It never rains, it pours. Not content with the many and various rashes that it has suffered over the last two years, Jane’s body has now decided that it rather likes the idea of shingles. She now has two patches of nasty and very painful spots on her trunk and back, and her skin is sensitive to touch everywhere. Overlaying these unhappy symptoms are the random stabbing pains, as if someone were sticking a needle into her. Poor kid, she has had to be circumspect in her choice of clothes and even her nightdress. At least she seems to have been fortunate in obtaining antiviral medication in time, and that is helping her to endure the pain. Shingles is an infectious disease in limited circumstances: touching the rash of a shingles victim can give you chickenpox if you have not had that disease before, and that is not a pleasant experience – especially for an adult; if you have had chickenpox already, then you are safe: you cannot catch shingles from a shingles victim. The question is, of course, did you have chickenpox as a child? As a friend commented recently, it is a bit late, at our age, to ask your mum. Fortunately, I have had chickenpox and I have also had shingles, so I can empathise with poor Jane if not do much else to help her. As she cannot bear any clothing to touch her I did suggest that she perambulate the house naked and I would increase the central heating to generate a tropical environment for her in that state; you won’t get many husbands who will be that considerate, the price of gas being what it is. Alas, this helpful idea did not find favour for some reason, so she is now drifting around wearing a shift, as if pregnant. Just as well really, the shingles rash looks pretty awful and would put me off my meals.
Of course, Jane’s shingles is worse than the shingles I had in 2009. Or so she says, so it must be true. One of the many differences between us is that whereas I, as a man, will take every pill and medication available for a malady, Jane is reluctant to take anything. She is particularly reserved when it comes to painkillers and will wait until a pain becomes unbearable before taking paracetamol – thus riding on the Big Dipper of pain; I, on the other hand, will take the painkillers religiously every four hours and build up a barrier to counter pain before it starts – thus riding serenely on the Ghost Train. I have always found Jane’s puritanical approach to suffering odd, but I have encountered it elsewhere, in another context: when it comes to seasickness, many men will sit there, looking green and marinading in their own nausea and misery, but try to soldier on without taking seasick pills – presumably because they see it as the manly thing to do. I never thought that that was the right approach. Take the pills for heaven’s sake; they work. If God had meant us to suffer seasickness He wouldn’t have given us Stugeron.
So, that’s the bin men crossed off our Christmas list then. It has been our policy for all our married life always to give the bin men a small gift at Christmas as a token of appreciation. Not a big thing: maybe a crate of beer, a box of biscuits or a tin of sweets; just something to show that we appreciate their hard work over the previous year and recognise the contribution they make to society – particularly during the lockdowns. With the advent of recycling collections, the cost of this small token has tripled as we feel duty-bound to tip the Recycling people and the Garden Refuse people as well as the traditional General Rubbish people, but we have stoically kept up the tradition. The other day we heard the usual crump and rumble of the bins being emptied one morning and, after the noise had dissipated, I – like a good husband – went out and transported the wheelie bin back to its stowage beside the garage. Three hours later we heard the same noise again. Jane looked out of the kitchen window and saw the bin men emptying everyone else’s bins. The penny dropped that the previous noise we had heard must have been elsewhere and that our bin had not been emptied after all. We will gloss over how I returned a full bin to its stowage, without noticing, and the subsequent Board of Enquiry that sat later in the day. Anyway, showing remarkable agility and presence of mind for one so frequently ill, Jane dashed out, grabbed our full wheelie bin and chased off up the road with it, flagging down the bin lorry. I would have gone, but I thought she stood a better chance of being successful; also, I had a bit of a pain in my leg from that incident during the Falklands Conflict that I don’t like to talk about. Full of apology, Jane stopped in front of the lorry, smiled sweetly and explained that her husband had been stupid, and please could the nice men empty her bin for her? She was so sorry to be the cause of so much trouble. Her charm bounced off the miserable crew like an arrow on armour. Grudgingly, the driver climbed out of the cab and emptied the bin: no smile, no understanding, just a grunt. Well, how rude! And how ungrateful. I had even brought that crew cold drinks during the hot summer last year. Well, that won’t happen again and we have saved ourselves £90 this year by not buying them a present; perhaps I could use it to buy Jane a pair of running shoes.
Saints be praised, there is a world beyond Start Point. We crossed the invisible barrier in our boat a few weeks ago. Regular readers will know that, for various reasons, we had hitherto never managed to get further than Start Point when we sailed south westward from our base in Dartmouth: either the sea had been too rough or the wind had been too strong or Jane’s mood had not been right. Once, we were caught in a nasty tide race off the point and that convinced Jane that Neptune was trying to tell us never to go further, for there be sea dragons round the corner. Anyway, this time we made it. The sky was blue, the sea was green and the swell benign. It was just like summer. Our course took us three miles out to sea to avoid the tide race and we traced a route past Salcombe, Bolt Head and Bolt Tail, to Bigbury Bay and Burgh Island, where we anchored for lunch in the sunshine. It was absolutely idyllic, anchored about 200m off the beach and gazing at the island made famous by Agatha Christie in her books Evil Under the Sun and And Then There Were None. For those not familiar with the geography, Burgh Island lies off Bigbury-on-Sea in south Devonshire and is the site of an extremely expensive and exclusive art deco hotel, which was built in the late 1920s. The island and hotel are accessible at low tide on foot via a causeway, but at high tide guests are transported across on a sea tractor, which rides along the seabed with the passengers sitting ten feet or so above the waves. A whole host of very famous people have stayed there, including King Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson, and Lord Mountbatten of Burma. Today, the hotel remains very exclusive and Black Tie is de rigueur for dining, but there is also a 14th century pub on the private island to cater for the lesser mortals who arrive in charabancs. Actually, Burgh Island is our sort of place, but we have never had enough money to stay there nor have any rich friends to accompany us; maybe one day. Anyway, we anchored to the south east of the island and had a lovely view of the hotel and beach, the latter fairly busy for a late September weekday. I would have liked to have stayed overnight, but we were on a lee shore and a depression was forecast for the morrow, so I thought it prudent to return to Dartmouth after lunch. Overall, it was a Grand Day Out and an easy passage on a calm sea. Next time, maybe we should try for the River Yealm or even Plymouth. Antigua perhaps..? Who knows?
Jane’s illness has meant that we have had to cancel our planned break in a hotel on the edge of Dartmoor. (Blog 98). Apart from the danger of her infecting others, we cannot be sure that she will be well enough to be able to wear trousers or hike across the moor. We are, naturally, very disappointed for the food in the hotel promised to be excellent and the break would have been very welcome after nearly two years of Covid restrictions. We also miss Dartmoor, an area that has always fascinated me since I was introduced to it on exercises undertaken from naval college. Then, of course, the visits were somewhat strenuous and uncomfortable, for we hiked long distances, camped on the moor, and undertook leadership challenges. I always remember how we were required to take with us boot polish and to clean and polish our hiking boots every day before setting off. Dartmoor is, of course, most remembered for its prison, located at Princetown (pronounced Prince-Town, not like the university in the USA): an establishment still in use despite being built in 1806. It used to house the most violent and dangerous convicts in the land, but the restrictions imposed on structural changes to a Listed Building have meant that the prison now only holds Category C prisoners, defined as “inmates who cannot be trusted in open prison, but who have been recognised as being unlikely to make any attempt at escape”. If you ever visit Princetown and take one look at Dartmoor Prison and its surrounding area, then you will quickly infer that few people incarcerated there are ever likely to escape: the buildings are solid granite, grey and forbidding and the moor is bleak and desolate. The weather is often wet and foggy, and the terrain boggy and grim. There is, surprisingly, a prison museum (https://www.dartmoor-prison.co.uk), which Jane and I visited a few years ago, and it details the prison’s history in fascinating detail. Completed in 1809 to house French prisoners-of-war (POWs) during the Napoleonic Wars, it also housed American POWs after the USA declared war on Britain in 1812. Conditions in the prison were poor, and many died of disease exacerbated by overcrowding. After France was defeated and the French POWs were repatriated, the prison was used exclusively to incarcerate American POWs and some 6,000 men were held there at one point. During their stay, 271 Americans died, mainly from smallpox, which swept the prison during the winter of 1814/15, but also from malnutrition or exposure or suicide. The war between the USA and Britain ended with the Treaty of Ghent signed on Christmas Eve 1814, but the treaty was not ratified by the USA until February 1815. Alas, even after that time the repatriation of Americans was slow and this, combined with the terrible conditions the POWs had to endure, lead to a mutiny and the infamous and shameful ‘Princetown Massacre’ in April 1815, during which nine Americans were killed and thirty seriously wounded by British troops. In the subsequent enquiry, no one was blamed and no one was punished. The Prince Regent apologised to US President Madison and offered to provide for the families of those killed, but the offer was politely refused. Not Britain’s finest hour. Six days after the mutiny, the first batch of American POWs was repatriated and all American POWs had left by February 1816, when the prison closed. Dartmoor Prison reopened and became an establishment for convicted prisoners in 1850, and has remained in that role ever since. Few men have ever managed to escape and remain at large, but there was a further mutiny and a fire in the prison in 1932 caused by – of all things – diluted porridge; that had to be quelled by arming the guards, calling out the police, and putting an army brigade on standby; no one was killed but several people were injured. Despite some modernisation, conditions in Dartmoor remain grim, even today. I understand that the prison is scheduled to close for good in 2023, though heaven knows what will be done with the building, which is officially Listed for heritage purposes. So there you are: a short history of Dartmoor Prison and I can recommend a visit to the prison museum located just across the road from the main gate. I cannot recommend the town of Princetown for it is as grim and unwelcoming as the prison it holds, but the Plume of Feathers used to be good for a pint of beer after a long walk. Americans visiting England may wish to consider visiting the American POW Cemetery located just outside the prison walls (https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1427525 ) to pay reverence to the memory of their fellow countrymen who died in such a grim place and in such shameful circumstances.
It is the season of political party conferences in Britain and the newspapers are full of the promises of politicians, stirring speeches and political gossip. A senior member of the Labour Party described all members of the Conservative Party as “Tory scum”, thus potentially alienating over half of the British population, though helpfully indicating the sort of person we will have in power if we vote Labour. The Conservative Party has set out policies that would do credit to the Liberal Democrat Party, the Green Party and the Labour Party, but few that would be recognised as traditional Conservative values. I despair, not for the first time. But then who goes to these conferences? Who has the time or the inclination? More to the point, who believes any of the statements made? No party ever sticks to its manifesto and I would not trust a politician as far as I could throw them. I am inclined to think that the whole business of party conferences is a waste of time, but I suppose a party has to get together somehow to declare what it stands for. I just cannot get worked up about any of it, though I do resent being called ‘scum’, particularly by someone supposed to be in a senior position. Apparently the animosity has always been thus: the Labour Party has always disliked Tories intensely and with a passion (one Labour MP said some time ago that they could never be friends with a Tory); conversely, the Conservative Party has always looked at the other parties as consisting of people with odd, impractical or misinformed views – there is no enmity felt at all. Most odd. Perhaps the situation is the same in the USA, with Democrats and Republicans, though I get the impression, from what I have read, that on the other side of the pond the dislike is mutual and it has become much worse in recent years.
The Covid situation in the UK continues to be encouraging, and the number of deaths caused by the disease is falling at a rate of 14% weekly, currently standing at 755 a week. The number of people admitted to hospital with Covid is also dropping and the number of people who have tested positive has levelled off, even falling slightly. The spike in all Covid parameters that was predicted after the return of children to school never happened, which is good news. Booster vaccinations have started for those who have received their initial two jabs, and these are scheduled for six months after receiving the second vaccination. Life goes on in England, with the relaxation on face masks, social distancing and meeting with friends still standing; let us hope we remain that way. Some people are still wearing face masks, both publicly indoors and occasionally in the streets; that is their choice.
Some of the fallout from three lockdowns is beginning to be felt, most notably the shortage of Heavy Goods Vehicle (HGV) drivers – driving lessons and tests of men and women having been suspended in the lockdowns, and the staff of the Driver Vehicle & Licensing Authority still largely working from home. This, combined with the loss of some European HGV drivers after Brexit and the epidemic, has resulted in a labour shortfall and some logistic problems. Some commodities are in short supply in supermarkets and several prices have increased. Last week a petrol company reported that it might have to ration fuel in about half a dozen of its thousands of service stations and the media latched on to this report with relish, advising the public “not to panic-buy fuel”. Of course, predictably, that is exactly what the British motorists did and it resulted in huge queues outside most petrol stations (there was no shortage of fuel, just a shortage of tanker drivers). That panic is now over, and the situation is back to normal. The UK is in the curious and possibly historically novel situation of having a surplus of jobs, with difficulty in filling the posts – the opposite of unemployment. Consequently, wages are increasing to attract employees, with the costs passed on to the consumer. The Civil Service and local government employees are, on the whole, still working from home (can’t be too careful – Death stalks the office), adding to inefficiency and delays in getting the country running again. As I walk the streets during the working day, I still encounter people of working age jogging, riding bikes or drifting around and wonder, why are these people not working or, more to the point, how can they continue to live without earning a wage? Granted, some of these people may be on holiday, working part time or on shift work, but I still strongly suspect that a significant number of them are people supposedly “working from home”.
The French are being horrible to us again because Australia decided to buy nuclear submarines from Britain and the USA rather than France, and because we won’t let French fishermen fish in British waters; there is talk of shutting off electricity to the Channel Islands, or even the British mainland, as punishment. Britain has made a right pot mess of its energy policy, or rather its policy appears to be not to have a policy: in the hysterical drive to go Green and run down those nasty fossil fuelled power stations, no thought or planning seems to have been applied to what we will do for electricity when the wind does not blow and the sun does not shine. Gas reserves are down to only four days and all future industrial nuclear power stations now have to be designed and erected by France or China as we have largely lost the expertise. We do have an interconnector to enable us to buy electricity from France (currently out of action and, in any case, supply under threat) and a cable and interconnector have recently been established to enable us to buy electricity from Norway; but we really should be self sufficient for energy. We have the technology to design and build nuclear reactors for submarines, so we could readily build a whole network of small reactors almost “off the shelf” at – say – 20MW each, providing sufficient power for 1,000 homes, but the public are terrified of nuclear power and no-one would want plants in their town. A better solution might be to harness tidal power, with a guaranteed (at least) two tides a day. This was looked at for the Severn estuary (which has one of the highest tidal rises in Britain) but the idea, so far, has been rejected because of the projected cost of £35 billion and concerns about hurting fish; the nuclear option comes out as a better bet. Whatever, I have yet to be convinced that the Department of Energy has a grip on the situation.
So there we were, pottering away on the boat when suddenly I heard a distinctive sound. We both shot up the companionway and scanned the skies. Together we shouted,
“Spitfire!”
Sure enough, following the river valley, soared a Spitfire, complete with RAF roundels and WW2 colour scheme. But wasn’t it amazing that the two of us, independently, knew the sound of that Merlin engine straight away? Neither of us was alive in WW2: Jane was brought up in the Caribbean and my childhood featured jet Hawker Hunters, Canberras and Lightnings. Yet we knew the sound of that iconic aircraft immediately. The aircraft returned several times that week, once when we were in Dartmouth; the reaction of the public there was exactly the same as ours: everyone pointed and smiled like schoolchildren. I think I did read that the (older) Hawker Hurricane made a far greater contribution to winning the Battle of Britain than the Spitfire, but even if that is true, there is no escaping the characteristic sound of the Spitfire engine or those superb aerodynamic lines. Beautiful.
Jane has discovered a firm called Fish to your Door (www.Fishtoyourdoor.com) who will deliver locally caught fish at a very fair price. We have used them before and have been very pleased with the product and the price. Yesterday she ordered a ‘luxury fish box’ for £50, which usually contains a mixed selection of seafood based on the catch of the day. Today it arrived and she opened the insulated box with great anticipation:
“Gosh, what do we have this time…monkfish, sea bass, plaice, salmon, cod, king prawns, fresh anchovies, smoked salmon, oysters…”
“Oysters?”
My naturally fertile imagination lurched into overdrive.
“Jane, I don’t suppose…?”
“Forget it.”
Fair enough I suppose. Still, it was worth a try. It must be the spots making her grumpy.
7 October 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 