Out of the impenetrable darkness, a disembodied voice spoke:
“I can’t feel my nose.”
though, to be more accurate, what it actually said was:
“I garnt veel by doze”,
the voice being Jane’s and she being afflicted with a stinking head cold.
We were back on the boat – the first visit in 2023 – and we lay rigidly in the freezing cold cabin, snuggling together, trying to get warm. Jane had bravely volunteered to come with me when I expressed the intention of checking on our little money pit to make sure that she was still afloat and, no, I did not coerce or pressure Jane in any way. I rather think that she didn’t trust me on the boat on my own, believing that I would fall overboard or something, leaving her to take over the onerous tasks of laundry, ironing and floor cleaning at home in perpetuity. On the plus side of Jane coming, I thought the fresh sea air might do her some good in her affliction, to clear her head as it were; to break her out of the sick person’s malaise.
We had originally planned to set off for the coast very early in order to ensure that we arrived in Kingswear during daylight, thus giving us time to do things onboard on arrival day such as start up the engines, take the boat to sea, beat up Slapton Sands in the absence of wind or swell. If time then remained, and progress with charging our electric car was favourable, we might then just manage to get back home on the same day. However, it soon became apparent that such a plan was unworkable: temperatures would be below zero the next morning, and Jane herself would be somewhat below par too. Moreover, I was doubtful that we would be able to recharge our electric car in anything less than six hours, even with an interim recharge on the way down and on the way back. In short, sensibly, we would have to stay overnight onboard – a decision which solved several problems, but created others: on what would we sleep, what would we eat and how would we wash? We had landed all our bedding at the back end of last year to preserve it from dampness and mould during the winter months, and Jane was loath to put it all back onboard again quite so early, though we had dehumidifiers running in the cabins. I had also drained the fresh water system onboard to prevent frozen pipes. We pondered on these new problems and concluded that we would just have to ‘make do’. We had a double sleeping bag onboard which we had used in lieu of bedding in early boating days, but we had abandoned it when it proved to be too thin to keep us warm; we had kept it in case any guests should wish to avail themselves of our overnight hospitality in our spare cabin (they never have). Supplemented by our electric over-blanket, the sleeping bag would be fine for us. I could reconnect the freshwater system for washing and drinking, though showering might be a little too adventurous. Finally, Jane said she would take down a pre-cooked meal for us to eat that night. Problems solved. We set off for the boat in the early afternoon.
We found APPLETON RUM in remarkably good condition when we boarded in the evening twilight: not much green mould, no guano on the upper deck, the interior dry, and not as cold as we expected. I flashed up the heating system and reconnected the fresh water in record time, unrolled the sleeping bag and covered it with the electric blanket set to ‘pre-heat’, and soon we were as snug as bugs in a rug. Well, fairly snug, for we can never get the saloon up to the sub tropical temperatures that we enjoy at home and, outside, the temperature plummeted. After supper, we sat and read for a while before repairing to our cosy little sleeping bag, wrapped in its electric blanket. So far so good. But have you ever slept in a sleeping bag? Of course you have, at some time, I’m sure. You will recall that sleeping bags are – well – tight bags: all constricting and zippy. We settled down warm and tolerably well at the start; the problems came when one or the other of us wanted to get out to use the heads during the night. These events led to much heaving around – pulling the partner from their slumbering position – followed by muttering in the dark about zips, a loud ZZZZIPP sound, a brief hiatus of peace, then the reverse of the above procedure as the itinerant sleeper returned to the fold. I came back from the heads at one stage, could not find the opening in the sleeping bag, and found myself settling down comfortably under the mattress cover instead, leaving Jane exposed on top of a flayed sleeping bag. That state of affairs was not tolerated for very long and I was told in no uncertain terms to ‘stop messing about, get into the bag and do those zips up’. Finally, at some time in the early hours we found ourselves in the situation described at the beginning of this paragraph: half awake, with only our noses exposed, and freezing. I was dispatched to the cold saloon to turn on the boat heating. It was -4C outside and zero inside. Why do we do these things?
Later, well wrapped up and taking my customary espresso on the quarterdeck after daylight dawned, I viewed the scene around me. There was no wind. A black river surged sullenly past the boat, presumably in two minds whether to freeze or not. The pontoon was a winter wonderland of white frost, smoke rose vertically from the chimneys of the houses across the river in Dartmouth, and not a soul was stirring in the floating marina (including my dear wife, snuffling quietly in the now capacious sleeping bag). I examined the development work ashore through my binoculars and could see no change from last November: the pile of rubble from the demolished shipyard buildings (nicknamed ‘Mount Crushmore’) was still there; the Facilities Building that would one day house Reception, the shower block and a small café appeared to be still half finished; and little men wearing hard hats and driving dumper trucks were still driving aimlessly to and fro. Plus ça change. Apparently, the Facilities Building is due to be finished by the end of February and the new hotel foundations will be started at the beginning of March. I will believe it all when I see it. Finishing my coffee, I stepped ashore gingerly to single up our mooring lines in preparation for going to sea and immediately found a snag not noticed on our arrival the previous evening: our anchor windlass was missing, removed by the marine engineer as part of a (now aborted) plan to replace it with an electric version. No windlass meant no anchor; no anchor meant ‘no go to sea’ unless you have absolute faith that marine diesel engines left idle for two months will not break down (don’t be silly). So that was that: best we go home then. When Jane finally emerged from her cocoon we tidied everything up onboard, sealed up the boat again and departed at about lunchtime.
The next day I came down with Jane’s head cold. We share everything in our marriage.
The birds went on holiday a few weekends ago. I don’t mean the 1960s pop group, I mean ‘the birds’: our feathered friends. I know this because the RSPB declared the weekend Great Garden Bird Watch Weekend and so our avian friends legged it. Or is that ‘winged it’? For the benefit of any non-British readers, I should explain that, periodically, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) declares such a weekend and invites people to record the number and types of birds that visit their garden over any arbitrary one-hour period. This is so that the RSPB can subsequently declare that the lesser spotted reed warbler is dying out because of Climate Emergency which, in turn, is caused by us eating meat and dairy, driving cars, heating our houses, taking holidays and generally enjoying ourselves (I may exaggerate here slightly). All through the year the birds flutter in and out of our garden, encouraged by our bird feeders: great tits, blue tits, goldfinches, dunnocks, blackbirds, starlings, robins and house sparrows; every RSPB Garden Bird Weekend they disappear. It is a mystery. My theory is that they have a link into the RSPB website and they hide out of sheer devilment.
Now here is another of my dilemmas that I occasionally throw into these blogs. It is not an ethical problem this time – I suppose it is more of an artistically intellectual one. Should we endure art, as oppose to enjoy it? Should we, for example, slog through an ‘improving book’ because we perceive that we should be reading it (or our book club recommends it), rather than because we actually enjoy it? Should we visit avant garde art galleries like The Tate because we think that we should, rather than because we really do get something out of it? Should we listen to pieces of classical music that we don’t enjoy: the ‘horrible’ bits as well as the ‘nice’ bits? I raise this because I read an article in The Spectator magazine the other day, written by a professional musician, decrying the ‘dumbing down’ of BBC Radio 3 and dismissing contemptuously the new ‘popular’ classical radio stations such as Classic FM. The author’s argument (my inference, put simplistically) was that we should listen to the long tedious and boring parts of musical movements or compositions as well as any bits that we might actually like. I just don’t get it: why must we persist with art that we don’t like, once we have given it a good go? Moreover, why dismiss a classical radio station just because it is ‘popular’ or favours ‘easy listening’? Is music only worthwhile if it is ‘difficult listening’? An ordinary person who did not have the opportunity to study music at school or university might listen to the ‘popular’ classical stations, enjoy the music and, thereby develop a thirst to try the more challenging compositions. Similarly, a person who enjoys reading contemporary novels might well feel the urge to move on and try the more classical literature of Scott, Austen, Dickens or Thackeray. Suffering for art? Seems a bit odd to me. Perhaps it is something left over from the Puritan era.
Speaking of books, have you noticed how noisy and unpleasant public libraries have become? They are no longer silent havens where you can browse through books at your leisure and immerse yourself in another world in comfort; they are now meeting places, children’s play areas, and community halls that happen to have a few shelves of books in them. The last feature is quite significant: British libraries no longer have many books in them. We have a brand new library in Melbury, opened with much fanfare, but it is part of the new sports centre, set in an open plan layout with the sports centre reception. It also has fewer bookshelves than the previous library. Consequently, any avid bibliophile trying to choose or enjoy a book is assailed by the noise of bustling foot traffic, receptionists bawling at deaf pensioners who want to go swimming, people swapping gossip about the latest goings on in their street, and children shrieking at the tops of their voices. Look, it’s a library: all I ask is to be able to find a good book from the pathetic selection on offer and browse through its pages, or to do some local research in the reference section – all set in a quiet background so that I can concentrate. It is not too much to ask. I can actually get a better atmosphere and a better range of books if I visit the independent bookshop in our Big City, often with a free cup of coffee thrown in. I am old enough to remember a time when public libraries were wonderful sanctuaries of peace, with many books to chose from and the environment to enjoy them in. Yes, they could be a bit intimidating if you dared to speak, but that is a case of ‘horses for courses’: if you want to chat or let your children run amok then go to the local Costa Coffee, where you will feel very much at home. Leave public libraries for the bibliophiles. Of course, I realise that that battle was fought and lost a long time ago and that things will never be the same. I merely point out that we have lost something special, and it is a particular loss for the poor in our society who cannot afford to buy books on a regular basis and so rely on the public facilities.
Since autumn last year there has been a continuous run of modern American romance films on the television, the ones before Christmas inevitably having a festive theme. You know the sort of thing: young woman returns to home town in the mid west of the USA at Christmas to inherit her grandfather’s business after a broken relationship in The Big City; meets Hunk; doesn’t get on with his arrogance; manages to discover his sensitive side; falls in love; end. The memsahib watches these films occasionally because she is a romantic at heart. I sometimes watch them with her because it gives me an insight into female behaviour and time spent on reconnaissance is seldom wasted. The thing that gets me with all these films (and there must be hundreds of them) is that they all feature beautiful slim young women with perfectly coiffured hair, munching away on a doughnut or sitting outside in an American winter wearing not much more than a mini skirt and a scarf. The male lead in the stories is also invariably a tall, dashing, dark-haired chap with a muscular torso and a half-shaven face, his coat (if he is wearing one) half open. It is all so unbelievable. Have you seen the temperatures in the mid west of the USA in winter? Wyoming at -19F (-28C), South Dakota -16F (-27C), Montana -16F (-27C) – to name just three states plucked at random on a day in January. It really puts our prissy ‘Beast from the East’ British weather into context. There is no way people could sit outside in a mid western state of the USA in winter wearing little more than a smile: they would have hypothermia in two minutes. Nor could women keep that beautiful figure if they stuffed their faces with American doughnuts. And what is it with tall dark-haired men and this half-shaven look? Can’t they afford a razor? Didn’t their mummies ever tell them to do up their coats properly and tie that scarf? The couples in these films never look normal or appear flawed. They could do with a few life-like characters to make the stories more credible: male leads of modest height; clean-shaven with fair hair greying at the temples; of comfortable build; with a firm yet sensitive personality, GSH and sound sartorial taste. I am available at reasonable rates.
Lord, how this head cold is dragging on. These things have always been a fact of life, especially in winter, such that we can accurately predict them: “three days to come, three days on, and three days to go”. This one is lasting much longer than nine days and several friends have testified independently that, if you get the latest strain, it can last for weeks. Moreover, just as you think you are coming out of it and try to do more, the effort sets you sliding back down the snake again. It is no big deal in itself: there is no fever, or aches and pains, or sore throat, or headache: just the usual bunged up nose and occasional cough. But you wake up every morning full of it and think to yourself, “isn’t it about time this thing went now?”. Jane and I went for a short walk into town and back the other day – only five miles – because we had cabin fever and felt we needed the exercise. When we got back we were exhausted and ended up sleeping for ten hours that night. According to a virologist writing in the Daily Telegraph recently, this phenomenon is a direct consequence of the lockdowns that we have endured over the last three years: by not mixing with other humans we have not been catching the thousands of viruses that are naturally skulling around and consequently our immune systems have got out of practice. It is, in short, payback time. Ho hum.
Incidentally, in the medical world a scientific review (the Cochrane Review), routinely examines and assesses all the medical studies available to assess how various diseases are transmitted. After a recent review of all the available statistically-sound random studies, it has just reported that, regardless of what pathogen or what presenting symptom, there is no evidence that either medical or surgical masks make any difference to transmission. Interestingly, it is what the UK Chief Medical Officer told us way back at the beginning of the CV19 pandemic in early 2020 before he did a U-turn under political and media pressure. Told you so.
Oh great. I have just heard the news that the result of my recent MRI (Blog 121) scan indicates that I should have a biopsy to check out my prostate. A needle up the backside – just what the doctor ordered and something to look forward to like a hole in the bum. I can hardly wait. Ouch!
I am suffering an attack of the ear worms again (Blog 101), only this time, instead for singing the jingle for Esso Blue on a continuous loop, I am locked in a version of Delilah by Tom Jones. The song has traditionally been sung at Welsh rugby matches by Welsh supporters because they like the song. Not any more or, at least, not officially. Welsh Rugby Union has banned the singing of the song by the official choir at Welsh rugby matches because the lyrics refer to a woman being stabbed for infidelity and, hence, encourage violence against women. An MP and the local Chief Constable have waded in with their support, quoting how many women statistically are stabbed to death by their partners and stating that another song should be favoured instead. Good grief: only a person suffering from extreme paranoia could really believe that the words of a 55-year old song have led to, or could lead to, the murder of a woman. It would seem, however, that such a mental condition has, indeed, afflicted key organisations in Wales – a principality which I always thought was endowed with sound judgement and robust common sense. Fortunately, the Welsh rugby fans do not appear to have caught the paranoia, for they were apparently belting it out defiantly at a recent match. There may be some hope for the Welsh after all.
As for me, my ear worm affliction is compounded by the fact that the song doing the loop in my head is the matelot version of Delilah:
“I saw the light on the night that she peed out the window…”
Oh dear. The trans police will be after me now.
7 February 2023
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 