My goodness me. I see that it has been over three months since my last missive, a shortcoming that has provoked a complaint from one reader who, presumably, wondered if I were still alive. I must do better. It was quite warm when I last wrote, in July, and we have enjoyed something of an Indian summer ever since to the point where we have actually been praying for rain. Several water companies in England have declared a drought and our own, Wessex Water, finally succumbed in August with the first hosepipe ban in fifty years. I expected this, so I bought up as many hose reels as I could before they were banned. Finally, however, Autumn is truly upon us: last night Storm Somethingorother passed through Britain, with the rain pouring down in buckets and the wind howling through the rooftops. It is expected to continue for the rest of the week. Excellent: our windows were given their two-monthly clean last week, and I laboriously washed the car with a bucket at the same time; I should have known that these well-proven techniques would work. Thank heavens I took the precaution of lashing our patio table and chairs to the house with 12mm nylon rope and a round turn and two half hitches.
A glance at my diary reveals that August just rolled by in a mundane series of hot days during which we barely ventured out. August, being the school Summer holidays in England, is not a good time to be on the roads or visiting a National Trust property. We did manage a few days with our good friends in Altrincham, near Manchester, but that time seemed to just fly by, though we met some lovely people at a dinner party, all of whom seemed to be of the socialist persuasion and therefore to think that our new prime minister, Andy Burnham (previously mayor of Greater Manchester), could walk on water. To be sure, Manchester tends to have more water coming out of the sky than many other parts of England, so I suppose he has had lots of practice. Disappointed by the universal adulation that my question about our new prime minister had produced, I tried a new tack to liven up the hitherto stilted polite conversation. I posited what a force for good the US president, Mr Trump, was and what a significant contribution he had made to his country and – indeed – the rest of the world since he came to power. Now that worked. Like a pebble (or, perhaps, a brick) lobbed into a calm village pond, the waves of disquiet spread rapidly outwards and a very lively discussion followed. I remember, vividly, one guest shooting upright in her chair like a meerkat as I made my comment. Food was not actually thrown across the table (it was our hostess’s birthday dinner, after all), but it was a close-run thing I think. Overall, it was an excellent evening, so much better than sitting there talking about the weather or fawning over Mancunian upstarts who think that a suit and black tee-shirt combination is sartorially acceptable or dignified for their office.
With the return of all those lovely children to school, Jane and I emerged from our hibernation in September, sniffing the air like two moles venturing out from their burrow into the daylight. We found a lovely lodge on the banks of the River Thames through AirBnB, an agency that we have never used before. The lodge was set in the owner’s very large garden on the outskirts of Dorchester on Thames, a village that we used to visit a lot when we had our boats on the Thames. It is a tranquil, quintessentially English, village about nine miles south-south-east of Oxford with some lovely traditional architecture, a 12th century abbey, three pubs, and some interesting archeological Roman and Iron Age geological features; if you are a fan of the British television detective series Midsummer Murders, then many of the scenes were filmed in Dorchester on Thames (along with nearby Wallingford and Henley on Thames). The whole area is delightful and very much ‘English Home Counties’, which is undoubtedly why the television series was based there. The Thames meanders her way gently through the Oxfordshire countryside, impeded only by the forty four locks and associated weirs that ensure flood control and navigability. I should, perhaps, explain that the River Thames, which runs from its source in Gloucestershire near Lechlade, is ‘non tidal’ until it reaches Teddington Lock in Greater London; thereafter it becomes the part of the river that passes through central London and is subject to the moon’s and the North Sea’s influences, becoming another beast altogether. That is not to say that the non-tidal Thames is always tranquil: it can build up quite a current after heavy rain in the winter and flood the adjacent fields, and sometimes the villages; however, after one has experienced the twice-daily flow on a tidal river, such as Jane and I did when we had our boat on the River Dart, the current on the non-tidal Thames is little potatoes.
Anyway, back to that lodge. The owners had a lovely house in grounds of about an acre and they had built a modest timber structure discreetly away from the main building, about ten yards from the actual river, though sensibly high on the bank, about fifteen feet above water level. To call it a large wooden shed sounds rather unkind, though technically, that is exactly what it was. However, it was well-insulated, cleverly designed, and furnished in a tasteful modern style with a double bedroom, a comfortable kitchen/living room and a well-appointed shower room/lavatory. Lighting and heating were by electricity. Double-glazed windows enhanced the insulation and cut out any draughts. Alas, the lodge did not have a dishwasher – an omission that Jane was very quick to point out as it is usually one of the first things we look for in self-catering accommodation. Black mark there, but never mind. There was a small verandah outside the lodge and further outside seating on the lawn towards the river. The view and atmosphere were straight out of Wind in the Willows, and we spent lovely evenings just sitting outside with a glass of chilled wine in the mild weather, ‘watching the river to see that it didn’t stop’. There was very little river traffic and virtually no noise to disturb the tranquility, but Jane identified twenty one different species of bird by their birdsong. Kestrels soared overhead and beautifully-coloured kingfishers darted along the river bank. We did not see Ratty, Mole or Mr Badger, nor any otters, but I bet they were there. It was, indeed, a perfect spot. We only had four nights at the lodge, so we had to make the most of the time available. For two days we simply rambled along the adjacent Thames Path, one day walking nine miles down river to ancient Wallingford – one of Alfred the Great’s fortified boroughs and another favourite from our boating days. On another day we caught the bus to Oxford and just wandered round the place in the hope of soaking up the atmosphere; as ever, it was heaving with tourists and not a hugely pleasant experience (which, I suppose, begs the question why we went in the first place). Oxford is another town that we visited often in our boating days but, despite repeated attempts to see the attraction of the city, we have never grown to like it. Our first visit, by boat more than twenty years ago, was a huge disappointment as we expected something more quiet, academic and idyllic. What we found then, fundamentally, was a slightly grubby industrial city, heavily congested by buses that – bizarrely and literally – mingled with pedestrians in the city centre, choking them with diesel fumes. There was a rather tired and underwhelming 1970s shopping centre, a surfeit of tourists, and – surprisingly for a city – a dearth of decent restaurants. The architecture, the castle, the colleges, the libraries and museums were – indeed – impressive, but I’m afraid the minuses exceeded the pluses and, after that first visit, we used to sail our boat rapidly through the city without stopping. Now, in 2026, we found that the Westgate Shopping Centre had been replaced by a huge, slick, modern edifice and that the buses still mingled with the pedestrians, but that they were now battery powered and pollution-free. That’s progress for you.
Those four nights by the river just whizzed by but, you know, we thought the time spent was just right: increasingly, we are finding that a three- or four-day break is just about right for a holiday in the UK; the time is usually enough to see everything that we want to.
Oh dear. That Swan Teasmade that I received for my birthday in July (Blog 150) proved to be a big mistake. Regular readers will recall that I asked for the gift as a means of preparing automatically our early-morning tea in the bedroom, thus obviating the need for me to pad down to the kitchen while half-asleep every day. Alas, the Teasmade lasted about a month before breaking down. I was then faced with a quandary: technically, the machine was under a guarantee and could be returned for repair or replacement; however, the guarantee only applied to the person who bought it for me, namely my son, Rupert, who lives a hundred miles away. What to do in such a situation? Rupert might think I were complaining if I mentioned it to him and, in any case, he would find the warranty return process a genuine hassle given his current heavy workload. I had also disposed of the original box that the appliance came in. I contacted a local repairer in the hope of solving the problem without bothering Rupert, but he advised me that spares were almost impossible to obtain and I might be better off buying a complete second-hand appliance on eBay, which would be cheaper than his repair fee. I checked, and found – indeed – that was the case, but at the same time I discovered that the modern Swan Teasmade has poor reviews on Amazon with regard to reliability. Loath to buy yet another unreliable product, I abandoned the Teasmade project and wrote off my birthday present to be recycled.
But wait, the story does not end there. There was scope here for yet Another Gadget. I scoured the Internet for an alternative device that would make tea, on a timer, in the morning, and it proved surprisingly difficult. However, persistence won the day and I eventually found the Sage Tea Maker. I mean the maker is called Sage, not that it makes sage tea. This amazing device has the appearance of a glass electric kettle that is removable from its base where the controls are situated. Inside the kettle is a stainless steel basket cantilevered so that it can slide up and down on a vertical magnetic rail. The loose tea is poured into the basket, the kettle is filled with water and placed on the base. A button is pressed and the water heats to a preset temperature (100ºC by default). When the temperature is reached, the heating stops and (this is the best bit) the basket of tea is lowered magnetically and automatically into the boiled water, where it stays for a set time (two minutes by default) before slowly rising again. When it is clear, an alarm sounds and the tea can be poured. There are all sorts of settings that can be adjusted, such as temperature, timing, type of tea (black, green, white). It will even just boil water or make coffee. However, crucially for me, the machine can start on a timer so I can set the whole thing up when we go to bed and be woken up to a fresh pot of Twinings best. The whole thing is amazing: frankly, it is worth getting up slightly early just to be able to watch the whole process of boiling and basket-dipping. I did suggest that to Jane one early morning, but she did not seem very interested. Odd that. So there you go: the Sage Tea Maker.
Like many ancient mariners I still like to read contemporary and historical accounts of naval matters, although nostalgia is not what it used to be and – inevitably – the Royal Navy is not what it was (well, I’m not there to keep it on the straight and narrow, for a start). An older friend of mine told me of a collision that occurred in 1953 near Iceland, when the brand-new destroyer HMS DIAMOND rammed the cruiser HMS SWIFTSURE during a NATO exercise. Considerable damage was incurred on both vessels, and there were some injuries. Apparently, the (senior) Commanding Officer of SWIFTSURE signalled his opposite number in DIAMOND as the two vessels drifted apart, metaphorically licking their wounds,
“WHAT DO YOU INTEND TO DO NOW?”, to which the destroyer replied,
“BUY A FARM”. Laconic, and to the point.
Sixty one days to Christmas and, already, the memsahib is planning the big event despite the fact that we do not, in practice, have a family to celebrate it with. Amongst our many friends we have two other couples with whom we regularly and jointly have lunch, and they – too – are, essentially, childless. At a very convivial lunch party last month Jane tentatively suggested that we all six get together for Christmas Lunch at our place rather than eat our meals separately in our own homes on that special day; we would have Rib of Beef (for reasons that will become clear, this proposal will hitherto be referred to as Plan A). The general consensus was enthusiastic, but one friend had just dashed off to collect her dog from ‘Doggie Daycare’ and to return him to home, so her husband was reluctant to commit to any firm agreement. To our surprise, when his wife returned her response was somewhat lukewarm. You see, she did not want to leave Benson (her dog) alone on Christmas Day. Benson had lots of presents at Christmas (more than his owners, in fact) and he would spend Christmas morning opening them and generally having a rip-roaring time. Four of us were dumbstruck; indeed, at first we thought she was joking. Someone (no, not me) suggested that she hold Dog Christmas on Boxing Day instead, for a dog cannot read a calendar. This was rejected out of hand on the basis that dear Benson would certainly know that he had been cheated of his special day. We therefore moved to a Plan B, which would be a foursome at our house for the non-dog contingent. However, in subsequent discussion it seemed a shame to break up the sextet, so a further compromise was reached in the form of Plan C: we would all six repair to Dog House, where Dog Friend would provide the Christmas Lunch (which would, emphatically, not be Rib of Beef), but we were to come late in the day so that Benson could enjoy his present-ripping, playing, and general celebration of the Advent before we came.
In the weeks that followed, Jane and I pondered at great length on how to get out of Doggie Christmas. I am not fond of dogs and I certainly did not want my Christmas Dinner ruined by an over-excited, wet, smelly, creature jumping all over me, sniffing my groin, and begging for food at the table. I also wanted my Rib of Beef. We then discovered that the other non-dog couple were of exactly the same opinion, but none of us wanted to upset our dog-owning friend, who was dear to us, a generous hostess, and very capable cook if – apparently – slightly mad. Feeling guilty that we were colluding in a plot against our friend (which, of course, we were), the non-dog quartet formed an impromptu Collusion Committee and finally agreed a strategy: Jane would text to Dog Friend and apologetically withdraw from the Christmas Day arrangement (Plan C), citing the fact that she (Dog Friend) had – to some extent – been ‘bounced’ into hosting the lunch and also stating that it didn’t seem fair to spoil Benson’s Christmas; we would therefore revert to Plan B, which was Christmas Lunch of Rib of Beef for four, at our place, for the minor cynophobics. To our relief, this was amicably accepted and all seemed well until a week later, when Dog Friend postponed a Sunday lunch she was due to host for the six of us in October, wishing to reschedule to a convenient Thursday when Benson routinely went into ‘Doggie Daycare’; as no convenient Thursday existed in 2026 this amounted to a cancellation. Oh dear. The Collusion Committee reconvened and concluded that we had upset our friend. Feeling guilty, and to avoid any suggestion of partiality, we cancelled Plan B (four of us at Christmas) and reverted to Plan Zero, aka Square One, with all three couples in their own houses for Christmas, on their own (except for the couple with Benson, naturally). Still with me so far?
Time passed by, and nothing more was said on the matter by any of us, including Dog Friend, who was as friendly and normal as ever, so maybe she wasn’t upset after all. However Jane and I could not get the Christmas situation out of our minds. We concluded that it was ridiculous that we had abandoned Plan B (the foursome at our house – do try to keep up) so we re-approached non-dog couple and asked them to reconsider spending Christmas with us. They agreed and I am delighted to report that the four of us will spend a convivial and festive Christmas Day together. In summary, then, we had moved from Plan Zero (the status quo) to suggest Plan A; dropped to Plan B; renegotiated to Plan C; reverted to Plan B; dropped to Plan Zero; then – finally – re-established Plan B. And all because of a b****y dog.
Sometimes I despair of my fellow countrymen and their inability to speak or write correct English. I do not claim always to use perfect English grammar in these blogs, but I do try. I know the difference between “infer’ and ‘imply”, “uninterested” and “disinterested”, “its and it’s”, when to use “who” or “whom”, and when to use “me” or “I”. My annoyance is worse when a major British institution, such as the British retail store, Marks & Spencer (M&S), transgresses. I have already bemoaned the sartorial state of the M&S staff in an earlier blog (Blog 148), but it seems that the company’s higher management is staffed by illiterates. Several years ago, M&S was berated and ridiculed by members of the public for using the sign “FOUR ITEMS OR LESS” at their checkouts, the correct grammar being, of course, “FOUR ITEMS OR FEWER”. I suppose, to M&S’s credit, the company eventually corrected that error. Now, I see from a recent visit to the store in The Big City, M&S has chosen to add new words to the English dictionary: apparently we now have “MENS”, “WOMENS” and “KIDS” added to our lexicon. Even if they had been correctly printed “MEN’S”, ‘WOMEN’S” and “KID’S” it would have been meaningless as it would have begged the question, “Men’s what?”. Make that, “MEN’S CLOTHING” and “WOMEN’S CLOTHING”. Don’t start me on “Kids”, which have four legs, and “Children”, who have two. I itched to use a felt-tipped pen to correct the aberration, but I was not tall enough. Heaven help the nation when even one of its oldest established stores cannot get it right. Hrrrmph.
It appears that the USAF has stopped flying over us at last (Blog 148), and Jane is bereft. It turns out that the aircraft that Jane loved to watch over the summer were probably not B52s, but might well have been tankers for air-to-air refuelling. By my observation, some of the aircraft were also B1s. They blasted noisily overhead for several months, at all times of the day and night, but we became quite used to them and Jane never missed the opportunity to dash out and look at them. Now they have gone as the USAF have apparently removed their aircraft from their base at RAF Fairford in Gloucestershire. There was a very suspicious event several weeks ago, when three vans containing at least six men were intercepted in a country lane near the air base at two in the morning. The occupants, dressed in black, with balaclavas to cover their faces, scattered but most were captured. The police were alerted by a farmer returning home from a barn dance or whatever. There was much tumult and shouting, with firearms pointing everywhere and robot bomb disposal vehicles trundling about in the wee small hours. No explosive devices were found in the vans, unless you count a large quantity of petrol in cans, but nocturnal activity by six disguised men, in a narrow currently lane next to an American air base, is not likely to be nature rambling or bird watching. The police say, ‘enquiries are continuing’.
Did you know that teacupful of petrol has the same explosive power as a pound of TNT? Not many people know that. It is worth thinking about the next time you decide to light a fag as you fill the car up at a service station.
The madness continues. Two Scottish museums have removed Egyptian mummies from their displays because the original owners did not give their consent, they being – well – dead. I suppose the next thing will be for the museums to take the mummies back to Egypt, dig a hole in the desert, and re-bury them. It is a similar philosophy to the current vogue of museums returning their artefacts to their place of origin, there to disappear into the black hole of obscurity, never to be seen again. Museums removing their displays must surely be the equivalent of turkeys voting for Christmas, but it would appears that curators and museum trusts have yet to work that out. Soon, we will have no museums and none of us will have anywhere to go in a strange town or city when it rains. Loopy.
Our last holiday of the year found us at Bovisand Bay at the eastern end of, and overlooking, Plymouth Sound. Our old friends Marjorie and Benjamin, who live in Plymouth, very kindly offered us the use of their holiday chalet, which is located in Bovisand Park (www.bovisandpark.co.uk), an exclusive private estate on the hillside by Fort Bovisand – a disused Victorian fort that is currently being developed for discerning affluent home owners. The chalet was delightful. Although bijou it was modern, solidly built, well-insulated, and contained everything one could need for a relaxing stay: a patio with splendid views, two bedrooms, a lounge/diner, a fully-fitted kitchen (with dishwasher), and a shower room. Large picture windows overlooked the breath-taking vista of the Plymouth Approaches, Plymouth Sound, Cawsand Bay, Cornwall, Drake’s Island and Plymouth itself. Like all seascapes the view was ever-changing: even when the exercising warships had gone to bed, there were frequent ferry arrivals and departures to France and Spain, recreational craft tacking to and fro, and varied birdlife. Our binoculars were seldom away from our eyes during our stay. Plymouth Breakwater stretched right in front of where we stayed, essentially forming the entrance to Plymouth Sound. The foundations of this detached structure, which is just under a mile long and located about 2½ miles south of Plymouth itself, were laid in 1812 and work was completed some time after 1841: quite a feat of civil engineering, given the resources available at that time. The Breakwater was built to provide protection for shipping against the south west winds that could make anchoring in Plymouth Sound an uncomfortable or dangerous undertaking. It is paved on top, forty five feet wide, but with a height of only ten feet above the Low Water Mark – at High Water, and in stormy weather, the structure is often awash. A disused Victorian fort – Shovel Fort – stands, on its own, thirty two yards on the inshore side of the Breakwater. Neither the Breakwater nor the fort are accessible to the public and landing by boats is prohibited.
The gates of our private estate were locked overnight, providing a reassuring level of security and keeping out the riff raff, but the South West Coastal Path – a National Trail – passed through the middle, so public pedestrian traffic could still take place. Two small beaches in coves provided ideal playgrounds for children but, when we stayed at Bovisand in mid October, the area was almost deserted. We managed a couple of good walks during our break, on one occasion working up a healthy sweat as we slogged up the hill to have lunch with our friends (and hosts) at The Mussel Inn in the nearby village of Down Thomas. The food was excellent, the company as sublime and as convivial as ever, and the weather benign. However, the next day, the barometer dropped, the rain swept in, the wind increased, and I developed a chest infection. The weather would not have bothered us, as we were as snug as bugs in a rug in the warm and draught-proof chalet, but as my malady grew more annoying, and with no prospect of the rain easing off in the forthcoming days, we decided to cut our losses and – with much regret – leave two days early. Far better to die in one’s own bed – it is cheaper for the undertaker. We hope, however, that Marjorie and Benjamin will allow us to use their executive chalet once again, so that we can explore the area more fully.
I love Plymouth. I was based there, and spent some married life there, for ten years. Almost completely razed by bombing in World War 2 Plymouth city centre was rebuilt in the late 1950s and 1960s in a contemporary style which not everyone liked, but which I thought was refreshing. Since I left and took my hand off the tiller in 1981, the city centre and its architecture has been mucked about quite a bit; fine trees have been felled; my old alma mata, the Royal Naval Engineering College at Manadon, has been demolished to be replaced by a housing estate; the traffic has become fearsome; and there are parts of the city that I no longer recognise. However, Plymouth remains sound (no pun intended) to my eyes and I never tire of visiting Plymouth Hoe, the old harbour at The Barbican and – essential this – the Plymouth Gin distillery (the oldest working distillery in England, dating from 1793). I do not miss Devonport Dockyard or the days spent gazing at my house, yet unable to go ashore, while swinging to a buoy in an aircraft carrier in Plymouth Sound.
So – last night at midnight Britain changed from British Summer Time to Greenwich Mean Time; we gained an hour’s sleep overnight, mornings will be lighter and evenings will be darker. As it is, Jane stopped painting her toe nails a fortnight ago and has stopped doing things to her legs. The summer frocks and sandals have been stowed away for another year and the tights, woollen skirts, cardigans, trousers, and Barbour jacket have made their reappearance. That was Summer 2026 – it all seems like a dream now.
As I write, the memsahib has placed at my right hand a small glass of medium sherry, the precursor to our Sunday lunch which is roasting gently in the oven. I take this as a hint that it is time for me to stop writing, to talk to my wife (peace be upon her), and to allow you, dear reader, to pour an aperitif yourself and partake of the traditional Sunday roast. Bon appétit.
25 October 2026
