‘Stop peering’.
I was thus addressed by my dear wife one Sunday lunchtime as I scrutinised the plated-up Sunday roast. She followed this up with a threat, and a gesture with the loaded plate,
‘You’ll get this over you in a minute. Stop peering, I say’.
Of course, I backed off immediately and gazed innocently out of the window at a passing pigeon. I reflected on my error, a habitual one, I am sorry to say. The fact is, I had been puzzled by the presence of a strange looking vegetable on the plate – a sort of white spherical thing with tubes coming off it, which rather reminded me of a mini version of a closed feed controller in a steam plant: what on earth was she feeding me now? Alas, I have never been good at concealing my feelings and several friends have commented that my face with its steely eyes is an open book. This failing had manifested itself, on this occasion, in the close scrutiny which Jane had damned as ‘peering’. You would think I would have learned by now to be more discreet, but, at my age, alas, I am past redemption. The first Mrs Shacklepin (yes, indeed, there was once a prototype Jane; the poor soul may have recovered by now – I do hope so) would occasionally prepare a fried breakfast with an undercooked fried egg, the white of the egg liquid and unappetising on the top of the yolk. At that time I had perfected the ‘sniff’: a sort of non-verbal comment of quality assurance regarding the cuisine. One day I sniffed once too often at the fried egg, and the breakfast made its way very rapidly to the kitchen gash bin; I seem to recall that it got no further, but it was a close thing (I have often wondered, since, where that marriage went wrong). Thereafter, the ‘sniff’ was consigned to history, but here it was in 2024, apparently reincarnated as ‘peering’. In my defence, as I explained to Jane while out of range, I was merely curious about the rich variety of vegetables that she was preparing for my culinary delight and intestinal delectation. This cut no ice with Jane however, who gave me a ‘sniff’ of her own and told me that I had had the unidentified vegetable many times before. Annoyingly, however, she would not reveal its identity and so we spent the whole meal playing a guessing game, with me desperately suggesting increasingly outrageous and obscure vegetables and she rejecting them (‘You should know these things. I hope you aren’t going senile’, were her encouraging words). We were well into the pudding course before the penny finally dropped and I remembered what the vegetable was: the mini closed feed controller on my plate turned out to be fennel. It was very nice. I knew you’d be interested.
Our boat, APPLETON RUM, is still for sale and interest has dwindled, as one would expect as summer fades into autumn, then winter. We have now found that she needs a new port propeller shaft, having discovered that the existing one has a stripped screw thread on the end, which makes the propeller somewhat insecure. So the old girl will have to be lifted out of the water in November and blocked off ashore while a local firm manufactures about nine feet of 1½” marine-grade stainless steel, complete with tapers, keyways and screw threads. Money, money, money. Whoever buys that boat will get an absolute bargain. Relaunch is scheduled for 6 January 2025 – I promised Jane a New Year treat away from home, but I am keeping the event as a surprise.
September was definitely autumnal, but it did have the odd day of mild weather. We took advantage of the weak sunshine, and the absence of wind and rain, to take the boat away for a trip up river to Stoke Gabriel for the night. This was not exactly an adventure like beating close hauled around Cape Horn, of course, but we are at that happy time in our lives when sitting peacefully in a remote place, sipping gin and tonic in the sunshine, beats intense physical activity while standing, soaking wet, on a sloping deck. Besides, we didn’t have enough fuel to get to Tierra del Fuego and my library book had to be returned in three days time.
Stoke Gabriel is a small village on the River Dart about six miles upstream from the harbour mouth. Road access (like most towns and villages in Devonshire) is somewhat cramped, but you can reach the village in a medium-sized boat like ours, three hours either side of high water. The last time we visited the village (as opposed to just cruised past) was during the Covid restrictions (Blog 98) in a blistering hot summer. Then, like many places of small population at that time, the village was distinctly parochial and unwelcoming – so much so that we were put-off ever visiting again. But time is a great healer, and three years on we thought we should give the place another chance. We moored to a buoy just off the village creek, which dries out at low tide, and watched the sun go down while we sipped the aforementioned gins and tonic. The scenery was beautiful, the sky was streaked with the red of a forthcoming fine day, and the weather benign – one of those perfect evenings that you so rarely encounter in Britain. We looked forward to our exploration of the village in the morning.
After a leisurely breakfast in the sunshine we launched the dinghy and, in an uncharacteristic drive for fitness, I decided to ship the oars and pull the dinghy to the small pontoon that forms the low-tide landing stage for the village, rather than use the outboard motor. This was my first mistake of the day. Rowing a skiff on the Serpentine in London, or even pulling a warship’s whaler in the Atlantic, are experiences quite different from pulling an unevenly loaded small inflatable dinghy against an ebbing tide. In the dinghy, the cramped layout was such that I fouled my legs with the oars every time I made a stroke. There was no room or seat for Jane in the stern, so she had to sit in the bows, which trimmed the boat by the head and made it awkward to handle. So there it was: swearing mightily, I pulled towards the pontoon about 400 metres away against a 1 – 2 knot tide, zig-zagging like a drunk tacking his way home from the pub while Jane issued contrary helm orders (“More to the left. No, not that way, my left. Too far now. More to the right…”). We did make it eventually and were able to crawl out onto the pontoon in the usual undignified fashion, on all fours, before securing the tender and setting off into the village. All that hard work had whetted my appetite and I remembered that there was a rather nice little café, The River Shack, right on the waterfront: a pot of tea perhaps…oh no, I couldn’t possibly have a toasted teacake so soon after breakfast…well, perhaps just one…We quickened our pace accordingly. Oh dear. The café was closed and it would not be open until Thursday (it was then Tuesday). We gazed around us and it became apparent that, not only was the River Shack closed, so was the whole of Stoke Gabriel for there was no sign of any human life. Like most riverside towns and villages in Devonshire, Stoke Gabriel is built on the side of a river valley, so any exploration of the village involved slogging up a steep hill. After having heaved that dinghy across the river I was all for climbing back in and letting it drift gently back to our moored boat, there to imbibe a glass of ardent spirit. Jane, however, was determined that we complete our daily four-mile walking exercise and so she resolutely set off up the harbour road with me huffing and puffing behind. I thought that there was always the chance of a quick pint in the pub but, alas, it was not to be, for both pubs were shut as well. Yes, Stoke Gabriel hospitality had shut down for the winter. Determined to make the most of the place on our run ashore we wandered around this apparently deserted village, climbing ever upwards and admiring some quaint houses and cottages, the village shop (open) and a very peaceful church. We even met another human being (the postman). Finally, we reached what appeared to be the summit and rested on a convenient bench while we discussed how to get back. We could have just trundled back down the main road by the way we had come, but Jane always likes to make a circular walk and so, sighing patiently, I unearthed my Ordnance Survey map and spread it out for her consideration, like Hannibal laying out his plan for crossing the Alps. It seemed to me that there was a perfect circular route that we could take, through the upper village, across several fields, than back down to the foreshore. Indeed, scrutinising the map, it seemed to me that the track emerged on the shore almost at Mill Point, where we had secured the dinghy. All we would then have to do is walk along the foreshore, with the tide out, for a short way and we would be back at the mooring. I put this plan to Jane and she was all in favour, so off we set. We passed three ladies doing their gardening, who clearly were baffled as to why two people should wander down an urban road wearing lifejackets and seaboots, but were too English to mention it – such a friendly village once we had found some people who were alive, we thought. Then the route left the road and we followed the track across two grassy fields before it started to descend, presumably towards the river, into a small dell. We found ourselves scrambling down a dark tunnel, almost entirely enclosed by trees and undergrowth, like Rupert the Bear and Tiger Lily going to meet the wood elves. Down and down we went until, at last, we emerged on the river foreshore, where we paused to get our bearings. Well, we were undoubtedly back at the river, but there was no dinghy or pontoon in sight.
‘Not to worry’, I said, ‘We just have to walk downstream a bit and it will be just around that corner’. I gestured at a rocky point about a hundred metres away.
The foreshore comprised firm gravel and dirt with a sprinkling of seaweed and bits of driftwood, though it was a little muddy closer to the water. It would be easy-going. We set off and soon reached the point, where we paused again to get our bearings. Oh dear, still no dinghy, but there was yet another point in the distance, so we headed for that one, only to find that that, too, was a ‘false summit’. To cut a long story short, we found ourselves walking about a mile along the foreshore in order to reach our dinghy. That track had not emerged on the riverbank quite where I thought it would: bit of a minor navigational cock-up there, but hey, I’m a naval officer – I’m best at reading charts not maps. Besides, as an engineer officer I always found that my turbines went wherever the ship did. As the journey progressed, what was initially firm gravel underfoot began to deteriorate into slippery rocks, piles of seaweed, low overhanging tree branches, and mud. Towards the end the two of us were scrambling over slimy rocks almost on all fours, slipping on seaweed, squelching through deep mud and occasionally falling into concealed rock pools. Jane was not a happy bunny and was complaining mightily.
‘Lucky we had those seaboots on’, I observed cheerily. I was taught at Dartmouth to always maintain the morale of the troops, you see, and to project an air of confidence in times of adversity.
Finally, the inevitable happened. From behind me I heard a cry of,
‘Awk!’,
followed by the sound of a loud ‘SPLAT!’
I turned and found that Jane had disappeared. Well, disappeared from immediate line of sight anyway, for she was now lying in a large puddle of mud, spreadeagled on her back like a candidate for Aztec human sacrifice, her rear quarters covered in filth. Rolling over to clamber upright, she succeeded in covering the rest of her body in alluvial matter too, so that she now resembled some subterranean sea monster emerging from the depths, though incongruously with strawberry blond hair decorated with seaweed. What made it worse was that she had been wearing white trousers and a white top. They were no longer white, and nor was the dinghy by the time we made it back to APPLETON RUM. We staggered onboard leaving muddy footprints on the quarterdeck and, there, removed our filthy clothing and boots before going below. Those hot showers and cups of tea were looking good. Fortunately, no mention was made of the minor cartographical error that had led to the diversion, for which I was grateful. Hannibal’s reincarnation could live to plan the crossing of the Alps another day. What larks! Must do it again some time.
Tell me, have you ever been invited to a country house for the weekend, there to mix with the Marquess and Marchioness of Barsetshire and fellow guests, perhaps to partake in a little shooting or to stroll, like a character from Agatha Christie, through the estate after luncheon? I will take your answer as a ‘no’, though I could be totally wrong in my assessment of my readers’ social circles. I have not experienced such heady delights either, but having started life from quite humble beginnings like our prime minister (whose father was a toolmaker, you know) I am fascinated by etiquette and good manners, and always aspire to excellence. I have all the books on the subject and continue to encourage Jane to practise the correct behaviour in our humble mansion. She, who lived in a household that had servants in her childhood in the Caribbean, continues to resist my suggestions for improvement – the implementation of the toast rack (Blog 121) springs to mind – but I put this down to colonial practices that are divorced from those of the mother country. We must be tolerant of those brought up in the Dominions. Anyway, to get to the point, I am a subscriber to The Spectator, a 200-year-old current affairs magazine that exemplifies high quality journalism and provides a good weekly summary of international and national affairs without being too heavy. Tucked away in the back of the magazine is a small section entitled ‘Dear Mary’, a column devoted to readers seeking advice on social matters. Jane and I read this section avidly, for it rarely fails to entertain. Often, the answers (to us) are pretty obvious, but one question that came up recently completely baffled us. The question was,
‘How can I tell guests to remember to bring enough cash for a tip for the staff?’.
It seems that, in the higher reaches of British society, staying guests are expected to leave cash for the domestic staff on leaving. I seem to recall that the figure of £10 per night of stay was mentioned if your host has only one member of staff; £20 if there is more than one. Presumably you bung the butler a wad of used fivers personally for distribution to the staff (‘There you go, dear boy’, stuffing the money into his top pocket), or discreetly you leave the money in an envelope in your room as you leave – I would hope, the latter. Jane and I were totally astonished by this revelation. Really? Gosh! But if you are a guest in someone’s house, why should you have to pay? What kind of hospitality is that? If the staff deserve a supplement to their wages to compensate them for the extra work that a guest incurs, surely that should fall on the shoulders of the host? Apparently not: the ‘done thing’ is for the guest to leave cash. Jane and I push the boat out whenever we have guests and make a point that nothing is too much trouble. We love having guests overnight, and we would not expect them to leave a contribution, even in the unlikely event that we chose – say – to have a take-away meal in the evening instead of a formal dinner: we would pay for it all. Mind you, we have no staff, so maybe that clinches the argument. Still, we are grateful for the tip (no pun intended) so that we do not commit a faux pas next time we drop in on Lord Barsetshire for the weekend to bag a few grouse.
We are off to Wareham in Dorset next week for a short break in The Priory hotel, which promises relaxation, excellent service, top cuisine, no dogs and no children. Bargain. I will let you know how we got on in due course. Now, if you will excuse me, I am off to do some research into visiting Bovington Tank Museum – I promised Jane some cultural visits while we were away.
12 October 2024
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 