I sometimes wonder why the French seem to hate the English so much (I use the nationality advisedly because, for a fair old time, the French were very chummy with the Scots). It is a rivalry that has been going on, pretty-much, since 1066 when the Normans invaded England and imposed their will on the mainly Anglo Saxon populous. Since then the English have returned the compliment several times by rampaging through France and generally making a nuisance of themselves: the battles of Crécy and Agincourt spring to mind. However, in all fairness, the English campaigns in the Middle Ages were waged by the Norman aristocracy of England trying to defend or reclaim their lands in France; indeed the kings and queens of England claimed to be rulers of France right up to about 1800. That must have been a bit annoying for the French. I don’t suppose the British, American, Canadian and other Commonwealth forces liberating France from the Germans in 1944 helped the situation much either: people and countries tend not to be comfortable with being beholden to others for their rescue; but then why single out the English for particular dislike? Are the French equally difficult with the Germans (who have invaded France three times in the space of seventy years), the Americans, the Canadians? I muse over all this because on 6 June this year, the countries that were involved in the war in Europe in World War 2 commemorated the 80th anniversary of the landings in Normandy on D-Day. Various ceremonies and memorials took place, but one event involved a re-enactment of a parachute drop by the British army behind the (then) German lines in Normandy. Do you know, when the members of the Parachute Regiment landed in a field in France on 6 June 2024 to commemorate D-Day, they were met by French immigration officials, who demanded to see their passports. You couldn’t make it up. Since coming out of the European Union, members of the United Kingdom need passports to enter France, you see (and vice versa). Commenting on the ad hoc passport control in a field, a French official actually made out that they were doing the British a special favour because of the D-Day anniversary – as fine an example of ‘spin’ in public relations as you will ever come across. For my part, I wondered what would have happened of one of the parachutists did not have his passport – send him back up in the air, perhaps? Arrest him, probably.
Pondering on what we would do when, eventually, we managed to sell our boat, Jane suggested more visits to country houses and gardens. Naturally, I concurred that it was an excellent idea. We opted for a visit to the National Trust (NT) property of Dyrham Park, House and Gardens in Gloucestershire, which we had not visited for over twenty years. Although there has been a Manor House there since 1084, the present house dates from the 17th century and is set in the valley of an extensive deer park (hence the name). If you have ever watched the 1993 film The Remains of the Day, then that is the location that the film crew used. Twenty odd years ago, the public parked their cars on the grass more or less in front of the house; now, however, the carpark is at the entrance of the park at the top of the hill, and you walk down to the house, which makes for healthy exercise for the heart (or a cardiac arrest, depending on your point of view or bad fortune). On the way down is a children’s play area with climbing frames, the house, gardens and estate not being deemed sufficient entertainment for the little darlings. I was pleasantly surprised that the NT had not incorporated a zip wire to complete the theme park image, but give them time. As is the common trend nowadays with the NT, the information on the estate was limited to one snapshot in its ownership and history (in this case, William Blathwayt – Secretary at War to William III in 1689) and masochistically emphasised the colonial (=bad) aspects of the property. Also as part of the common trend, the literature and information were aimed at the lowest common denominator of intelligence and reading age. Before entering the house we watched an audio-visual display depicting a crude cardboard-like galleon rocking across a cardboard sea, carrying spices and other goods from the Caribbean islands to England, much emphasis being placed on the slaves that cultivated the islands and the horrible Mr Blathwayt and the rest of the filthy English nation that profited from them. Older British readers who remember the 1950s children’s television programme Captain Pugwash and his ship The Black Pig will immediately understand when I explain that that was the quality of the Dyrham audio visual work and the level at which it was pitched. We moved on to more conventional display room that set out display boards to show how the wealth that built the house was created. Fundamentally, it was pitched at the same level as the previous Captain Pugwash show and was distinctly repetitive on colonialism and slavery to the point of becoming dreary. I suppose it was meant to make us feel ashamed to be British, but all it did for me was to annoy me. It also left me wanting to know more about the house, for example who owned the house after Blathwayt and up to its acquisition by the NT. We did finally move on into the main house, whose interior was in a distinct baroque Dutch style. It was fine (as in ‘OK’) and certainly a good example of its kind, but the authentic dark wood and furnishings and closed shutters made for a gloomy experience. The volunteer staff were very welcoming and informative, but Dyrham was not the most impressive or pleasant country house that we have ever visited. Outside, the gardens were well laid out in the formal style and – naturally – Jane was in her seventh heaven. An unusual tree that had grown in a squat ‘V’ shape attracted her attention. She wondered what it was and, noticing that it appeared to have a notice on it, wandered over to satisfy her curiosity. The sign said,
“Please don’t climb on me – I’m over a hundred years old”.
It summarised the National Trust of the 21st century: colonies, climbing frames, slaves and talking trees. Such a shame, as it used to be proud institution that preserved old houses and lands for intelligent adults to enjoy.
All that history and gardens (and the subsequent slog up the hill back to the car) gave Jane an appetite and, again uncharacteristically, we thought we would go off piste and enjoy some tea and cake – something we rarely do.. The queue at the Dyrham café stretched out of the door and even Jane baulked at joining it. Seeing the disappointment on her little face I promised to treat her to tea in the nearest hamlet. Exploring along the nearby A420, we saw a signpost for the village of Marshfield and duly headed off into the village, parking at the outskirts. It was one of those long, narrow villages with houses on both sides of a main street rather than the ‘standard’ village of cottages surrounding a central village green, and the main street seemed to go on forever. On we plodded in search of a tea shop, expecting at any moment to see a sign saying ‘Welcome to Chippenham’ (a town 10 miles away). As we walked, we admired the fine old houses and cottages and thought, here live our kind of people: folk who can hold their knives and forks properly, that sort of thing. How nice it would be to live here. A quick search on the internet revealed that there was a two-bedroom cottage (‘The Old School House’) going for £900,000. Oh dear, never mind. Eventually, our patience was rewarded and The Sweet Apple Tea Shop hove into view. What a delight it was! None of that modern nonsense of giving you a mug with a teabag in it, topped up with hot water (since when was that ‘tea’?); this was the real English Tea Experience that is so hard to find these days. It was like stepping back into the 1950s (in a nice way): the ‘ding’ of the bell as we entered, the bone china teacups; the teapot and milk jug; the sugar bowl; the range of excellent home-made cakes; the friendly owner in her neat apron. The other clientele in the small café were ‘ladies of a certain age’ having a good chat, and a couple of hikers. The cakes were delicious and we sat back, relaxed and replete, just soaking up the atmosphere. The experience was like Miss Marple meets Midsomer Murders, and highly recommended if ever you are passing through South Gloucestershire, north of Bath.
Jane is hooked on the nostalgic 1960s police series, Heartbeat, which was originally aired in 1992, but which we missed first time around. I was at sea then, and Jane mostly spent her spare time gardening. The stories relate to the experiences of a village policeman (‘bobby’) in rural North Yorkshire and are well-written and acted, with music of the period adding to the nostalgic immersion. However, the programmes ran to 372 episodes in 18 series and I am beginning to find the televisual experience a bit of an ordeal. I think we must currently be on Episode 4,279 (or it feels that way). All credit to the script writers and their ability to conjure up new stories about a few farmers and villagers in the Yorkshire Dales, set in the 1960s decade, but I am starting to find some of the tales stretch credibility a bit and to be a little repetitive. The episodes started out (probably accurately) with mundane events like leek slashing, turnip whittling, cheating at the local flower show and the odd bit of sheep rustling, but, to date, the village has seen the death of four local doctors (GPs) and one bobby, along with several violent robberies. It is good stuff, and there is usually a happy ending (unless you are a GP), but crikey, 1,459 episodes to go…(or thereabouts). I am just waiting for the episode in which an airliner crashes into a nuclear power station, causing the death of yet another GP who had a love interest in the village bobby.
We are back down on the boat, making the most of the time we have left with her (no offers to buy yet). As mentioned in the last blog, we had to abort a planned cruise along the south west coast with our friends in their boat from the adjacent berth, because of the huge dentist’s bill that I have just received. As it happens, the weather around Devonshire and Cornwall is terrible at the moment and we would not have been able to venture out. We did have one break in the weather last Wednesday ( Jane’s birthday) and sailed with our friends, escorting them as far as the Skerries Shoal (5 nm away) before parting company and returning to our berth. Our friends carried on to their first port of call, the River Yealm near Plymouth. I felt strangely sentimental and sad as we peeled out of formation and waved goodbye to our friends; it must have brought back memories of other sad departures and sailings. As I write, our friends are storm-bound in the Yealm, probably for a week, and we are heaving around in our berth on the River Dart, the rain lashing down in torrents, 12C (54F), and the wind Force 6 to 7. I have just had to unship the ensign staff and jackstaff to prevent them being blown away. June in England: you can’t beat it.
Some readers have asked about qualifications for boat ownership and the procedure for entering a port. Surprisingly, perhaps, in the UK there is no statutory requirement to hold formal qualifications to operate a private boat (as there is to drive a car) but, although you do get the occasional idiot who goes to sea in what amounts to a bath tub, using a school atlas for navigation, most people are sensible. A range of courses are operated by the Royal Yachting Association (RYA) with formal qualifications to match. The latter are needed if taking a boat to continental Europe or beyond. Boats entering a port other than their own are subject to harbour dues (based on boat length), and the availability of a berth alongside or moored to a buoy is not guaranteed: it can be quite ‘hit or miss’. If you do get a berth or a mooring, then there is an additional charge for staying (like in a carpark on land), payable to the host marina or the harbour authority. Some ports even charge you for anchoring. Charges vary, but may be (typically for a 10m boat) £50 a day for a berth in a marina (with shore power, water, shore showers and heads etc) or £25 a day to moor alongside a pontoon, or to a buoy, with no electricity, in the middle of a river. If you get storm-bound for, say, a week [like my chum, currently], then the unavoidable harbour and berthing costs soon mount up. I mention all this because it helps to explain why Jane and I had to abort our cruise when the big dentist bill came in (Blog 133).
We decided to walk around the marina a couple of evenings ago, partly for exercise and partly just to look at other people’s boats – sometimes to admire and sometimes to shake our heads in sadness. Virtually all of the enormous gin palaces that occupy the large berths in the marina did not meet our approval: they were too brash, too ostentatious for my nautical taste and I would genuinely have refused one if offered to me. Even the boats only slightly bigger than my own were disappointing in style and features; they undoubtedly would go faster than mine but, glancing inside, I could see that the accommodation was not usually as good. It was surprising, but true. The other thing that struck me about these expensive boats was that, despite costing hundreds of thousands – or even millions – of pounds, they almost all flew tatty or dirty Red Ensigns (the UK national ensign for its merchant navy). All that money on a boat, and they hoist a tatty rag for an ensign. Thousands of merchant navy sailors died serving under that ensign in two world wars; it should be a symbol of pride and a privilege to to fly it on your boat. Even if the owners are not into history, honour and (old fashioned) pride, you would think they would at least see that the dirty bit of red rag on their ensign staff lets down their otherwise pristine boats, but apparently not. Very poor form.
The walk around the marina, by the way, clocked up 1.4 miles.
One thing we have always found odd after twenty two years of boat ownership is how few boats actually leave their moorings, and our current marina – Noss – is no exception. I reckon that 90% of boat owners never take their boats away. I can only presume that the boats are unable to move as they are resting on empty gin bottles. The other observation I have, specifically for this coastal (as opposed to inland) marina, is how very few owners of sailing vessels – sloops, cutters, ketches and yawls – hoist their sails when they do get out into the open sea. Some do, of course, but we have noticed a high proportion of sailing vessels, in good sailing weather, just motoring along under engine power. Why buy a boat and not use it; why buy a sailing craft and not hoist the sails? Beats me.
Regular readers will be aware that my marina, Noss Marina in Kingswear, across the River Dart from Dartmouth, is being developed into a large hotel and residential site. My frequent references to Mount Crushmore and the itinerant piles of rubble reflect the apparent lack of progress on the building work. Well, those readers following this development will be pleased to read that Mount Crushmore has been dispersed at last and the site has now acquired a tall tower crane (gosh!). The foundations for the ‘boutique’ hotel appear to be in but nothing, as yet, had risen above ground level. As to the promised café, furniture appears to be in, and we are assured that a caterer has been identified, but otherwise – zilch. Still, the showers are good and bottled water is free while the water main is (still) being flushed out to remove traces of cryptosporidium (Blog 133).
Our additional stroll around the marina buildings and contractors’ premises unearthed a newcomer: a company that specialises in providing burials at sea. This cheered me up no-end in my present condition, post cancer, but it reminded me of the committal of my late father’s ashes off the River Tyne. The ceremony was conducted aboard the Tyne pilot cutter, courtesy of the Port of Tyne Authority and the Mission to Seafarers, and was free (subject to a donation). My father, a Master Mariner who started his career as a Mess Boy in 1935, once told me of the procedure for burial at sea in years gone by: the corpse was wrapped in sailcloth, the shroud weighted by fire irons from the ship’s boiler, and the sailcloth stitched up finally with a stitch through the corpse’s nose (to check that he or she was really dead). The burden would then be mounted on a wooden hatch board and balanced on the ship’s gunwale, covered by a Red Ensign, for the burial service conducted by the ship’s Master, then slid off the board as the words, “…we therefore commit his body to the deep…” were uttered – the First Mate retaining the ensign discreetly. Nowadays, corpses are kept onboard until the next port, being stored in the deep freeze or – in a cruise ship – usually in a properly designated mortuary. In the Royal Navy, a corpse is accorded the honour of being piped over the side as it is disembarked or committed, as for a senior officer. So there you are: a potted summary of burial at sea – cheerful subject and presumably a service that is profitable. By the way, did you know that in the British Merchant Navy until at least the end of World War 2, a seaman’s pay was stopped as soon as his ship was sunk or he was killed? No-one could accuse a British shipowner of sentimentality to widows or dependants. It’s what made Britain great, you know.
16 June 2024
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 