open?”
“No, but sing me a few bars and I’ll try to pick it up.”
“Very funny.  I’m soaked, and so are the soft furnishings”
She retired with a toss of her damp curls, presumably to deploy a large sponge and a towel. Oh dear: Horatio in trouble again.

A hose in one’s hand can be very satisfying, empowering perhaps, and very tempting.  Later still, in the cool of the evening, I was topping up the freshwater tank while Jane was having a shower onboard.  It just so happens that the freshwater filling connection on the boat is on the deck just above the window of the heads.  As I concluded the filling operation and replaced the filler cap I could hear Jane slopping about in the shower, soaping herself everywhere and singing “Roll Out the Barrel”(not), and I felt an overwhelming urge to try a jolly jape.  I lifted up the small window of the heads and peered inside.  I could see only a shower curtain and a vague human figure beyond.  I lifted up the still-running hose, but was arrested by a stern voice within.
“Don’t even think about it”.

How on earth did she know what I was about to do?

27 July 2021