“It’s a long ship, this.”
Thus spoke the memsahib as we sat outside on our patio in the shade, wallowing in the delight of a pleasingly hot day like hippopotami in the mud of the Rufiji River. I could not resist the thought that I had trained her well, for the phrase is Royal-Navy-Speak for, “My glass is empty and I could do with a refill”. This was the second such phrase that she had used, for she is already well-practised in, “Eyes in the boat”, an order given to naval boat’s crew as a lady is descending the accommodation ladder or gangway into a boat alongside a warship, that her modesty not be disturbed by the licentious eyes of rough sailors. That phrase is obsolete now, as British warships no longer carry ships’ boats in the traditional sense and the historical practice of running a boat routine will have gone too. But there was the phrase, still uttered by my dear wife a week ago, because (so I was told – I didn’t notice) some girl in a bikini and thong was sunbathing on the beach in Swanage as we strolled along the promenade. But back to that drink. As The Drinks Person in our household I immediately leapt up to replenish her glass with a further injection of Pimm’s No 1, for Summer has well and truly come to Melbury and we are baking in 28C degree heat. Why go on holiday when we can get warmth in England? Besides, with temperatures around the Mediterranean reaching into the 40s Centigrade, we are probably better off where we are. As in previous years, the weather has spawned new uses of English nouns and phrases. We had ‘The Beast from the East’, ’The Troll from Trondheim’ and ‘Snow Bombs’ in recent Winters; we now have the phrase ‘Heat Dome’ this Summer. To be sure, it has been an excellent year for sunshine so far, and I have been able to resort to short-sleeved shirts, chinos, desert boots, and the battered Panama hat – a survivor of many a run ashore in tropical climes. Shorts? Good Lord, no. My legs are not fit for public consumption, though I did, daringly, wear them in the back garden the other day with my (khaki) socks rolled down. I believe in showing some sartorial decorum, even if most of the rest of the British public doesn’t give a damn.
As I mentioned in the last blog, the sale of my motor yacht has given Jane and me new freedom, and we have been (seemingly) here, there and everywhere.
The end of May found us with our old boating friends Raymond and Carole in Melton Mowbray for a couple of days, during which our new electric car, a VW ID3, performed admirably – completing the return journey of just under 300 miles without needing to be charged. Our friends looked after us very well and we packed a lot into the time available. One visit, to a local craft museum, was about the history of the weaving industry and we learned a great deal. Not for the first time, I pondered on the miracle that we exist today, given the appalling work conditions that our ancestors had to endure: long hours, deafening noise, parsimonious wages, poor food, spartan living conditions. Yet here we are.
In June, a pop concert was scheduled to be held for a weekend on a site near our house so, naturally, I decided to evacuate the premises for the duration in favour of a quieter spot elsewhere. We were due to visit our friends Sam and Laura, whom we had not seen for a year, in Cheshire later in the week; we therefore decided to tag on a weekend in Chester beforehand. Golborne Manor, a delightful B&B in the countryside south east of Chester proved to be an excellent choice and made our visit particularly enjoyable. I had never been to Chester before, but the city left a very favourable impression on me. We walked the full perimeter of the ancient walls (about two miles), which gave us a good view of the inner city as well as an appreciation of its size and history. We also admired the racecourse located just outside the city walls, dating from 1539 and the oldest racecourse still in use (the slang term ‘Gee, Gee’ for horses is said to originate from the course’s first owner, Henry Gee, in the 16th century). It was a pity there was no meeting that weekend, for we would have had a grandstand view from the city walls. Chester Castle was hosting a mini pageant when we passed and, as it was free, we went in and had a good chat with the stall-holders. The most interesting was the gunsmith, who was dressed in 18th century garb and who gave us a fascinating lecture on muskets, blunderbusses, ancient rifles and naval boarding pistols. We were allowed to pick up the weapons and I was astonished by just how heavy the British infantry musket (nicknamed ‘Brown Bess’) was: it weighed about 10 lb or 4.5 kg. Carrying the thing any distance would have been hard enough, but aiming it would have been even harder. Even the American Pennsylvania rifle, though seemingly smaller, seemed to weigh a hefty amount. The latter was, apparently, the most accurate weapon of the 18th century and was used to devastating effect during the American War of Independence. The backwoodsmen who formed the American militia were well-skilled and practised with the rifle, and were forerunners of modern-day snipers, picking off British army officers and sergeants, who were easily identifiable by their uniforms. Oh dear – that might have been my great-great-great grandfather. At some late point in the chat with the gunsmith I sensed Jane’s attention beginning to wander, particularly when the conversation moved on to lead shot, forging, hardening and tempering, and marksmanship. I don’t think she quite appreciated the engineering challenges associated with gunsmithing, so I thought it better to move on to explore the rest of Chester.
Chester Cathedral was impressive and – for some reason – had waived the admission fee for the day, but I paid the standard amount anyway because I know the upkeep costs of our churches and cathedrals are considerable. Architecturally, the building was inspiring, but we could not get away from the impression that the cathedral had lost its way and forgotten its principal purpose. Requests for money were everywhere – even for lighting a candle to support prayer; but the thing we found particularly disappointing was the fact that the cathedral was to be used for a Tina Turner concert that night, and the band was setting up its gear in the body of the building. Using a church or cathedral for a classical music concert is now quite common, but it might be excused on the grounds that gentle music encourages meditation, contemplation and prayer. I am not convinced that thumping Rock ‘n’ Roll music in the Tina Turner style would have the same theological benefit. You are, of course, allowed to disagree. Incidentally, I presume the concert was a ‘Tina Turner Tribute’ rather than a concert featuring the singer herself, unless the Church of England has managed to bring her back from the dead.
We lunched in the brasserie of the Grosvenor Hotel in Chester, which had been recommended by someone we had met en route. It was very expensive, but quite classy, and ideal for people-watching. Incredibly, given the price of the place, someone brought in a toddler in a push chair, who howled for the entire time we were there. They follow me around you know.
The plan had been to move on to Sam and Laura’s place on the other side of the county but, alas, before we could get there, Sam came down with Covid19 (remember that?). Laura tested positive shortly afterwards, so we were deprived of their company for yet another year. We avoided the contagion by returning home. It was a very satisfactory weekend, though we missed our old friends, who have since recovered.
So that was Chester: been there, done it, bought the medieval tee shirt. Overall impression 9/10, litter 8/10, shopping 9/10, graffiti 9/10, dossers nil, skateboarders nil, B&B 10/10.
Well, that’s our impending holiday on Dartmoor cancelled then. Regular readers will recall that we had booked the Lydgate House Hotel in Postbridge, right in the centre of Dartmoor, for four days in the middle of July. The attraction of the hotel (which we have stayed at before, many years ago) was that it was perfectly located for walking on the moor and met all the stringent criteria that made for a happy Shacklepin experience, namely friendliness, good food and the fact that it did not accept children under the age of twelve, or dogs. Ten days before we were due to depart for this nirvana I received a cheerful email from the hotel stating that it had decided to change its no-dog policy and to throw open its doors to canine guests and their well-behaved humans; indeed, the email stated, some rooms were big enough to accommodate two dogs (wouldn’t that be lovely!). I was apoplectic. I immediately cancelled our booking, which was to the value of just under £1,000. A protracted, but very polite, exchange of emails followed, during which I was assured that no dogs were currently booked to stay before or during our stay but, if I still wished to cancel, the owner would refund my deposit in full as a token of goodwill. I considered this assurance, but I felt that there had been a betrayal of good faith by changing the dog policy so suddenly, just before we were about to arrive. I therefore insisted on cancelling and I was assured that a full refund of my 50% deposit was on the way. On that basis, Jane and I booked an alternative holiday (sans dogs) in a hotel near Oxford. The next day, the hotel reneged on the offer of a full refund: the owner had reconsidered the situation overnight and now felt that they had met the terms of the original contract. It was, of course, too late to cancel the cancellation (if you follow me) by then because we had committed ourselves elsewhere, so we had a ‘bit of a situation’ to be resolved. In the end, we compromised on me paying for one night’s stay (the standard cancellation fee, given the notice) and the hotel refunding the remainder of my original 50% deposit. Was I ‘cutting off my nose to spite my face’ , to use an appropriate idiom, by cancelling so impulsively? Maybe, but I feel there was a certain amount of justification. And before you start, yes I know that Jane and I are in the minority with regard to dogs in hotels and that the lovely creatures are wonderful companions, don’t smell, don’t bite, don’t bark, don’t fight other dogs, don’t defecate in the bedrooms and – of course – your dog is well-behaved. The fact is, some people just don’t like them in their house or chosen hotel – it is a matter of choice, yet finding an establishment that does not take dogs is like looking for a needle in a haystack.
As a footnote to this sorry saga, the Voco Oxford Thames Hotel – which we booked as a replacement – assured us three times on the telephone that they only accepted Registered Assistance Dogs (which was fine by us) and we paid for the booking in advance and in full. When the confirmation email came through it said at the bottom,
Pet Policy
We are pleased to welcome well behaved dogs when booking our dedicated Pet Getaway package, complete with thoughtful touches to make their stay as special as yours.
I tell you, the irony just keeps on coming. I will let you know how we got on.
Thump. The sound of Jane’s head hitting the brick wall was loud and unmissable. When I studied engineering, they taught me that action and reaction are equal and opposite, and so that brick wall – in theory – must have moved an infinitesimal amount. Trust me: it didn’t. Jane lay there in disarray, covered in cream, stunned but conscious, temporarily blind because she had lost her glasses.
We had been to a barbecue with our neighbours in their back garden and a good time had been had by all. Conversation and wine flowed, and the food was plentiful. By 2230, however, it was becoming a little chilly and the wind was getting up. Time to go, we decided. Jane led the way, clutching a jug of left-over cream from the pudding that she had prepared.
“Be careful of those steps”, I said, referring to a shallow set of three steps leading down to the garden gate. At that moment, as the automatic courtesy floodlight came on, she stumbled and fell on her knees, the impetus striking her head against the garage wall. The cream jug shattered, cream spattered everywhere, and her spectacles flew off and broke. Fortunately, one of our fellow guests was an A&E nursing sister, so she immediately took charge, thrusting me to one side as I held Jane’s hand spouting helpful pronouncements about Newton’s Third Law. We sat Jane up and a cold compress was applied to her forehead. Fortunately, she had not been knocked unconscious and she did not feel groggy or nauseous; she just kept repeating that she had been stupid, as you sometimes do when you feel embarrassed. The whole barbecue party (there were only six of us) made it’s way back to our place, where we cleaned up Jane’s head, nose, elbows and knees – all grazed and bruised. Her spectacles and an errant lens were recovered. Amazingly, the damage was limited to just cuts and bruises, though she did look a sorry sight. Our local optician managed to fix her spectacles, so she could see again, and her fringe screened the grazes and the yellow bruise on her forehead. She really cheered up when our barbecue host appeared on the doorstep the next day with a bouquet of flowers; it was hardly his fault but it was a lovely gesture. As I write, business is back to normal with Jane. Tough nut, my wife, but this is the third time she has fallen over and I am worried that it is getting to become a habit. Two points she emphatically did make afterwards: she fell over and did not ‘have a fall’; and, no, she had not had too much to drink.
In Blog 139 I promised to give you an update on Henry – Henry the Flymo robot lawnmower. Regular readers will recall that I bought Henry at the beginning of the year and spent an entertaining time in the cold, the wet, and the mud setting up the garden to receive said device. We are now deeply into the Summer and Henry has been patrolling for some time around our minuscule lawn, silently snipping here and there. On the whole he does well, but getting to the present status has not been without its trials and tribulations. The fundamental problem has been finding the optimum distance for the buried boundary wire from the edge of the lawn. This wire is stapled into the lawn, typically about ten inches from the lawn edge, and electronically it prevents Henry from running amok in the flowerbeds (the wire becomes invisible over time as the grass grows over it). In the initial stages I had to adjust the distance of the wire several times before I achieved the optimum, for Henry, on a random basis, would occasionally get trapped over the edge of the lawn or lay waste to Jane’s flowers. All is well now, and Henry bursts into life every two days, pottering around at random for four hours at a time, trimming the grass as necessary. There is no collection system: the principle is ‘a little and often’ and such trimmings as there are are left (invisible) on the lawn as mulch. Henry is virtually noiseless and I enjoy just sitting there watching him work – it is surprisingly therapeutic. The lawn looks good (if you ignore the brown patches caused by the current drought); the only downside is that about four inches of the lawn around the perimeter does not get cut and has to be strimmed separately – or left uncut to encourage the insect life – according to whim. Was it a good idea to buy Henry instead of continuing with a conventional electric lawnmower on our 20 square-metre lawn? Hmmm. Not sure, in retrospect, but he his here now and he does save me the fifteen minutes it used to take me to cut the lawn, as well as being yet another of Shacklepin’s gadgets..
The First Sea Lord – the professional head of the Royal Navy – has been sacked and dismissed the Service for having an affair with a married subordinate. It is, apparently, the first time such a thing has happened in 500 years. What an appalling end to a professional career and what an utterly stupid and disloyal thing to do. By this weak act the Admiral has undermined the entire ethos of discipline in the Royal Navy and brought the Service into disrepute. I can only assume that he considered the subordinate with whom he had the affair (a married woman) was worth it. I wonder what Lord Nelson would have said?
I was just thinking, the other day, about the story of the boy at school who was summoned to the front desk by his teacher because he had been absent the day before. The boy explained that he had been missing because his father had got burnt on the day of his absence. The teacher was immediately concerned and sympathetic, and asked how his father now was.
“They don’t bugger about at the crematorium, Miss”, was the laconic reply.
Our local crematorium had an Open Day a few weekends ago and I was going to take Jane as a Special Day Out, but we forgot all about it and missed it. Another time, perhaps. I was curious about how one can guarantee that the ashes you receive in the urn are, indeed, those of your deceased loved one, though I had been assured by a friend, who used to be an undertaker, that the system is – indeed – genuine. The concept of incinerating dead bodies has, of course, been around since the Romans and Ancient Greeks (and even earlier), but it was illegal in Britain until the late 1800s. The Cremation Society was formed in 1874 in England to advocate the disposal of bodies by cremation on public health grounds, but there was strong opposition to the practice. The first crematorium was opened in 1879 in Woking in Surrey, and a horse was cremated there to prove the principle. However, it was not until 1884 that the law was changed to allow human remains to be so disposed – quite surprising really. Cremation is now commonplace and, and far as I can recall, of all the funerals I have attended, only one has involved an interment. I read the other day that some company or other is now proposing to dispose of bodies by dissolving the corpse in a chemical and flushing the resulting ‘gloop’ down the drain, while retaining the bones; perhaps the aim is to reduce our carbon footprint – an interesting, if unpleasant and macabre, development from the Green lobby. So there you are – I knew you’d be interested.
It is amazing. Jane and I have actually won a competition. We have been invited to (what is literally) a free lunch onboard the mini cruise ship HEBRIDEAN PRINCESS, alongside in Portland harbour. The aim, of course, is a ‘hard sell’ to encourage us to book a cruise in said vessel, but that’s fine by me: the cruises she undertakes are just up our street. The cruises are around the Scottish islands. The ship herself, built in 1989, is compact and has traditional lines. She was designed specifically for use in the Western Isles (= probably rolls like a bucket). She only carries 48 passengers who, apparently, are very well looked after in comfortable accommodation with (it is claimed) superb cuisine. I can well believe it. The cabins and public rooms are cosy and of individual design in a style reminiscent of a Scottish or English country house, but with modern fittings. The ship anchors off various Scottish islands and lands passengers by boat so that they can enjoy exploring or picnicking. There is a full appropriate lecture programme. I believe the late Queen Elizabeth II used to charter HEBRIDEAN PRINCESS occasionally for cruises after a parsimonious and short-sighted Labour government decommissioned the Royal Yacht BRITANNIA in 1997. The whole concept of a cruise in HEBRIDEAN PRINCESS sounds great to us, but the problem is that the cruises are very expensive, even before you take into account that you have to get yourself to Oban, in western Scotland, to join the ship. Still, we will enjoy the day and the free lunch, and I am dying to look around the ship.
You know, I am convinced that the wind can make people irritable. Our erstwhile neighbour, who was a long-serving headteacher, maintained that whenever there was a lot of wind the children at school always played up. Thus it was (in my humble opinion) the wind – at a gusty Force 4 from the south west – that influenced the memsahib’s robust response to me when she returned from her weekly shopping expedition. As was custom, I had leaped to the fore to help her unload the car in the garage and carry the heavy bags back to the house. In passing, I observed that she had failed to reverse the car into the garage in accordance with our recently agreed policy, and had driven in instead. I mentioned this tactfully, referring to House Standing Orders Article 15.5.5, as amended by our last discussion, but was told flatly,
“It’s too difficult and I’m not in the mood, so I’m not doing it. I’ve had a bad day at the supermarket, so don’t start”.
So that’s me told. The wind. It must have been the wind.
Well, it is Wimbledon fortnight again and – as in previous years – Jane is incommunicado from 1430 each day until well into the evening. Talk of Alcatraz, Camnorrie and Jockavitch abounds once more in the drawing room which is, itself, in darkness like a hallowed temple to some strange god. Curtains are drawn, the room lit only by the moving images on the television screen. At one end sits Jane in the Television Control Chair, her feet up, the remote control clutched in her hand, shouting incoherent invectives at the screen (“Oh my God. What are you doing?”). I supply iced water or chilled white wine at regular interval, depending on the time of day, but I might as well be a wraith for all the attention given to me. The evening meals, eaten in snatches according to the programme of Centre Court, are carefully confected by my fair hand for the duration. Meanwhile, my right ear, which needed minor surgery in April, throbs and has started to detach itself from my head while oozing yellow pus. My bottom-right molar decided to infect itself in sympathy and had to be extracted last Monday. Woe is me. But I plod on – providing support as as best I can – just one of God’s little soldiers destined to serve the follower of “Out”, “Deuce”, “Fault” and “Quiet Please”. Thank heavens I am not one to complain, that’s what I say.
Notwithstanding Wimbledon, we are off to walk bits of the Thames Path next week and it will also soon be my birthday. Wish us luck, keep smiling and – to any Americans reading this – Happy Independence Day.
So follow me, follow. Down to the hollow. And wallow around in the glorious mud sun.
4 July 2025
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 