Blog 137. Mudlarks

‘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

Blog 136. Who Would Want A Photograph of Mr Grumpy?

We could not find the tea cosy, and I was mortified. For the benefit of younger readers (if any) and anyone not British, a tea cosy is an insulated hat that covers a teapot to keep the tea therein hot. You hardly ever see them nowadays, presumably because fewer people make tea properly, in a teapot. As I have observed before, some people in the 21st century seem to think that a cup of tea is made from a teabag placed in a mug with hot water poured on top. That, I grant you, is a hot drink; however it is not a proper cup of tea. A refreshing (British) cup of tea is made by adding large-loose tea from India or Sri Lanka into a teapot using a teaspoon, pouring in boiling water, and leaving it to mast, mash or brew (depending on where you were born) for five timed minutes before dispensing the refreshing beverage into a bone china cup via a tea strainer. Using a teapot and tea cosy allows you to have more than one cup – indeed, if you keep adding boiling water the number of cups extracted can be almost infinite. Use a teabag if you must, but that is poor form in my view. A mug is permitted if one is a builder or one is undertaking a similar manual task oneself. Don’t put the milk in the cup first – if you do, then you won’t be able to judge the right amount according to resulting colour. The selection of the brand of tea is according to personal choice: the best tea that I ever had was the Ceylon Kenilworth Estate OP tea from the Dimbula region of Sri Lanka, but it costs an absolute fortune so we more usually drink Twinings English Breakfast Tea. Yorkshire Tea is pretty good, as is Rington’s. A recent Which? magazine review has just declared the supermarket ASDA’s tea the best. I don’t think I ever tried that stuff that the chimpanzees used to advertise on television and I am not a fan of lapsang souchong or Earl Grey, but each to their own. Of course, if you are Chinese (the nation that originated and perfected the tea drinking habit) then all this will be (literally) foreign to you. The same applies to those, like the Russians, who drink tea with a slice of lemon or without milk. Just as the English adopted the French language after 1066 and promptly mangled the whole thing, so they took the drink of tea, messed it about, and made it their own. The line must be drawn, however – in my view – at messing it about to the extent of tea bags in mugs or (worse) paper cups with hot (not boiling) water. Hrrmph.

Anyway, back to that missing tea cosy. We had our very good friends Benjamin and Marjorie to stay for a few days. They are generous, tolerant and very welcoming hosts who are free with their hospitality when we impose ourselves on them in Plymouth, and we have been trying to repay their kindness for several years. However, prising Benjamin out of his lair is like extracting a winkle from its shell and it was only by persistent offers and the provision of copious amounts of whisky and dry ginger ale that we managed to achieve it. With all our guests we like to cater for every taste and whim (flagellation and wife swapping excepted) so that our friends may leave us replete, satisfied and with the intention of coming again. Part of that process is to ask our guests their preferred breakfast beverage, so that the days of their visit may get off to a good start. Jane and I drink ground coffee for breakfast but, naturally, some people prefer tea and so we provide both drinks. Marjorie was a tea person, and so out came the bone china teapot with matching cup and saucer for her personal delectation. However, the tea cosy could not be found to go with the ensemble, and I was embarrassed and dismayed that I could not provide the full breakfast experience. That tea cosy dated from the days when I was a bachelor, serving ashore in the Ministry of Defence in 1982, living in my trendy little house with its brown walls, brown three-piece suite, brown telephone and contrasting orange radiators. The tea cosy matched the decor which I now know to be non-U by Jane’s taste (it was Item 1 on the list of Things To Be Changed, that she compiled before she married me; Item 2 was Stop Him Eating Digestive Biscuits Whole And In One Mouthful). Jane’s known history of aesthetic distaste for my choice of decor made me suspicious of her apparently innocent response to my question as to the whereabouts of that tea cosy. Vague muttering that it might be found buried in the Glory Hole that is our airing cupboard did not convince me, and I suspected that she may have given it a float test when I was away at sea (and out of the way) in the early 1990s. We will never know unless I explore the depths of that airing cupboard. It is not a job for the faint hearted, but I am determined to give it a go. We simply cannot have a household that does not provide the full Tea Experience for our guests. Now where is that torch?

Benjamin and Marjorie’s visit went well, despite the fact that we had run out of ideas for local attractions and so had decided to take them off on an excursion to nearby Wiltshire – just what they needed after a three-hour journey to get to us in the first place. However, they did get the pleasure of a trip in a chauffeur-driven all-electric vehicle – an experience that will have enhanced their Green credentials no-end and topped up their Smug Factor to 100% (well, it works for me). We visited Great Chalfield Manor, near Trowbridge – a remote 15th century manor house built in the 1470s for one Thomas Tropenell, but now run by the National Trust. It is still lived in by the Floyd family, descendants of Robert Fuller, who bought and restored the property according to ancient drawings in the early 1900s (the house is only open on certain days). I remembered the manor from when we used to live near Bath but, I must say, it and the guided tour that was included, had improved considerably since the last time we were there. The estate is a small one at seven acres, yet manages to include many attractive features: its own detached 14th century chapel (still used and open to the public – Anglican services); a moat; a beautifully kept garden with topiary and orchard; a spring-fed fish pond; and – of course – the small manor itself. I was astonished to discover that the guest bedroom, with its four-poster bed and ancient furniture, was still used by the family for guests (it looked a bit spooky to me). The large oak door was original, and looked it, yet was fully functional. The main hall with its vast inglenook fireplace and chestnut-trussed roof would have fitted well in any medieval film or drama and, indeed, it has featured in many such events (the historic television drama Poldark and the film The Other Boleyn Girl are two that I can recall). We thoroughly enjoyed Great Chalfield despite the unseasonal drizzle and, as we were in Wiltshire anyway, decided to move on to the ancient stones at Avebury.

I have always liked Avebury with its stone circle, and prefer it to the more famous Stonehenge. Unlike the latter site, you can walk around the Avebury stone circle and actually touch the stones. There is very much a mystical feel to the whole place – not a threatening one, just rather peaceful and restful. There is also another a manor house, but that was closed for refurbishment when we visited so we contented ourselves with tea and scones from the National Trust café, sitting outside on wet benches in the fine drizzle . The English summer – you can’t beat it can you? Mustn’t grumble. As the drizzle turned to rain we decided that you could only pack so much excitement into one day and beat a hasty retreat to the car for the long journey home. Overall, despite the rain and the travelling, I think the day went well and was a good precursor to the hearty meal that Jane produced back home. The conversation flowed, the wine and whisky were plentiful and – as ever – the food was sublime. Alas, our friends were leaving the next day and we were very sorry to see them go. Not for the first time I pondered that it is friendship, conviviality and the sharing of experiences that make a good experience, and we had those in spades. There will be other times, I hope. Note to self: must buy more whisky and ginger ale.

The ancient, and now uninhabited, village of Imber lies in the heart of Salisbury Plain, miles from the nearest public road or civilisation – its remoteness underlined by also being in the centre of a British army live firing area. The background is that in 1943 the villagers of Imber were given just forty seven days to evacuate their properties so that the village could be used by the American forces practising for D Day in 1944. Having gained possession, the British army never gave it back, possession being nine tenths of the law. The village is still used by the army for practising urban warfare and – for obvious reasons – it and the whole area are closed off to the public. Those born in the village are accorded the privilege of being buried in the churchyard on death and, twice a year only, the public is allowed to return – though by organised buses. When we lived in Wiltshire we often thought of availing ourselves of one of these excursions each summer to visit this mysterious village, but never quite got around to it. This year we decided to bite the bullet and do the trip. We wanted to see this ancient settlement pickled in aspic since 1943. We paid £10 each (profits to charity) to take the only method of access: a series of old Routemaster buses shuttling from Warminster and back (for the benefit of non British readers, the Routemaster is the design of double-decker buses with an open platform at the rear that used to be a prominent feature of London and other cities). Leaving our car with friends who live in Warminster, we set off early to walk to Warminster railway station, which was the departure point for the buses. However we did not quite get there, for it rapidly became apparent that other people had had the same idea. Stretching far along the two streets leading to the station was an enormous queue, perhaps a quarter of a mile long. Down one street, past the massage parlour, around the corner, past the Lidl supermarket, the B&M store, McDonalds and Lyon’s Seafoods…the crocodile trailed on: families, dogs, pensioners, back-packers – they were all there. I don’t do queues. In shops and cafés I delegate that pastime to my good wife, who seems to love chatting to all and sundry, sucking in intelligence on fellow queue-mongers and returning with their full background, family history, allergies and medical complaints. Alas, on this occasion I could not delegate the task and so my immediate reaction was to say, “Stuff this for a game of soldiers. Let’s not bother”, and made to return to our car. In this executive decision, however, I had not taken account of the views of Mrs Shacklepin, who adopted a somewhat robust stance on the issue: we had decided to do the trip, she said, after many years deliberating, and by golly we were not giving up now. Also she told me to stop grumbling about the queue, the children and the dogs. And so we stood, and we shuffled forward about a foot, and then we stood a bit longer, and I refrained from commenting on my fellow man and their canine companions and their offspring and their mode of dress. It was difficult; it went against the grain; but needs must and I managed it. Eventually we did make it to the head of the queue and piled onto an ancient noisy bus for transport to the middle of a minefield. With a graunching of gears we set off into the bundu, the bus struggling up the hills and occasionally stopping to take breath. Soon the urban sprawl fell away, we were through a military checkpoint, and we were in the heart of Salisbury Plain, with rolling hills, livestock and pasture on either side of the concrete road, yet no farmhouses. Here and there, the carcasses of half-destroyed rusty tanks littered the fields; other tanks were well concealed by innocent looking bushes or berms. I cannot describe the visit as desolate because the opposite was the case: the scenery was of a quintessential English rural landscape, unspoilt by roads or dwellings, vast and beautiful – if you ignored the ordnance. It was almost surreal. Onward we rolled, courtesy of 1950s technology and the mechanical wear and tear of seventy years or so. We seemed to continue forever, observing the ever-changing green landscape, but eventually we slowed down, the bus dropped a few gears, and we motored slowly into Imber. What did we expect of this odd little village, so isolated and inaccessible since 1943? In all fairness, the organisers of this rare opportunity made no claims or promises. I suppose we thought we would find an English village frozen in time: an old church, a school, a manor house, quaint cottages, a village shop, a red GPO telephone box with King George V’s ‘GvR’on the side …some buildings with the furnishings still intact, old yeomen’s smocks still hanging on pegs… The reality was completely different. All that was left of Imber was the ancient church and its churchyard, the path to which was packed solid with two columns of moving people: one column shuffling up to the church from the bus stop, and the other one shuffling back. The only other buildings were six portable lavatories in a field and the empty shells of several modern two-storey apartment blocks used for training, all with gaping window and door openings, all cordoned off with large red signs proclaiming “DANGER. UNEXPLODED MILITARY DEBRIS. DO NOT LEAVE THE CARRIAGEWAY”. A single concrete road ran through the village, terminating at each end with a sign forbidding further pedestrian progress. The odd sign informed visitors how the village used to be: “Down this road stood the Manor House”, “The School was here” and so on. There was nothing else. We trudged up the line to the church with the rest of the crowd and found it was packed solid with people partaking of the wares of an improvised café set up in the narthex and nave. We promptly exited by the west door into the churchyard, where a jazz band was playing. We toured the churchyard, reading the gravestones here and there, and observed one family enjoying a picnic on someone’s grave. Extraordinary behaviour. After that, there seemed nothing else to do but descend the busy path back to the bus stop and board the shuttle bus back to Warminster. The trip across Salisbury Plain to and from the village was the best part of the excursion. Apparently 5,000 people made the trip with us that day (I can believe it). So that was the ancient, abandoned and inaccessible village of Imber: been there, done that, didn’t stop to buy the tee shirt.

Have you ever been invited to some family gathering to celebrate an anniversary or birthday or something, dreaded it, but in the final event, quite enjoyed it? For the Shacklepins, every time we do these events we dread them, go, and they invariably turn out worse than expected. It has always been thus. Jane’s niece very kindly sent us an invitation for such a get-together to celebrate her parents’ (Jane’s elder brother and his wife’s) 50th wedding anniversary. We were not keen. We don’t do family gatherings, but it was an honour to be invited and it would have been churlish to refuse. Jane’s (single) younger brother was also invited, and he proclaimed that he, too, did not do family gatherings, but he accepted our offer to stay the night with us before and after the big event. The party was originally to be in a Caribbean restaurant in The Big City, but this was later changed to an obscure pub somewhere in the sticks. On a Sunday. At lunchtime. This did not bode well. Sunday lunches in pubs in Britain are invariably very busy family affairs, with servings of roast meat. Bonhomie abounds, feral and bored children run amok, dogs bark or get in your way. These are events that are avoided at all costs by the Shacklepins. We don’t do bonhomie, dogs or children, for one of us is a miserable so-and-so. Our forebodings were soon realised. The family get-together was set in an external plastic-sided marquee in the pub carpark, furnished with a collection of trestle tables and forms, all apparently hastily thrown together with no particular symmetry among them: some had access aisles, some not; some were parallel, some were not. It was as if the landlord had suddenly said on Sunday morning, “Oh my God, we’ve got that party for lunch today. Norman, get the tables ready”, Norman being the local hayseed who usually was more safely employed in tying the sheaves of corn at harvest time. Anyway, we duly rolled in at the appointed time to find the assembled company standing among the eclectic furniture, already well ensconced with glasses of wine, champagne and pints of beer. There were few people we recognised. We had debated (as you do) who the other guests would be: the happy couple, obviously; their two adult daughters and their spouses; the four teenage children of the latter; us, of course; and Jane’s remaining brother. That made thirteen people in total. We were astonished, therefore, by the throng that was assembled before us. In addition to the expected close gathering were strangers of the most obscure relationship. One group comprised Jane’s sister-in-law’s niece and her husband, plus the niece’s two adult daughters and their husbands and their several young children (I hope you are following this). Another couple were a second cousin with her partner, flown in from Colorado in the USA. It was as if the Happy Couple had thought, “Blimey, we’re a bit thin on the ground for guests and it comes out at thirteen. Anyone else we can bus or fly in?” None of the couple’s friends were invited. For my part, as I tried to get my mind around these tenuous filial links, I kept thinking of Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS PINAFORE, with the First Lord of the Admiralty’s sisters and his cousin and his aunts. Whatever, we stood around, chatting with the relatives we knew, hoping to be offered a drink and occasionally tripping over the furniture. The designated time for eating came and went, with no suggestion of when things would kick off or where we would all sit. We eventually were given a drink. Then, quite suddenly, there was an announcement that the food was coming, whereupon there was a sort of Gadarene swine movement to grab a seat at a table. Jane and I looked around helplessly at the swirling human mass leaping for seats, as if in a game of musical chairs, and when the music stopped…guess which table we ended up at. You’ve got it: the one with all the little children. I felt like a man allergic to bees imprisoned in an apiary. The food eventually arrived in dribs and drabs, delivered (like an electrical circuit) in series not parallel, the waiting staff considerably hindered by the odd inaccessible furniture arrangement. It was a very good roast, as it happens, and we did enjoy a very pleasant conversation with a young couple who were fifth cousins twice removed of the hosts (or whatever), but by the time the pudding arrived we had been sitting together on hard wooden forms for about two hours, my posterior had gone numb, my glass was empty and unlikely to be replenished, and we had exhausted most conversional topics of mutual interest. The young children had (inevitability) grown restless and were now running around, shrieking in loud voices; the teenage grandchildren had taken to beating each other with party balloons. I nudged Jane: time to make our excuses and leave. She agreed, but needed a suitable opportunity. Feeling the urge to stretch my legs and ease springs I extricated myself from the table and wandered outside, exploring a nearby country lane and farm, and enjoying the pleasant sensation of blood returning to my buttocks. When I returned Jane was beside herself. She has been searching everywhere for me, even sending an emissary into the gentlemen’s lavatory. Apparently the company had assemble for a family photograph in my absence and, horror of horrors, I was not in it. I shrugged. It was, after all, the best present we could give the Happy Couple: who would want a photograph of Mr Grumpy?

What’s that? Well of course we said ‘thank you’. We gave the happy couple a generous present and I was outwardly enthusiastic and pleasant. Just because I’m grumpy doesn’t mean that I’m rude.

We are back on my boat in Kingswear. As I sit in the saloon/wheelhouse I can gaze aft at the limp Blue Ensign, hanging soggily on its ensign staff at the stern. Through the windscreen, for’ard, I can see the ensign’s contemporary, the Pilot Jack, hanging just as soggily from its jackstaff at the bow. Yes, the rain is coming down mightily and vertically, there being no wind. It has rained all day. Ashore, the Noss Marina development is progressing apace with the hotel construction now at the second storey level. We now have two tower cranes serving the construction. Elsewhere in the marina, joy of joys, we have a coffee shop at last, serving savouries, tasty delicacies, wine, up-market ready meals and excellent coffee. It is not cheap, but the welcome is warm and the cuisine excellent. Donning our full foul-weather gear of salopettes, seaboots, waterproofs and hoods, Jane and I ventured out to try the facilities at lunchtime, before making a tour of the marina in the downpour, purely for the exercise. I think it is fair to say that Autumn has come to England. Never mind. I have just had another ‘all clear’ at my quarterly cancer review, Jane is in a good mood because her garden is now getting all the rain that she asked for, and I am promised a bacon sandwich for breakfast tomorrow. What more can a man ask?

6 September 2024

Blog 135. Take the Plunge, Spare the Thrunge

I first became aware of a major crisis developing in the kitchen when I saw Jane scuttling past the drawing room carrying a sink plunger. It was 2130 and supper had completed long ago; indeed, it was at that time in the day when I normally sat in the armchair, burping quietly as my digestive system processed the delicious food that Jane had prepared, aided by the catalyst of a glass of wine or a wee dram of single-malt whisky; it was not the time for energetic activity. Moreover, the sight of Jane walking past while clutching a sink plunger was as incongruous as seeing the Pope walk past clutching an AK47. The plunger is not a Jane Utensil, it is a Horatio Tool. Jane does food; I do decks, dhobying, drinks and DIY. Briefly, I wondered if I was hallucinating and glanced questioningly at my glass of Old Pulteney, but frantic muttering from the kitchen confirmed that I was not dreaming and I felt compelled to intervene.
A plumbing nightmare awaited me. The main kitchen sink was half full of dirty water and the adjacent half-sink – used for the garbage disposal unit (GDU) – was a quarter full of leftovers from breakfast, lunch and supper. Jane was pumping frantically away at the main sink to no avail and it was clear to me that the Shacklepin digestive process would not be allowed to gurgle its gentle and majestic way to my colon that evening. I sighed, rolled up my sleeves, removed my shoes and socks, and metaphorically girded my loins for a night of indigestion, filth and a damned good soaking.
My first reaction was one of curiosity: why on earth was Jane wielding the sink plunger when, in accordance with the Contract of Marriage Act of 1982 (First Amendment), plumbing was my domain? I was touched by her reply. She had taken onboard a recent discussion during which we had agreed to a certain softening of the demarcation of duties in order that each partner would be able to exist in the event of the other’s demise (this is the sort of matter-of-fact discussion that happens to married couples as they get older). Finding that the kitchen sink was not draining away, she had resisted the urge to call Mr Fixit and had, instead, resolved to ‘jolly well deal with it herself’. Usually, a sink plunger is the cheapest and most successful means of clearing a sink blockage but, alas, through no fault of her own, Jane was not successful with it and nor was I. Surveying the scene, it seemed to me that there was but one option left (and that risky) if I were to avoid a complete strip-down of the sewerage pipe system: if I filled the GDU half-sink and then gave the GDU a good thrunge, it was just possible that I could blast the blockage though using the GDU as a pump. The risk, of course, was that the thrunge would blast itself back through the system and make a bigger mess. I considered carefully and then thought, ‘what the hell – go for it’. I put my hand over the blocked sink drain to stop the stuff blowing back and duly pressed the GDU button. Oh dear. The GDU hummed, the system quaked, and then it demonstrated its objection to the rough treatment by spewing mashed vegetables, meat and other nameless viscera out through the overflow pipe, into the sink, and all over the draining board and work surfaces. I switched off the GDU and, in the horrified silence that followed, Jane and I looked at the result of my experiment. Instead of being partially full of clean-ish water, both sinks were now full to the brim with what can best be described as mechanically-created noisome vomit. Oh well, it was worth a try, I suppose. There was nothing else for it but Operation Dismantle. From under the sink, out came the bottles of surface cleaner, bleach and silver dip; a bag of dishwasher tablets; a clutch of disused washing-up sponges (retained ‘just in case’); and an old sock of mine that had been missing for two years. Jane was dispatched for a bucket and some old towels while I rummaged in my plumbing drawer in the garage for the rarely-used flexible drain coil. I looked at the snakes’ wedding that was the under-sink pipe system and shrugged: time to knuckle down and get stuck in. The bucket was stuffed under the pipes and I started to unscrew the first of the ‘U’ bends, ordering Jane to stand well clear. Well, let me tell you, Niagara Falls wasn’t in it. Into the humble kitchen bucket (capacity ten litres [two gallons]) poured the entire contents of the two sinks, later calculated to be thirty two litres [six gallons]. Dirty water was everywhere with me, in the midst of the deluge, trying to plug two ‘U’ bend outlets with my hands like the little Dutch boy trying to plug a dyke. Jane rushed to and fro as the side show in this water carnival, emptying the bucket into the utility room sink and frantically trying to mop up the overspill with old towels and sponges. I looked down ruefully at my white chinos, fresh on that morning, now soaked with dirty water. Ho hum. Eventually, the cascade diminished and I was able to take apart the whole pipe system, rod it through, then pass each section to my able assistant to be washed in the utility room sink before being replaced. Boy did those pipes stink. Finally, it was all done: the pipe system, now internally immaculate, was reassembled; the water was mopped up; the cleaning products were returned to their dank little cave under the sink; and my chinos were deposited in the washing machine. As I stood there in the kitchen in my underpants and bare feet, the ship’s clock in the drawing room struck eight bells: midnight. Jane and I looked at each other: what an evening – so much more entertaining than watching television and – joy – I had found that missing sock. I wondered where the other one was now?

The flexibility in demarcation has, of course, worked both ways and, it being Wimbledon week, I have been appointed Chief Cook and Bottle Washer for the duration. So far, things have gone quite well, with such delectations as Marinaded Neck of Lamb, Pan-fried Hake in Lemon and Butter Sauce, and Chicken Tikka Masala gracing our dining table by my fair hand. None of this has been without adult supervision, of course, for Jane has a deep suspicion of the atrocities that she believes I may be committing in her kitchen, and has taken to appearing – like a wraith, silent and sinister – at the worst moment (“Not that pan – that’s my omelette pan!”). Her presence has not been unwelcome, of course. She was very good with the Elastoplast the other day when I grated my finger along with the ginger into the Chicken Tikka Masala (adding a new flavour to the traditional Indian dish). She also ended my endurance test of reducing down a sauce, stirring constantly with the hob at full forcing rate (there’s twenty minutes of my life that I will never see again), by the simple expedient of tipping a splodge of gravy granules into the pot, thickening the sauce in two seconds flat. Last night I graduated (or deteriorated) from serving the culinary equivalent of heady champagne and reverted to the equivalent of home-brewed beer: we had good old traditional Toad in the Hole with Onion Gravy and fresh greens. As to Jane, she has been ensconced, as usual every year at this time, in a darkened drawing room, shouting at the tennis on the television. You would be quite shocked at the language and the partisan behaviour. Unlike last year, however, when I was undergoing radiotherapy for cancer and unable to escape the tennis, I can retire happily to my Man Cave and reduce lumps of wood to piles of sawdust. It is most satisfying.

Elsewhere in the UK, the madness continues. A woman has won a case against her employer, His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC), for harassment and she will shortly receive a suitable sum in compensation. The employer’s crime? Wishing the employee a ‘Happy Birthday’ and enquiring after her health. The narrative is that the woman took time off work because of stress and, when her birthday came up, her manager (no doubt wishing to cheer her up) wished her a Happy Birthday by email. She replied that she did not celebrate birthdays and would he please not send her emails, a request which was agreed. Time passed by with her still off sick, and a new manager took post. He had not been told of the ‘no emails’ policy and so he sent several messages enquiring after her well-being, including another ‘Happy Birthday’, especially as she had – by then – been off work for a considerable time. She then took HMRC to an industrial tribunal, claiming harassment and racial prejudice (she was a black Frenchwoman of African origin), and won on the first count. The moral of the story? Don’t wish your employee ‘Happy Birthday’, don’t enquire after their health and – oh – just keep the salary coming in.

Summer came to Melbury for a day a week or so ago, then moved on to Greece to roast the Athenians and Ionians with 40 degrees of Celsius heat. There is still time for a true summer to establish itself in Britain, of course, but the Longest Day has been and gone, and the northern hemisphere is tilting further and further from the sun’s direct gaze as July moves on. Jane (Miss Caribbean 1951) is beside herself in despair, and threatens to burn down the UK Meteorological Office with a bonfire of unused sun tops, skirts and that sun dress that she bought cheap from Seasalt in March. If asked to summarise the weather in our bit of the UK in 2024, I think I would describe it as The Year of the Wind. The temperatures were below average in May and June, and when they did pick up occasionally, or the sun came out, they were always offset by a cool wind. As I write, after a long spell of dryness (and wind) we now have rain (and wind), which is good for the garden.

In the days of the sailing ships, of course, wind was very welcome most of the time and mariners were very adept at predicting the weather. Nowadays we rely on the weather forecasts, a service pioneered by Admiral Fitzroy in the 19th century. I encountered my first experience of a mariner’s ability to predict the wind and weather when I first went to sea with my father. I was nine years old, the minimum age for a trip with him, and I was thrilled to bits with the whole experience: the navigation, the ship-handling, the radar, learning the points of a compass – even the watchkeeping through the night. But the skill that impressed me the most was the weather forecast written on a label on the chronometer over the chart table. It said, “WIND ON MONDAYS”.
It’s a true story, but – come on – I was only nine.

There are still no buyers for the boat, but we did have one couple who viewed the interior for thirty five minutes (we have CCTV), which was quite encouraging as it suggests they were genuinely interested in the accommodation (either that or they were stealing the binoculars and several items of Jane’s [new and unused] summer clothing). The mains freshwater in the Brixham peninsular is now, at last, clear of cryptosporidium contamination after South West Water, assisted by water companies from all over Britain, flushed the entire system continuously for about six weeks. It must have cost the company millions to identify the fault, fix it, install additional filters, flush the reservoirs and mains system, provide customers with free bottled water and refund customers’ bills – and all because of one defective valve in a farmer’s field. I expect the next thing South West Water will do is declare a hosepipe ban.

It is my birthday today and there can now be no doubt that I will not see the age of 32 again (or, for that matter, the ages of 52 or 72). Jane took me out to lunch in The Big City to a mystery restaurant, which turned out to be rather pleasant Italian place by the river, overlooking the weir. It was a perfect location, not only for the geographical view, but also for people watching. For this occasion I wore the full No 6 Rig of double-breasted navy blazer; blue, maroon and white striped tie with matching breast pocket handkerchief; cream chinos; blue short-sleeved shirt; and tan elastic-sided boots (rain was forecast). I was all for wearing the aviator sunglasses too, despite the overcast, as I thought it made me look cool and mysterious; this, however, was vetoed by Jane on the basis that she did want to be seen with a poseur. Jane herself wore a summery red top and white skirt ensemble with matching sandals and I like think we brought a little touch of class to the passengers on the Park and Ride bus as they shuffled onboard in their T-shirts, scruffy shorts and trainers. Have you noticed that bus queues in Britain are quite different these days? I believe the British are renowned internationally for their sensible approach to queuing for a bus but, in actual fact, you never see that practice nowadays. What happens is that, instead of forming a long line with the first arrivals at the embarkation point and the newcomers tagging on the back, people now just stand there in a large amorphous cluster, centred vaguely on where the bus stops, sometimes as much as a metre or more apart. They then coagulate into a solid phalanx to board the bus when it arrives. But here is the interesting bit: they all know who was ahead and behind them in the arrival stakes, and woe betide anyone who tries to barge in front. There will rarely be an altercation in such circumstances, for that is not the British way. Instead the miscreant will be given filthy looks or be subjected to loud sarcastic asides as they jump the non-existent queue. Such sarcasm will be lost on Johnny Foreigner, of course, who rarely knows that he or she has done anything wrong.
Anyway, back to that restaurant, which proved to be very welcoming (Italians are so good at that) and very atmospheric. I had the Italian equivalent of Steak Tartare, followed by Grilled Sea-Bass with a side salad. Jane had Summer Burrata comprising burrata, cantaloupe, parma ham and breadcrumbs followed by Ravioli Al Barbacaprino, comprising beetroot, goats cheese and walnuts. She said she could not find the parma ham or the walnuts, and the cantaloupe was just a juice; very picky, my wife. For my part, if the food was a little disappointing and dry, the occasion made up for it with the pleasure a man gets from being seen in public with a beautiful and smartly-dressed woman. We amused ourselves by speculating on our fellow guests: what nationality was that couple?; look at those three twelve-year-old boys on their own (one with the diamond ear stud) confidently ordering a meal; why is that man sitting at a table indoors with a lady and wearing a baseball hat – is it going to rain?; oh dear, elbows on the table. Heaven knows what they made of us, if they noticed us at all: a beautiful rose with a prickly thistle next to her, perhaps. At least we stood out in what amounted to a sartorial waste ground. All in all, it was an excellent day out and I am still pleasantly amazed at the number of cards I received from friends: thirteen in total. It just goes to show that I have not offended as many people as I thought – or at least, not quite.

Well, as predicted in Blog 133, the United Kingdom now has a new government and the outgoing Conservative Party has been cast into the outer darkness, unlikely to see power again until after I am dead. I may exaggerate there slightly (theoretically, I could live to be over a hundred), but you get the gist. I make no comment, other than that I await, with great anticipation, the solutions that the new government proposes to deal with the country’s many problems. It always puzzles me when well-known celebrities, actors, sportsmen or even industrial companies expound their partisan political opinions publicly and (often) unpleasantly. They never seem to realise that, in doing so, they are alienating or insulting half of their fan base or their customers. Besides, in what way does the ability to remember lines in a play, strum a guitar, or kick a ball around qualify these people to have a credible political opinion? Have an opinion by all means (and we all do), but keep it to yourselves. In the same vein, I offer no comment on the forthcoming American presidential election. I have two distant cousins in that country, one a fervent Democrat and the other an equally fervent Republican. I also have a healthy readership in the USA. Who am I, a mere Englishman, to comment on the political machinations of that fine and friendly country? It would be an impertinence. Mind you, my Democrat cousin did recently ask if Britain and King Charles would have America back as part of the Empire, to which I replied that it was possible provided the USA pay the arrears for those taxes lost when those Bostonians poured all that tea away. She is currently having a whip round in North Carolina to raise the funds.

I did say earlier that I would make no comment on the political dilemma in America, but I hope our cousins across the pond will forgive me for just one tiny disinterested Anglo-Saxon observation. From what I saw in that television debate between Biden and Trump, I reckon the Democrat Party is well and truly buggered.

I’m off for a glass of Glen Moray to celebrate my birthday. Have a good summer and don’t fret about politics. As Dickens’ Mr Micawber always says,“Something will turn up”.

10 July 2024

Blog 134. Entente Cordiale

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

Blog 133. It’s Only Money

One thousand, seven hundred pounds.  I simply couldn’t believe it as I walked away from my dentist’s surgery.  I kept saying it over and over in my mind as I crossed the ancient pedestrian bridge over the picturesque river in our nearby Quaint Little Town, oblivious to the sunshine, the birdsong and the general promise of a lovely day: one thousand, seven hundred pounds.  That was my dentist’s bill for the repair of two crowns.  I think it is the most I have ever paid for dental work.  I had approached my dentist several weeks before with a complaint about some roughness in one of my teeth, and she had diagnosed that one of my crowns was cracked and needed replacing.  She ground off the roughness as a temporary measure and then gave me a quotation for the replacement, which was an eye-watering £850.  It seemed that I had no choice so I accepted it. Now, on the big day as she rummaged around in my mouth, the dentist cheerfully announced that the tooth behind the errant crown was cracked too, so she would do both at the same time.  Naively, I assumed that she meant she would do both crowns for the same price, or at least with a discount. Silly boy.  It was one crown, £850; two crowns £1,700.  On the plus side, the procedure was physically painless and completed in ninety minutes; on the minus side, it will clear us out of most of our hard-earned savings.  Non-British readers may wonder  why dental work is not free under the National Health Service (NHS) like most other health care in the UK.  The answer is that there is a dearth of dentists in Britain signed up to provide NHS dental care; they are as rare as hen’s teeth, probably because the NHS declines to pay the market rate for treatment.  We go to a private dentist because we can (normally) afford it and it releases the few NHS dentists to help those less well off (feel free to submit my name to the Pope for a sainthood).  We cannot afford dental insurance, but we do subscribe to a healthcare cash plan, which pays all dental bills up to £250 each, per year.  Usually, this easily funds our regular checkups and hygienist sessions, but not this time.  Still, it will reduce my bill to £1,450, so that’s all right. 

I have been spoilt of course.  For most of my adult life I have been cared for by the Naval Medical Service, ranging from the lowest Medical Assistant in a frigate, through to top surgeons or physicians in an aircraft carrier.  The bigger ships also carried a dentist, and I can still remember being treated as the ship pitched and rolled in a seaway, the dentist steadying himself by locking his legs around the pedestal of the treatment chair.  He had obtained a brewery sign from somewhere, and this was stuck on the deckhead above the chair so that, as you laid back, you read the words, “Take Courage”.  I used to be terrified of the dentist and would scream the place down when the day of appointment came (and that was when I was thirty).  However, dental surgery has improved enormously in the last sixty-odd years and a visit never bothers me – until now.  Dear oh dear: one thousand, seven hundred pounds.  The amount is still rolling through my brain.

As I sat in the Breakfast Room (aka the Orangery or Garden Control Tower) in the sunshine, sipping my usual cup of black coffee and reading the depressing news in The Daily Telegraph, I heard the kerflip-kerflop of Jane’s sandals and detected a whiff of coconut suntan oil.  Without looking around, I realised that summer had officially arrived.  Sure enough, she duly appeared wearing a summer skirt, with bare legs and a light suntop.  The weather does, indeed, look promising at last though the wind remains rather cool.  
We have just returned from two weeks on the boat in Kingswear, where the weather had generally been good, but the wind rather chilly.  Most of our time was spent tidying, cleaning and polishing in preparation for putting the boat up for sale, and the dreadful deed has finally been done.  Yes, we have crossed the Rubicon and she is now on the internet seeking offers of a modest sum.  Our final day in Kingswear was characterised by the local water supply being infected by a parasitic contamination called cryptosporidium, affecting the area around Brixham (including our marina) and causing diarrhoea and sickness.  Contamination of mains fresh water is, thankfully, an extremely rare occurrence in the UK, where we take clean potable water coming out of our taps for granted.  As we left Devonshire, bottled water was being distributed to the residents of the Brixham peninsula and people were being told to boil the water from their taps while the cause of the infection was being traced and rectified.  As I write, two weeks later, the probable cause of the contamination has been identified as a faulty air valve in a farmer’s field that presumably sucked tiny remnants of cow faeces into the reservoir; however, the entire fresh water distribution around Brixham is still being flushed and some residents are still having to boil their water.  Oh dear – I had only just filled the boat’s freshwater tank.  I suppose the nasties are swimming around in it right now: a quarter of a tonne of dodgy water that will have to be flushed out and replaced.  Fortunately I have also just purchased a General Ecology Water Purification System from the good old USA, which claims to filter out all bacteria, cysts, crypto, viruses, particles, tank taste and odours.  It is probably the last innovation I will buy for the boat – I hope it works.

How much does a human leg weigh?  Any guesses?  I have no idea either, but my estimate would be about ten stone each, judging from the extreme fatigue we encountered during a seven mile walk in the English countryside the other day, dragging and lifting each leg through long grass for almost the whole way.  When we got back home, both of us collapsed in a heap, totally exhausted – a state of malaise that lasted just one minute for me because I suddenly had to leap up, suffering the most appalling cramp in my thigh muscles, which was absolute agony.  Four painkillers and a hot bath later I was able to hobble down the stairs to a cooling glass of Pimms on the patio.  The whole thing was astonishing – all that fatigue after only seven miles; we have walked fifteen before now and not suffered as badly.  The thing is, when you look at the verdant pastures of England from the car or an aeroplane it always seems so flat and green and inviting, like a golf course.  Walking across it, however, can be a different story as we had just discovered.  The odd thing is, we had done this particular walk several time before, though not recently.  It was never a doddle, being up hill and down dale and usually involving ploughed fields, cattle and mud.  However the route is a pleasant ramble, getting us a way from the noise of our fellow human beings and enabling us to appreciate the beauty of the English countryside.  This time it was different, for the grass in almost every field we walked across had been allowed to grow to knee or even waist height.  Superficially, this sounds wonderful as one imagines those television advertisements of young lovers running towards each other through the high grass before embracing and later slapping butter on their sandwiches or whatever is being advertised.  In practice, lifting and dragging your legs through the stuff tires you out after only a few steps.  We must have slogged through acres of grass, and not on just one farmer’s land.  Why the farmers had not cut the stuff down for silage or hay, or let their cows or sheep loose on it is a mystery.  

Fortunately, there were perks to the expedition that made it worthwhile.  The hedgerows were awash with colour as sorrel competed with cow parsley, clover and cranesbill to proclaim the coming of summer.  Aside from the slog of walking, it was delightful to be out there and to take in the views around us, with not another human or a car in sight and nothing but the birdsong to disturb the peace.  As I have mentioned before in these blogs, we in England and Wales are blessed  by the provision of designated ancient public footpaths and bridlepaths on which we can walk (or horse-ride) across farmland and moor with impunity, stiles, bridges or gates being provided for that purpose.  In return, we are expected to keep to the paths or bridleways, shut gates behind us, leave no litter and stop our dogs from worrying livestock.  There is also a tacit understanding that walkers and riders walk around the edges of fields rather than pedantically take the direct marked paths across growing crops.  It is not a bad system, even if some stiles are badly maintained, some gaps in hedges are overgrown and some farmers liven up a country stroll by putting a bull, a herd of cows or a pigsty on the route.  A Canadian friend of mine once told me that if you wander across private farmland over there you are likely to get a blast of salt from a shotgun; my cousin in the USA remarked that you would get blasted with more than salt if you wandered across the prairies in the ‘States.  Returning to our little adventure, we had decided to take a picnic with us (guess who had to carry the rucksack): nothing fancy, you understand – just a flask of tea, some egg sandwiches and a couple of jam doughnuts to wash the tea down.  This modest repast began to dominate our minds as we reached the halfway point of the circuit and there was much debate as to where we should pitch our temporary camp.  A convenient bench at a rural crossroads where our route crossed a busy trunk road seemed attractive until we had experienced the joy of cars screaming past at 60 mph; we soon abandoned that little oasis and pressed on, back onto the fields and into the long grass.  Eventually, we settled down for our picnic on a lush patch of grass next to a solar farm and under an electricity pylon, with 400,000 volts of power crackling overhead (we were hungry, so ‘needs must’).  This brings me to another common myth: the comfort and joy of a British picnic.  We are all familiar with the scene: a grassy field, the tartan rug set out on the ground with a smiling family sitting on it, selecting choice items of game, chicken legs, pork pies, cucumber sandwiches and cake from a wicker picnic basket, a flask of steaming tea at hand.  Have you ever actually had a picnic like that?  I think the thing is a complete myth.  In our case, we did not have the tartan rug or any of the other impedimenta – just a plastic bin bag to sit on and a rucksack with the flask of tea,  the sandwiches and the doughnuts.  For a start, it was hard to sit down on the ground in our state of fatigue and – erm – mature years.  Jane executed a sort of tottering articulated movement like a circus elephant about to kneel down, then collapsed into the long grass like an android suffering a power failure.  She became virtually invisible from ten feet away.  As I joined her by the same undignified manoeuvre, our backs collided because I was aiming for the same minuscule black bin bag that she was sitting on.  This drew forth a few heated words, during which unkind things were said about the size of my gluteus maximus, but that dispute paled into insignificance when the next pitfall of the traditional picnic revealed itself: it is nigh on impossible to be comfortable while sitting on the ground unless you practise yoga or can still sit cross legged – you have to prop yourself up somehow.  Try as we might, we could not achieve this using our hands, so we ended up sitting back-to-back in a sort of uneasy, grudging, truce, food and tea being passed by touch alone over our shoulders. We were not pestered by wasps, spiders, flies or other pests but, on the other hand, let us just say that the picnic was not the relaxing experience of folklore, though the sustenance was welcome.  But wait – there is more: after securing our vacuum flask, wiping our hands and stowing our rubbish we then found that we could not get up.  All manner of contortions and positions were tried, with the two of us cavorting around in the long grass on all fours like hippopotami, trying to achieve the perpendicular.  In the end, through superhuman effort and the aid of my walking stick as a prop, I managed to heave myself up.  I was then able to help pull Jane up to join me, though narrowly avoiding being pulled back down again to join her on the ground.  What a team?  What a farce!  Next time, we will find a convenient log or rock.  Or maybe I will be ordered to carry a pair of folding canvas chairs as well as the rucksack.  C’est moi, le banquier et l’âne.

As I wrote in Blog 42, there is a management technique aimed at keeping you on the back foot that is sometimes practised by the Commanding Officers of HM Ship.  It runs on the general lines of:

(Self) “Right sir, my team has screwed the starboard propeller back on, we’ve pumped out the After Machinery Space, the shipwrights have welded a patch over that hole in the port bow, I’ve found a cure for the common cold and I think I may have a solution to world poverty”
(CO) “Yes Horatio, but have you sent off that defect list yet?”

I was reminded of this approach last Monday when my dear wife returned from her weekly games of mahjong and bridge with the other ladies of her coven.  While she is away on Monday afternoons I am left to my own devices to indulge in all manner of otherwise discouraged pastimes, such as putting my feet up and watching a black and white war film on the television while drinking tea and munching a corned beef and chutney sandwich made with white bread.  On this particular afternoon I was aware that there were all manner of outstanding jobs to be done because of our absence from home on the boat, so I forswore The Dam Busters on the television and postponed the tea in order to get up to date.  I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself when the memsahib reappeared, which was probably the cause of my downfall.  The conversation went like this:

(Self) “Hello dear,  I hope your games went well.  I’ve done all the ironing, put a new load of washing on, swabbed down the floors upstairs and down, vacuumed the stairs, fixed the towel rail that had come loose, cleaned out the extractor fan in the bathroom, cured the electrical fault in the table lamp and peeled the potatoes for supper”
(Jane) “Yes, Horatio, but have you emptied the dishwasher?”.

It’s true – you couldn’t make this up.  And she hasn’t even done the Royal Navy’s Commanding Officer’s Qualifying Course at Whale Island.

On the political front, the prime minister has asked the King to dissolve Parliament and we are all set for a UK General Election on 4 July.  This is the cue for wall-to wall media coverage on all things political, a freeze on any new ventures (known as ‘in purdah’) by the civil service and, on the whole, boredom, cynicism or indifference on the part of the British public.  The signs are that the result will be a Labour victory though not because the Labour Party will be much better, but rather because the (ruling) Conservative Party deserves to lose.  The party has lost a lot of its traditional supporters because its policies are so very similar, in many areas, to those of the Labour Party. Worse than that, the present government appears not to be able to control the country through the mechanism of government.  For example, the Health Secretary seems unable to stop the NHS calling mothers ‘chest feeders’; the Education Secretary seems unable to stop schools from teaching school children homosexual technique; the Justice Secretary seems unable to build enough prisons; the Chancellor of the Exchequer seems unable to get HM Revenue and Customs staff back into their offices from home; the Home Secretary seems unable to combat lawlessness and anti-semitism on our streets; and no minister seems able to get the civil service to do as it is told.  I am not at all convinced that the Labour Party will do a better job, but there it is.  Whichever party wins, the new government will still be faced with the fiscal problems of the huge debt clocked up by paying people to stay at home during Covid; a working population that demands the right to work for fewer hours, or from home, or both; and a significant section of the working-age population, with a misplaced sense of entitlement, subsisting entirely on benefits. Who to vote for?  No idea, but I do intend to vote for someone – it is a privilege that not every citizen of the world has, and it is a right fought for by my ancestors.

So – by the time you receive the next blog the UK will have a new government; Jane and I will be recovering from cryptosporidium because that American anti-viral water filter will not have worked; I will be bankrupt but have perfect teeth; and we will all be basking in a hot English summer; or not.  
Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that £860 optician’s bill for those new rinky-dinky, frameless, varifocal, titanium spectacles that turn grey-green in ultra-violet light.  Thank heavens it’s only money, that’s what I say.

26 May 2024

Blog 132. Divorce

Well, that’s it: we have decided to part. Frankly, it still breaks my heart when I think about it: life on my own after all these years, but what choice do I have?   I know I have been painting a picture of domestic bliss in all these blogs, but you may have sensed a certain disquiet with my personal situation, a certain reservation as I described my happiness?  Well, a love once new has now grown old, as Simon and Garfunkel say, and life as it was cannot continue. The time has come for us to sever our relationship so that we can move on to new horizons: a clean break.  Let me tell you, it is really hard at my time of life.  What’s that?  Jane?  Good Lord, no.  I mean the boat.  Yes, the unthinkable has become the thinkable: my beautiful twin-screw 31-foot  motor cruiser APPLETON RUM goes on the market in May and I am truly bereft. Regular readers of these pages will be aware of my frequent references to ‘BOAT’ being an acronym for ‘Bring On Another Thousand’ and, indeed, I have spent a fair bit on my boats over the last twenty two years, seven of those years on the present incumbent.  I did not begrudge it because, as well as being a mobile holiday home, the boat has been my hobby.  I could literally spend hours polishing the superstructure, splicing and whipping ropes, manufacturing new innovations and repairing old ones.  She was my ‘man cave’ and, if she cost a few bob, it was worth it for my mental health.  However, last month for some reason, I experience a revelation on the road to Damascus: it suddenly dawned on me that, while we could still afford to run APPLETON RUM in our present situation despite the annual hikes in mooring fees, Jane on her own could not – not even for the time it took to sell her.  I am not planning on dying just yet, but one has to face the prospect that we all suffer from at least one fatal illness in our lives and even I am not immortal.  I could not possibly leave Jane with a millstone around her neck.  Why this possibility never occurred to me before is a mystery, but there it is.  I might add that a degree of impetus to the decision was added when I calculated how much it costs to keep APPLETON RUM every year and foolishly revealed the sum to Jane.  Her eyes went all misty at that point as she imagined how many cruises or holidays in Tahiti she could enjoy for that money…the palm trees, the white sand, the clear green waters, the sunshine; all these thoughts appeared to pass through her mind.  So there it is, dear reader: the end of an era.  Of course, it could take years to sell her (the boat, not Jane) and we will continue to maintain and use her in the interim; but someone will love her as I did and extract many more years of fun and pleasure from her.  They will certainly get a bargain, for she is in tiptop condition and I have the bills to prove it. Search, in due course, www.networkyachtbrokers.com, Birchwood TS31 at Dartmouth, and no, APPLETON RUM is not her real name.  I’m sure you can work it out if you are truly interested.

‘Gaslighting’ is a term that apparently originated in a play of the 1930s, but which – after a long period of being rarely used  – is  enjoying a revival.  It refers loosely to the practice of convincing someone to doubt their own perception,  reasoning and common sense in favour of an alternative belief, often (these days) to facilitate government control over the masses or to support some ideology or other.  There are plenty of examples in our lives of the 21st century, but I am very grateful to the UK Meteorological Office for offering a topical one in their recent statement that April 2024 in the United Kingdom has enjoyed above average temperatures.  They do enjoy their little joke.  The fact is, April in the UK has been absolutely perishing, with low temperatures overnight and bitterly cold winds.  At the end of March, when British Summer Time came into force, I enthusiastically stowed my woollen sweaters, moleskin trousers and stout brogues in favour of my chinos, short-sleeved shirts and deck shoes; Jane even started painting her toenails.  A week later I had swapped them all back again and Jane declared that she would be retaining her vest and trousers for the foreseeable future.  To be fair, temperatures in Melbury have averaged about 10C during the day and topped 15C occasionally, which tie in with our records of previous years and seem reasonable, if not outstanding.  However, overnight temperatures have been in low single figures and the month has suffered almost constant bitterly cold winds, usually from the north or east, not to mention the rain.  There is no way that you will convince me that April has enjoyed above average temperatures or, for that matter (noting a previous Press release), that 2023 was the warmest year on record.  The fact is, our comfort is not based on temperature alone (entering lecture mode here: pay attention at the back). Most people know that wind chill has a significant effect, and there are a number of complicated formulae to calculate it that I won’t burden you with; but few realise that humidity is another key factor.  As anyone who has experienced a sauna will tell you, we can endure quite high temperatures provided the atmosphere is dry, but if the humidity is high eg, if we put water on the coals of a sauna (making the air more humid) then we become distinctly uncomfortable and the tips of our ears and nasal passages burn. The optimum temperatures for human comfort are actually 22C dry bulb and 15C wet bulb, measured on a wet and dry hygrometer, and these are the ideal parameters set on a properly tuned air conditioning system.  Put more simply, the optimum atmospheric condition for human comfort is 22C and 50% relative humidity.  Low relative humidity, eg from central heating in the winter, can give you sore throats; high relative humidity, as experienced in the Amazon jungle or a Turkish bath, will make you feel distinctly uncomfortable or can even kill you.  None of that applies to the UK in April 2024 of course; I just thought I would throw that in. Lecture over.

Jane has recovered from her experience in A&E (Blog 131) and my recent quarterly view showed no return of my prostate cancer (smiley face, as the young people say).  I am still experiencing hot sweats like a menopausal woman, (which has brought out my empathy for the opposite sex), I never get a night without at least four excursions to the lavatory, and I am still overweight from the hormone treatment, but these are small prices to pay for being rid of cancer.  

Bravely, we embarked on the boat in late April to clean off the seagull guano and generally get her back to a state of aesthetic decency, but after two nights of not being able to sleep because of the cold we gave up and returned to the comfort of home.  At Noss Marina there was no visible sign of progress with the coffee bar, the ‘boutique’ hotel or the luxury flats (Blog 128): just lots more heaps of rubble at the site and a great deal of dust and muck all over my boat.  As we battled against the northerly wind on the pontoon on the way back to the car, I was reminded of that song by Allan Sherman, “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh” in which all things were terrible at Camp Granada until the sun came out.   One day, the sun will come out and our summer onboard will begin.  In the meantime, at home, the central heating is still on and the garden furniture is still secured to the house with a stout rope, a ring bolt and a double sheet bend.

Our unplanned return from the boat and the relatively sudden decision to put her on sale left us with five empty days and a rather odd indecisive state of mind.  It was, in a way, a taster of what life would be if we were not driving down to Kingswear every few weeks for a life on the ocean wave.  We decided to ‘do’ a visit to the countryside.  From her Gardeners’ World magazine, Jane had acquired a free ‘two-for-one’ ticket to the gardens of a little-known place called Athelhampton House in Dorset and we decided to take advantage of the offer.  It helped that Athelhampton House had ten newly-installed electric vehicle charging points, which would enable us to top up the car while touring the gardens.  What an absolute delight the day out proved to be! Athelhampton House (www.athelhampton.com)  is located just outside the village of Tolpuddle, near Dorchester in Dorset and is now privately owned, yet open to the public.  English readers will recall from their history lessons that Tolpuddle was the home of the Tolpuddle Martyrs: a group of six men who were convicted of forming a secret society involving oaths in 1834 (it was also an early trade union) and sentenced to be transported to Australia in punishment.  No one could accuse those 19th century English politicians of being soft on industrial relations.  Athelhampton House gardens, created at the turn of the 19th century, comprised ten individual gardens within the overall plot, each one with a different theme and layout.   Jane, of course, was in her seventh heaven.  The River Piddle gurgled its way around the periphery and provided a tranquil background to the whole experience.  As the current streamed through the reeds it rather reminded me of that painting, Ophelia by Sir John Millais.
The house itself is still lived in by the present owner despite dating from the 1400s,  and it has been added to by its many owners over the centuries.  We found it surprisingly warm and welcoming, despite its age and dark-panelled rooms – we could happily have lived in it. It was also quite a labyrinth, with narrow passages, changing levels, hidden narrow staircases and secret doors.  Thomas Hardy was a frequent visitor, apparently, and the house was also popular with Noel Coward.  The film Sleuth (1972) starring Lord Olivier and Michael Cain was filmed at Athelhampton House.  Rounding off the visit, we enjoyed an excellent snack lunch in the café, where we received the best service and best value for money that we have encountered for many years.  All the staff were pleasant, attentive and efficient and the food (coleslaw-filled baked potato for me and home-made soup for Jane) cost us only £15.  We washed the lunch down with a carafe of draught Wessex Water.  The whole site, by the the way (if you are of the Green inclination) is carbon neutral, electricity being generated by solar panels in an adjacent field, supported by batteries, and the house warmed by ground and air heat pumps.  Our electric car really appreciated the top-up while we toured the estate.  So there you are: Athelhampton House, a grand day out with excellent catering and a pit stop for the electric car.  If you have the time, you can also visit the Tolpuddle Museum nearby and learn all about those martyrs (spoiler alert, they were pardoned after three years and returned to Dorset).

You will be delighted to know that the gleditsia has recovered.  The gleditsia is the Honey Locust  tree (Fabaceae, sub family Caesalpinioideae – do buck up) that sits immediately outside the Garden Control Tower aka the Breakfast Room or Orangery, and which has been a source of concern to the memsahib for some time.  At one point it looked dead and we called in a tree surgeon to offer his opinion; I unearthed the chainsaw from its winter storage and flexed my trigger finger in anticipation. However, the tree – clearly terrified by what was to come – suddenly recovered rapidly and started to behave itself, so that it now has many buds, if not blossoms.  Stand down from first degree of readiness. I would imagine that  the bleak spring outlined earlier has had something to do with it but – for now – it has had a reprieve.  Meanwhile, we think the blue tits have found a home in our nesting boxes and so we can expect some fledglings shortly – all is right with the world, at least in our tiny microcosm; I make no comment on the wider world – read the newspapers if you want to depress yourselves about that.

So – it is the first of May and summer, surely, cannot be too far away?  We are off back to the boat to make the most of what time we have left with her.  Wish us luck.

1 May 2024

Blog 131. Did I Mention My Cut Finger?

Can there be a more depressing place to be than a funeral? I know that these occasions are meant to be a celebration of the dead person’s life but, let’s face it, they never are.  Even if the late departed is only slightly known to you, you still get upset – especially as you get closer to such an event yourself.  My brother’s wife, Marion, has died after her cancer returned despite the removal of her eye about a year ago, and my brother Colin took it very badly (they had no children).  Marion was 92 and I dare say it could be said that she had had a good innings, but that is no comfort to the bereaved.  After a long journey north to Tyneside we found my brother still in his pyjamas at 1500 with a look of total despair and desolation on his face. I had hoped that the twelve months or so of Marion being in and out of hospital, then finally bedridden under palliative care in their dining room, would have prepared Colin for the inevitable but, alas, that was not the case.  What to say? I wish they ran a course on phrases for consoling the bereaved, for none of mine seemed to help.  In the end, I let Colin reminisce at his own pace and I think he was, at least, glad of the familiar company.  The funeral proved to be a useful watershed and he gradually improved mentally thereafter, but I wished I could have done more.  Life – and death – can be so frustrating.

Regular readers of this blog will be familiar with the challenge of driving long distances in an electric vehicle (EV) (Blog 100, Blog 127), but this time the 300-odd mile trip was not too bad, partly because of the increased availability of Rapid Chargers for EVs and partly because of the kindness of friends.  Halfway up the country on the way north we stayed overnight with our old boating chums, Raymond and Carole, who live near Melton Mowbray, and they kindly let us top up our car overnight.  An extension cable was passed through their letterbox and our car sat there overnight, slurping up the Joules like an old labrador sleeping contentedly by the fireside after a heavy meal.  In the meantime, the humans tucked in to a delicious dinner, lubricated by fine wine.  Life is good.  While we were in the area, our friends took us to visit Southwell (pronounced locally as Suth’ll, rhymes with cuddle): a small market town dominated by the beautiful and impressive Southwell Minster.  Gosh, what a lovely town!  I am embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of it, but it proved to be a delightful place to visit: modest in size, lovely architecture, mixed shops and welcoming people.  The highlight was a visit to the Minster, a fine edifice dating from 1040.  A minster (I didn’t know this) is a large mother church for a collection of smaller parish churches in part of a diocese, often (but not in this case) part of a monastery. Basically, the building looked like a cathedral and since 1884 it has been official just that: the cathedral for the diocese of the Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham.  The old title, ‘Minster’ has been retained, however.  Perhaps the lasting memory I have of visiting the Southwell Minster was just how welcoming the guides were.  We were immediately greeted warmly and given a potted history of the building, with advice on what to look for.  Unlike many cathedrals in England now, it was not commercialised and there was no entrance fee – any contribution to the upkeep of the building was left to the visitor’s discretion, £10 being a suggested amount.  I was very happy to donate it for each of us, for the building was fascinating and had a warm welcoming feeling to it, conducive to both silent prayer and exploration.  The architecture and masonry were fascinating, particularly the circular Chapter House, complete with integrated stone seats around the circumference, each one labelled in ancient faded writing for the canons of the district.  There was so much to see and take in that we could easily have spent an entire day in the Minster, but daylight was fading, and tea and home-made cake in the Old Theatre Deli beckoned (they were delicious).  So: Southwell and its Minster; never knew they there, but will definitely return.

I have quite strict criteria when it comes to hotels.  The bottom line is that I expect them to be at least as comfortable and stress-free as my own home, which doesn’t seem to me to be an unreasonable benchmark.  Fundamentally, I demand a quiet night and a good sleep without the noise of a bar, wedding disco, or drunken guests waking me up;  without marauding children running up the corridors or leaping around the lounge; without tripping over wet dogs or suffering them sniffing at my dinner or them being fed at the table; and without grizzling babies or dribbling toddlers in the restaurant.  A nice view, with good local walks are bonuses, as are a Michelin star restaurant and a varied, imaginative, breakfast taken in silence.  Naturally, these criteria eliminate almost every hotel in Britain.  However, I live in hope and – very occasionally – my aspirations have been realised.  Of course, these stringent criteria make me a candidate for the award of The Definitive Grumpy Old Man, but you are too late for putting my name forward for that honour: I was awarded it about forty years ago. 
While up north for the funeral, we did not stay with Colin as he only has one bathroom and we did not want to add visitors to his burden.  We stayed at the Premier Inn in Washington – Washington, County Durham that is, not Washington DC.  We are great fans of the Premier Inn hotel chain because they offer that most important thing for us, a good, quiet, night’s sleep at a very competitive price –  though I note that, since Covid, they have taken to not routinely cleaning your room unless you specifically ask them to do so each day.  Stuff that for a game of soldiers – if I stay in a hotel I expect proper housekeeping service, and we made sure we received it.  The hotels are of a standard construction and interior which, I daresay, some might find boring, but which we find reassuring.  Usually they are out of town, perhaps on an industrial estate; they have plenty of free parking; there is double glazing to keep out the noise; the staff are invariably bright, cheerful and welcoming; the rooms are spotless; and the bed has a dependably comfortable mattress.  There is no bar, but a chain restaurant is normally attached to provide breakfast and evening meals, which is fine if mass-produced food like burgers, chips or fried chicken, eaten in an environment where feral children from the local housing estate run riot, is to your taste.  We usually eat elsewhere.  We paid £305 for five nights without breakfast in Washington, which was excellent value.  We slept well throughout, the staff were lovely, but – alas – it was not up to the usual Premier Inn standard, which was a disappointment.  Clearly, the price we paid reflected that fact.  The building and rooms, while fairly modern and clean, were in need of some refurbishment.  For example, contrary to normal practice, there was no locked access to the accommodation from Reception; the bathroom floor was starting to disintegrate; the shower screen leaked, causing mould;  the washbasin tap was loose; a bedside light needed securing and occasionally malfunctioned; there was no electric shaver point; the lighting was dim; and there were no cushions to prop you up in bed.  (Otherwise all right).  We could live with most of these shortcomings but, in any case, when I reported the defective lamp I was told that no maintenance man was available to fix it.  We were offered another room but, by that time, we were well settled in and we declined.  Overall, the hotel was comfortable and good value, but we would not chose that particular one again and Jane has even suggested that we try a more up-market hotel next time.

On the first night, after a long journey, we were disinclined to scour Tyneside for a decent restaurant so we considered what there was locally.  The Washington Premier Inn did not have an attached restaurant, but across the carpark there was a Toby Carvery.  For the benefit of any non-British readers, Toby Carvery self-service restaurants provide roast meals of pork, turkey, gammon or beef (lamb on Sundays) served with a wide range of fresh vegetables.  The meat is carved for you by the chef according to your wishes and you help yourself to the vegetables.  The food is tasty, well-cooked and good value, but the process does involve you queuing for your food like in a factory canteen and the environment can be a little rumbustious.  Jane and I would not normally choose a Toby Carvery for a meal, but we were tired, this place was on the doorstep, and Toby Carvery offered a discount for members of the Armed Forces so it seemed a reasonable solution.  Gingerly, we negotiated the potholes in the carpark and entered the eatery at 2030, which we thought would be a quiet time, especially as it was a Wednesday.  Oh dear.  The place was packed with families: children (some in pyjamas or stockinged feet) ran around around playing tag, babies grizzled, and the noise was prodigious. Yep, it was the Shacklepin definition of culinary hell. The schools were on half term on Tyneside, you see, hence the children up late when they should have been in bed. Oh, thank you Fate! There was some tooth-sucking by the waitress when I asked for a table, not having booked, and an amused raised eyebrow when I asked for a table far from any children, but we were able to sit down eventually in a good spot and were served immediately.  Off we went to the servery for our main course, joining a long line that seemingly stretched half way around the restaurant.  At the business end of the queue, a single harassed-looking chef did his best to satisfy the demand, hacking away at roast joints in the heat of the servery lamps, but supply could not match demand.  We waited in the queue for sixteen minutes (yes, I timed it) before we reached the front to make our selection; we passed the time watching the people in front of us making absolute beasts of themselves as they piled their plates with every type of meat, crowned by mounds of vegetables and rivers of gravy, each plate like Mount Vesuvius in full eruption.  The food was good, the service was cheerful, but the environment was ghastly. I couldn’t wait to leave.  The final insult came when the restaurant refused to accept my Armed Forces Discount Card, despite me showing the waiter what it said on the internet website.  Methinks we won’t be going to a Toby Carvery again.

The rest of the stay after the funeral was spent taking my brother out to different places to try to ease his depression.  Surprisingly, bearing in mind that we were in South Shields, we found two very good restaurants: Colman’s Seafood Temple in a converted bandstand, which we had visited before (Blog 100), and Wyvestow’s at Westoe Village.  The former was a treat, but expensive and with bad acoustics, as before; the latter was excellent and a complete revelation, with a varied and imaginative menu, professional staff and nice clientele (definitely PLU).  At the weekend we drove over to Durham so that Jane could buy her favourite tipple, Durham Gin, but the city was absolutely packed with people – so many that we could hardly make progress on foot – and we left after finding the only bottle of Durham Gin apparently left in the city (note to self: never again visit Durham at a weekend). On another day we took the ferry across the Tyne to North Shields and walked to the Fish Quay, an area that we thoroughly enjoyed because of its up-market riverside flats, varied bars, cafés and restaurants.  Even Colin conceded that that ‘the people across the water’ had done a very good job of converting the old industrial area, while retaining a working fish quay.  I think we exhausted my brother, but I also think we left him in a better mental state than when we arrived.  Mind you, we were physically and mentally exhausted.

As on the journey up, we broke our journey south by visiting friends and taking advantage of their good nature by tapping into their electricity ring main.  This time we called on Sam and Laura in Altrincham and availed ourselves of electricity, a roaring fire, sumptuous cuisine and a large quantity of alcohol.  Topping up an EV at friends is a new topic of conversation in social etiquette circles and, it seems, some guests take their hosts for granted in this regard, which is neither fair nor popular.  We always ask and – crucially – offer to pay for the energy, for 40kWh of domestic electricity (a full battery charge for my car) does not come cheap.  The offers are always refused, but we compensate our hosts with a bottle of top-quality wine with an ornate foreign-looking label, obtained from the premium section on the bottom shelf of an ASDA supermarket.  Generous to a fault.  The journey south from Greater Manchester took just over eight hours, calling at Shrewsbury, Leominster and Evesham to charge the car: a not unpleasant trip, but a long one.  Funerals: here’s hoping we don’t have many more of them.

Nee-naw, nee-naw, nee-naw. The ambulance siren blasted away as we lurched through the heavy traffic in the Big City and bounced into every pothole.  Have you ever ridden in an ambulance at full chat?  It is like charging through the Portland Race at 20 knots in a Fast Patrol Boat, and is singularly uncomfortable.  We were even offered a pill or injection to combat motion sickness, but it was unnecessary and we made it to the Big Hospital without disgracing ourselves.  The reason we were engaged in this activity was that Jane had had a very bad cardiac episode – her heart racing at 180 beats per minute, tightness in the chest, and feeling distinctly poorly.  We had invited friends over for a country walk followed by lunch, and had duly driven to the start point, then set off into the bundu.  Gregory and I walked ahead, like good scouts crossing the prairies, and the girls trailed behind while catching up on the recent gossip.  It subsequently transpired that Jane had the tightness in her chest within 50 metres of leaving the car, but carried on regardless…for four miles.  As we neared the end of the trek she was flagging significantly and in a near state of collapse, like a clockwork toy running down; indeed, she did have to sit down to recover at one point.  The walk, I should emphasise, was an easy one taken mostly on the level and mostly on hard tracks or roads; we weren’t doing Mount Snowdon.  Anyway, we drove home and Jane even served the first course of lunch before going upstairs to lie down.  Soon after, she felt bound to call an ambulance, which came very quickly.  A rapid diagnosis by the paramedics concluded that Jane was a hospital case, and away we went.  Triage was swift and Jane was allocated a bed in a ‘High Care’ booth in Accident & Emergency (A&E), wired up like a Cyberman, and given a boost of beta blocker to bring down her heart beat.  She was told that if the beta blocker did not work then she would effectively be re-booted, ie stop her heart and restart it again. Time passed, with the monitor still beating rapidly when suddenly, after maybe ten hours since it all started, Jane felt nauseous and was nearly sick; simultaneously her heart beat dropped suddenly from 180 per minute to 60 per minute (hence the nausea).  She was back to normal.  The emergency team arranged an X ray to make sure there was no heart disease, and took two blood tests to make sure her heart was back to normal. It was looking good and we expected to be released later that night but, at about 2300, the blood test results came back and they indicated that her heart had been damaged by the episode (something to do with enzymes).  The staff decided she must stay in overnight and see a cardiologist the next morning.  It was a bit of a shock as well as a disappointment, but there it was.  I left, very kindly collected by Gregory and Lynne (our lunch guests) who had insisted that they did so.  They deposited me at home just before midnight.  Poor Jane endured a sleepless night in A&E, with screaming dementia patients and beeping monitors.  At 0300 she was asked by a doctor if she wished to be resuscitated if she had a heart attack, which cheered her up no end.  Finally, at 1000 the next day, she was seen by a senior doctor, who she did not think was a cardiologist, who simply discharged her with no change in her existing medication.  It was the first time that this problem (called fast atrial fibrillation) had recurred in Jane for two years, so a change in pills was not merited, apparently.  Ho hum.  I collected Jane from the Big Hospital and, on return home, Jane had a long shower and went to bed, sinking to Deep Diving System Test Pressure and to all intents and purposes, figuratively dead to the world for six hours.  I sighed with relief: I had not been able to find the tin opener, had cut my finger on a mandolin and had misplaced the Elastoplast.  So that was Thursday and Friday.  Jane is fine now, still a bit tired and now frightened of going for a walk ever again.  It was an interesting lunch, and our guests even did the washing up and stowed the gear afterwards –  not to mention the 2300 taxi service in the freezing cold.  That’s good friends for you, and we are blessed by many.

Now tell me, what can you do with a loved one who carries on with a four mile hike after she has developed the symptoms of a heart attack? Sign her up for the SAS?  By the way,  did I mention my cut finger?

12 March 2024

Blog 130. Give Me a Ring Sometime

The final slice of tarte tatin remaining from our last dinner party lay before me, covered in cream.  I savoured it for quite some moments, just as a starving survivor in a lifeboat might eye up the cabin boy for his next meal.  Christmas was over, 2024 had begun, and the pudding in front of me was to be my last indulgence for some time.  The Big Diet was about to begin.

That evening, in bed, I enquired (as I usually do) as to what delicious repast was awaiting me for breakfast, and was told, “a fry up”.  This was a pleasant surprise, but I wasn’t going to argue and I lay my head on the pillow with great anticipation. Ten hours later I was gazing at the fruition of my dreams.  On the plate lay a slice of fried bacon, fried mushrooms, fried cherry tomatoes and … broccoli.  I had to do a double-take, lest my eyes, weakened by malnutrition, were deceiving me but, yes, it really was broccoli.  The plate looked like nothing on earth.  I had been lulled into a false sense of culinary security, of course.  The diet had, indeed, started and this was the beginning.  Actually it tasted all right, but I ask you… broccoli for breakfast?  

The diet was in force, not for the usual post-Christmas overindulgence reasons, but because I had been putting on weight since starting my hormone treatment to combat prostate cancer last March, and the situation was becoming noticeable. According to the medical documentation, the side effects could equally have been a loss in weight, but Murphy’s Law has never failed me in the past, and here it was waving its metaphorical wand again.  As to Jane: I am not sure why she has put on weight (if she has); I think it might be the digestive equivalent of a sympathetic pregnancy.  Mind you, was there ever a more silly time to start a diet than January in the northern hemisphere?  Many of us are doing it as a response to over-indulgence at Christmas, but it is just crazy.  In January’s temperatures the body craves sustenance and carbohydrates: we should be eating pot mess, babies’ heads, beef cobbler or toad in the hole to keep warm, not lettuce and steamed salmon.  I rather suspect that Jane and I will end up modifying the diet somewhat by continuing to exclude desserts and puddings, bread and cake, but keeping up with the Lancashire hotpot.  Life is too short.

As some readers may take heart at the continuing success of my fight against prostate cancer, I feel that I should give it a brief mention. For some reason I had ended 2023 somewhat depressed about my chances of survival – the first time I have done so since the initial diagnosis in March.  I had duly surfed the Internet to identify the relevant statistics. Naturally, this convinced me that I would be dead in five years, if not by tomorrow. Gloomily, I began contemplating the sale of my motor yacht, my tools, my lathe, my ship models, the contents of my wardrobe, my collection of cravats and waistcoats… It was in this frame of mind that I attended my first quarterly review in early January with the consultant oncologist, whose opinion I sought for a more accurate statistical figure for my demise. She was a very experienced and mature doctor, and her answer went on the lines of this:
“What nonsense is this? You have had comprehensive scans and the cancer never spread beyond your prostate. Your PSA is consistently zero. Radiotherapy has killed the cancer. As part of the trial you are on, you are now being additionally treated with the most expensive and best drugs that we can possibly give you. You are my youngest patient; my oldest is 91 and still enjoying life. There is no reason why you shouldn’t live to a similar age”.
It was just the thing I needed: robust, to the point, and honest. She even produced the 91-year-old for me to meet and, indeed, he was very fit and healthy. The consultation completely turned me around and I floated out of the hospital on a cloud of euphoria. My hormone treatment, which is a “belt and braces” approach and comprises quarterly injections and daily pills to inhibit the testosterone that feeds prostate cancer, will stop in 14 months. With any luck, the side effects will cease then too. In the meantime, back to the broccoli, porky. Onward and upward!

True to my prediction in the last blog, Jane and I decided to pursue our decision to purchase an artificial Christmas tree for next year and, true to character, Jane decreed that we should seek out a last minute bargain, namely a tree whose price had been reduced at The Big Garden Centre.  My dislike of The Big Garden Centre has already been well documented (Blog 118) and so I was reluctant to participate in this arboreal adventure, but we compromised by parking the car in a nearby village and then walking to the centre, thus avoiding the carpark and the mud.  It was 23 December and the usual Winter Wonderland described in Blog 118 was in full swing, but we were hardened veterans and we swept past the children, the pushchairs, the mummies and the grandmothers and headed straight for the Christmas tree display.  There, believe it or not, (given our usual run of luck), we acquired a complete bargain: a £450 seven-foot artificial Christmas tree, with integral lights, reduced to £199. We snapped it up and it was delivered during the dead period between Christmas and New Year.  I say delivered; it would be more accurate to say that what appeared to be a large body bag was heaved off the lorry with great difficulty and virtually dragged, with much grunting, to our front door to be deposited in our hall.  In our excitement to obtain the tree, we had given little thought to its mass.  It comprised three articulated sections, each with branches made from mild steel tubes and rods, linked by solid hinges.  Even folded, it was enormous. We assembled it, of course, just to make sure that it was sound and that the lights worked, then took it apart and tried to stow it back in its bag – something it was reluctant to do, having revelled in its new-found freedom.  We more-or-less managed it eventually and set to on the next task: storing the thing in the garage loft until next Christmas.  There, the fun began, for it proved impossible to get the burden up through the loft hatch.  I balanced on the loft ladder and heaved,  Jane stood underneath and pushed, but it was no good: it was both too heavy for us and too big to enter the hatch.  Jane wanted to leave it “somewhere in the workshop part of the garage”, but I pointed out that, even if we had the room, it would get covered in sawdust and we would end up sneezing throughout next Christmas.  In the end, we had to take the sections of tree out of the bag and I rigged up a handy billy from the garage roof rafters, with quadruple purchase, to heave the sections into the loft.  So glad that all that seamanship training at Dartmouth wasn’t wasted.

Christmas passed quietly for us, as it usually does.  A persistent cough prevented me from attending any carol services or communions, but this cleared by Boxing Day and so we entered our first social engagement, an overnight visit by Carole and Raymond in transit to Dartmouth, with the avid enthusiasm of castaways greeting their saviours after several years on a desert island.  Some drink was taken and a good time was had by all, but our guests were gone in a flash and we were soon on our lonesome again, preparing to end an awful year but with hope for the next one. 

We do not have grandchildren, but most of our friends do.  Chatting to those friends, we have found two common themes: that their grown-up children seem to believe that their parents have no lives of their own, and that their parents remain as fit and full of stamina as they always were. One corollary of these themes is that grandparents should be available at instant notice as babysitters, or used on a fixed day each week for the same purpose. The first supposition may not be quite so bad provided the grandparents are available, but the second is a commitment and may well disrupt any long term planning that the grandparents have in mind for their remaining years on Earth.  Of course, all our friends with grandchildren truly love their little offspring and are happy to help, but all equally report – almost to a man – just how exhausting babysitting can be, even for just a day.  Contrary to popular belief I would love to have had grandchildren, but it would grate with me to be taken for granted.  As an illustration of my point, let me describe the circumstances of our friends Gregory and Lynne who, every Christmas, act as hosts for their three children and their families. Fourteen people in total from Zurich, Preston and Bath descend on our friends just before Christmas and Lynne is preparing meals for them from about October onwards, taking into account her guests’ fads, foibles, ethical beliefs and genuine allergies.  Mattresses and camp beds are heaved up and down stairs for the event and a very good time is had by all; but our friends (in their late 70s) are exhausted when their offspring depart.  This year, they showed us a picture of the dirty laundry that remained; it was about five feet high and was still being processed well into 2024.  We took pity on them by providing a sumptuous lunch on New Year’s Day, after which they relaxed so much that Gregory fell asleep over the coffee.  My point is not that this annual get together was unwelcome – on the contrary, Gregory and Lynne love having the company of their family, and all get on very well.  Rather it is that is has never occurred to their offspring that the whole event is becoming exhausting and too much for them, and that they would probably welcome the offer of one of their children acting as hosts for a change, or the whole party decamping to a hotel for Christmas.

It has been a fairly stormy start to the new year for the British Isles, but I am relieved to report that almost every other part of the country has suffered from them apart from us in Melbury.  Even our boat in Dartmouth has survived the onslaught.  We have had no snow, no wind greater than Force 7, only a few sub-zero days and the rain – while plentiful – has not caused us any floods higher than the usual levels.  I realise that many poor souls have been flooded out and their livelihood ruined, but merely point out that the hyperbolic warnings by the UK Meteorological Office (today’s offering was, “beware of snow bombs”) do not apply to everyone and can only serve to fuel the climate of fear that started with the Covid epidemic and has continued since.  I was alive in 1953 when a massive storm,  combining with adverse tidal conditions in the North Sea, flooded the east coast of England and killed about 300 people; I can remember the months of deep snow in 1963 which left Scotland cut off, isolated farms supplied by the RAF, and coal stocks so frozen that they could not be used; I experienced the bad winter of 1981/82 when Trowbridge was cut off and I could not get into the Ministry of Defence from my lodgings for several days.  What we are experiencing now is what we older people call “winter”: a season which varies with time, sometimes very severe and sometimes mild.

One of my frequently uttered phrases as I wander around the highways and byways of our towns during the working day is, “Why is that child not at school?”. This is not solely because I aspire to emulate someone who is a cross between Mr Gradgrind and Mr Bumble the beadle, but because it is a characteristic of my generation. In the 1950s and 1960s a child wandering around out of school would have stood out like a sore thumb and, indeed, would have been challenged by a policeman. I am, thus, programmed to find the experience odd. Today, however, truancy is rife: 28% of parents believe that the Covid19 epidemic demonstrated that it is not essential for children to attend school every day; between a fifth and a quarter of children in England are currently absent from school on a long-term or permanent basis; and the authorities seem powerless to do anything about it. I find this impotence odd. In Flora Thompson’s semi-autobiographical novel From Lark Rise to Candleford (which was televised some years ago) the author describes rural life in north Oxfordshire in the late 19th century. One scene in the story features the sudden arrival of the School Attendance Officer at the home of the child who is the main character of the story. The date was 1880 or thereabouts, and the Education Act had been passed in England, requiring all children between the ages of five and ten to attend school. Children could no longer enjoy the pleasure of being free agents at home, picking daisies in the meadows, sweeping chimneys, or being deployed down coal mines. Parents of truants were visited and the full weight of the law could be used to enforce the act. Fast-forward about sixty years when World War 2 was in full flow. In her autobiography Will She Do? Act 1 of Life on Stage, the actress Dame Eileen Atkins describes how she was initially evacuated from London during the Blitz, but did not get on with the host family in Essex and so returned to her mother in London. She did not go to a school, but spent much of her time as a child entertainer. Despite the exigencies of war, her absence from proper schooling was noted by the authorities, and a School Attendance Officer was soon at her mother’s door, in a repeat of Flora Thompson’s experience. Do we not have School Attendance Officers today, prowling the streets or knocking on the doors of derelict parents? I gather that we do, but it would appear that they are on an uphill task because today’s parents are not the law-abiding souls of yesteryear. Some parents see no need for compulsory education of their children and, indeed, condone the truancy. Of course the lockdowns that were enforced during the Covid 19 epidemic have made a bad situation worse and the current level of truancy reflects the attitude of those workers who do not wish to return to the office to earn their pay. Additionally, we have a significant number of parents today who claim to be teaching their children at home. Yeh, right. I am very cynical that such a task can be done full-time, effectively and professionally from the age of five up to, say, sixteen. Even a parent who is a teacher would be hard-put to teach their child, say, grammar at one end of the scale and differential calculus at the other. There is, in any case, another dimension to schooling, namely the ability to mix, debate and generally get on with others from all walks of life. Children who are home-schooled miss out on all that. I am amazed that the authorities permit it. The final dimension, of course, is that some children on the streets and out of school are tempted to commit mischief and vandalism out of boredom – witness the increase in anti-social behaviour after schools break up for the summer holidays. We never had much graffiti when we were stuffing boys up chimneys, that’s what I say.

With the very cold, but settled, conditions it was inevitable that my dear wife’s mind should turn to her garden:  not the weeding or cultivation, but the structural maintenance.  Naturally, she turned to me, “Mr Fixit”, I being responsible for structural integrity and all things involving drill and screws.  The object of her attention was the wires that support her malignant roses and burgeoning clematis to our boundary wall, all of which needed re-rigging.  There was, of course, no getting out of the job and I duly kitted myself out in my gardening PPE, strapped on my leather utility belt complete with electric drill holster, assorted tools and first aid kit, and reported for duty.  I spent two days on the job.  Originally, we had used thin green garden wire on the wall, but that lasted only a year or two.  We then tried thicker green wire, which also yielded in time.  Finally, we graduated to galvanised thick wire, which held, but just did not look very neat – not tiddley and up to a seamanlike standard, if you follow me.  So this time, after a persistent and well-co-ordinated campaign by Jane, I agreed to do a proper job.  From Mr Amazon I ordered several metres of marine grade stainless steel wire rope to SAE316 standard, austenitic stainless steel ring bolts, SAE316 bow shackles, a hydraulic swaging tool and stainless steel thimbles.  I told that wall that I meant business.   Mind you, Jane’s plants did take some collateral damage – she seemed to think that these jobs could be done without me standing on the soil.  There was the occasional crunch or squelch as a budding chlamydia (or whatever) fell under my jackboot and when I suggested that we hire a helicopter so that I could continue the work suspended from a trapeze like an actor playing Peter Pan I was accused of sarcasm (can you believe it?).  Finally the job was done: none of your nonsense now – the whole rigging arrangement would do justice to a sloop entering the America’s Cup, and looked as solid as a rock.  With an air of panache I restored my tools to the garage, walked up the garden path to view my work, and promptly tripped – falling flat on my face, bending my glasses, and hitting my head on a paving slab.  Curiously, my left hand, which had taken the impact, suffered more than my face: badly bruised, it swelled up to such a degree that I was forced to cut off my signet ring with a pair of wire cutters.  Ironically, this was the second time that I had had to cut off a ring in as many months – the first time was when I caught Signet Ring Number One on the companionway hatch of the boat and nearly wrenched off my finger (interestingly, a not uncommon accident in warships).  I have now run out of signet rings and the plan is to take both damaged rings to a jeweller and have them melted down to make a wedding ring: something Jane has always wanted me to have.  The estimate for the work is £300.  Blimey.  I think I will have the wedding ring engraved with the warning, “Keep your hands off this one – he’s mine”.  Jane loves me and wants me, even if no-one else does.  Oh bless.

29 January 2024

Blog 129. Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

I was ambushed last Sunday.  No, not by deserters and footpads returning from the Duke of Monmouth’s Pitchfork Rebellion, but by Jane.  I should have seen the warning signs: the request for a printout of our Christmas Card List, the purchase of what seemed like £100 worth of Second Class stamps…. However, like a fool, I had taken no heed and had innocently followed my usual Sunday morning routine of wondering if it was too early to pour myself a glass of sherry while looking forward to my Sunday roast.  Like a becalmed windjammer drifted by the current into the Bermuda Triangle, my course took me to the Garden Control Tower, aka the Breakfast Room or Orangery, where I hoped to grab a cup of coffee.  Instead of coffee, there sat Jane with several boxes of Christmas cards, a sheet of stamps, the Christmas Card list, my fountain pen –  and a very determined look on her face.  It was Christmas Card time, and I had been nobbled yet again.  I sighed.  I knew from experience that it was no good arguing, for my Christmas duties in the Shacklepin household have been laid down in tablets of stone for nigh on forty years: erect the Christmas tree, assist with its decoration, arrange the exterior Christmas lights…and ‘do’ the Christmas cards. I write the insides and Jane writes the envelopes – an odd distribution of labour, now that I come to think of it, as my printing (honed over the years of producing engineering drawings using a 2H pencil) is quite neat, while Jane’s handwriting can be (how can I put it?) somewhat individual.  But there it is.  Philosophically, I sat at the table, shot my cuffs and uncapped my pen as a precursor to matching appropriate cards to our friends and relatives named in the List, a document annotated with firm deletions of the names of those who failed to send us a card last year and who, therefore, were cast into the outer darkness and damned for all time, never to receive a card from us this year.  What to write in a Christmas card?  Half the message is usually there already, pre-printed, so there is not a great deal of scope for original prose.  I do write a hand-written account of my year to one old naval friend whom I have not seen for thirty years; as to the rest, a pathetic offering of “all the best” is, indeed, the best I can come up with. I draw the line at adding a kiss unless the recipient is female, and I pointedly pass cards with a joint or male recipient over to Jane for her to add her own ‘X’, much to her annoyance.   I have been known occasionally to throw in the odd witty comment in cards to good friends, but I have to be careful, as a lifetime’s experience has taught me that my idea of “witty” does not always match the views of others or even of my good wife.  Besides, Jane is prone to implementing a random quality assurance check on the cards before they go into the envelope and any offerings that do not meet her approval are rejected, so that I have to do the whole card again, extending what is already a lengthy annual task.  On this occasion, the seasonal evolution finally came to a close after an hour or so and I spent the next hour trying to scrub black Parker’s Quink ink from the second finger of my right hand.  ‘Twas ever thus.  Is it time to stop sending Christmas cards?  I have heard of some people doing so because of the cost of postage: £0.68 per stamp soon adds up if you have a lot of friends and relatives, and I understand that some people send out an email stating that they will not be sending cards this year, but “will be donating the cost of stamps and cards to charity instead”. Of course they will…but it would be better if they kept their sanctimony to themselves. “I did something rather wonderful today….” just about sums it up. As to the annual Christmas card duty in the Shacklepin household, I might grumble about it but, in reality, I am only too pleased that Jane and I have people to send them too.  On that basis the cost of a few cards and stamps is a small price to pay for friendship and staying in touch.  Long may it remain so.

Blimey, thirteen shillings and sixpence for one stamp.  Who would have believed it?  But then, who would have thought we’d ever have a royal prince called Archie or that men could suffer periods…?

Talk of Jane rejecting some of my Christmas card greetings set me thinking about the whole concept of inadequate written work being returned to the author for correction.  It is a very familiar one, for that is how things were done from the very early stages of my naval career.  It may well have been a common practice in the civilian world too, for all I know.  In those pre-computer days, senior officers took the view that correspondence sent out in their name and from their ship should be of the highest standard of grammar, brevity and accuracy.  Letters were drafted in long-hand and passed through two or three levels of editing by the ship’s hierarchy before they reached the Captain for final approval, typing, and signature. Nowadays, correspondence may still originate at the lowest level of an organisation, but it seems to be dispatched at that level too, without any oversight.  I cannot comment on the current Royal Navy practice, but I have received letters or emails from commercial organisations of the most appalling standard, in one instance a missive from a car dealership that was complete gobbledygook. Newspapers are little better, with even the broadsheets such as The Times, The Guardian and The Daily Telegraph sometimes publishing poor grammar or spelling.  Such instances do nothing for a company’s or newspaper’s credibility. My contemporaries and I developed our grammar and writing skills, not at school, but by having to keep a weekly journal when we were Cadets and Midshipmen (a two year period), the objectives being to establish skills in observation, expression and orderliness.  Improvements in grammar, spelling and English were additional benefits.  At least five foolscap pages of handwritten text and one sketch were demanded each week, and a failure to do so resulted in the time-honoured technique of one’s leave being stopped until the shortfall was corrected. The journals were scrutinised and marked by an officer appointed for the task known as “Snotties’ Nurse” (a “Snotty” being naval slang for a Midshipman), and they were submitted to the Captain monthly, for comment.  I quite enjoyed keeping my journal, but some of my colleagues found it hard, for not everyone enjoys writing and sketching.  I always remember my best friend, Hand Major (Blog 67) submitting a rather dodgy sketch of a Maltese dghajsa in his journal, for want of nothing better that week, but using a pencil that was so faint you could hardly see the boat.  The Captain annotated his journal with the comment, “As viewed in fog?”.  My friend was most indignant.  Journals were still in use for junior officers in the Fleet when I was last at sea in 1992, and the standard was still variable even then, in a navy dominated by graduate officer recruitment.  I hope the tradition continues as the practice not only provided the vital functions outlined above, it also acted as a handy reference to one’s past as well as a source of useful information.  I still have my journals and occasionally glance through them to remind myself where I was, and what I was doing, throughout 1970 and 1971.  There is also an excellent article and sketch in one of the journals on how to moor a 6,000 ton destroyer with two anchors incorporating a swivel piece (well, you never know…). 

We spent a couple of days onboard the boat towards the end of November, on what was planned to be our last visit for 2023.  We do not routinely lift APPLETON RUM out of the water for the duration of winter and, whether we did or not, certain preparations have to be made: the freshwater system isolated and drained, a dehumidifier fitted and running, all ventilation sealed off and all mooring lines doubled up for the winter storms.  Sometimes we remove all the bedding and soft furnishings, but that is not really necessary if the interior is dehumidified, and leaving it onboard gives us the option of coming down to stay overnight in the forthcoming months.  I did suggest that we might spend Christmas onboard, but Jane went rather distant when I mentioned it, muttering about the comfort and the lack of full facilities in the galley.  I thought we were quite well kitted out in the galley as boats go, what with having a small refrigerator, a double gas hob and a gas oven, and she has produced some excellent meals in the past with what is there.  Still, I suppose our nice warm and cosy house with its fully fitted kitchen and comfortable bed does seem the best bet for Christmas – I think we’ll go for that option.

Well, the Christmas lights are up outside and the presents have been wrapped and the non perishable food has been purchased.  The Christmas jigsaw has been started and is already proving a challenge. All ready to go, almost.  Some people started early with their decorations, the festive spirit becoming apparent even halfway through November.  We can never understand that, as we see it as the equivalent of opening all the doors of the Advent calendar in one go; where is the sense of anticipation?  Christmas trees and decorations should go up at Advent which, this year, was 3 December.  We are on our own this year for Christmas Day and quite happy in our own company (having roast duck for Christmas dinner, as you ask).  It is too early to say if we will have a white Christmas in Melbury this year.  Contrary to the scenes on Christmas cards, it is quite rare  to have a comprehensive fall of snow in southern England in late December – I think I read somewhere that it has only happened about four times in the last fifty years which, from my shaky memory and personal experience, seems about right.  Snow is common in the Highlands of Scotland, of course, and on all high ground in The North, but for us southerners – well – we can only hope.  We had several days of sub zero temperatures at the end of November and snow fell in a few places elsewhere.  Here in Barsetshire it was quite cold (by English standards) and the wind was distinctly icy, but – as I write – we are back to 8C, wind and rain.  I think I preferred the cold.

Of course, no Christmas would be the same without the great ceremony of installing the tree and decorating it. This year we had it delivered by a local nursery and it lay there on the operating table (ie the garden table) ready to be operated on for insertion into the tree stand. Jane acted as theatre nurse for the procedure. In previous years I have made do with my DIY tools and had some difficulty hacking into wet wood to shape the base of the trunk. This year it would be different (I rubbed my hands in anticipation); this year I had a new chain saw. Oh yes, no messing about with this baby: it was the biz. In thirty seconds I had trimmed the trunk down to almost perfect roundness to fit the stand. Unfortunately, I had also covered the patio, myself and Jane in wet wood shavings like the first fall of snow. Jane had taken the precaution of wearing an old Barbour jacket, which was easily brushed off. Unfortunately, I had not copied her example and was wearing my old naval uniform pullover, or Jersey Man’s Heavy Navy Round Neck (known colloquially in the Service as the Woolley Pulley), now in its fiftieth year and still going strong. The trouble is, the shaving operation may have taken only thirty seconds, but we then spent thirty minutes clearing up the patio, the saw, and – with a great deal difficulty – me, Jane tut-tutting as she tried to pick individual bits of wood out of my pullover and my hair. At last we were ready. I fitted the base of the tree into the stand and, heaving and grunting, we transported the whole assembly into the drawing room via the french windows, taking care to remove our shoes and fall over during the transit. I cut away the transportation net and, behold, the tree expanded and exposed itself in all its green glory. As usual, I was detailed off to lie under the tree and twist it around to obtain perfect perpendicularity and, also as usual, I covered my hair and pullover in pine needles in the process. Time for Phase 3: vacuum up the needles. This was no job for a wishy-washy battery vacuum cleaner; this called for The Big Dyson: 230 volts and 1,200 watts of cyclonic power, wielded by my skilled hands. I was puzzled as to why, this time, the clean-up seemed to take longer than usual for, as fast as I ‘Dysoned’, more pine needles seemed to appear on the floor. Then I realised that, on the other side of the foliage, Jane was very helpfully shaking the tree “to shake any loose bits off”. She was invited to desist. At last, the two of us were finished and we stood gazing at the tree complacently, admiring its shape and form, and the excellent way we had installed it this year.
It was at this point that Jane realised that the base of the tree was so snug in its stand (what we engineers call an interference fit) that there was no means of watering it: it needed a channel in the base of the trunk to enable the water to trickle down into the reservoir part of the stand.
I stared at her in disbelief. Couldn’t we just leave it? No, she said, if we do it will dry up and drop all its needles.
There was nothing else for it: out it had to go to the operating table again, a reverse of the installation process (fell over again putting on shoes), only this time made harder because the transportation net had been removed so the tree was at full girth.
“Hmm”, said Jane,”you’ll need a ¼ “ chisel for that. Or maybe a router.”
“Thank you dear, I worked that out for myself”.
Hack, hack; turn it round; hack, hack. Give it two channels for luck. Soon the modification was done, the stand refitted like a well-worn pair of slippers, and the whole farce of transporting the thing back into the drawing room repeated: stumbling out of shoes (again), covered in pine needles (again), out with The Big Dyson (again). Then we realised that, this time, the tree had a distinct rake, like the masts of a Yankee schooner in full sail. No amount of twisting it in its stand would correct it and, in the end, I was dispatched to the garage to obtain bits of wood for shims to place under the tripod stand. The tree stood there resentfully, sort of upright and stable, but clearly not entirely happy and settled in its new home. Sipping our traditional glasses of sherry, Jane and I looked at each other in mutual unspoken agreement: next year, we get an artificial tree.

I have been sent back to school. Not literally, of course, but Jane is giving me instruction in shopping lest (heaven forbid), one day I have to do it myself. We are feeling our mortality at the moment, you see (it must be the weather) and so we have taken to updating each other on those tasks that are not fully shared so that the survivor will be able to get by without the other; I tend to do the finances, for example, and Jane tends to do the shopping. Food shopping is not totally foreign to me, of course, and even I have progressed from those days when I was sent by my mother to “get the messages” – usually a trip to the greengrocer’s for half a stone of big potatoes. What has changed significantly is the self check-out facility at many supermarkets and it was this procedure that Jane wanted to demonstrate. Just to be difficult, the procedure is different for each store, but I was to cut my teeth on the procedure at ASDA. Off we set in the rain, me trailing dutifully behind Mummy, and I was shown how to check in with a mobile phone in order to obtain the self-check handset. It all looked pretty straightforward to me so, after we had checked in, I implemented my usual procedure to overcome boredom in a supermarket: I asked if I could help with collecting stuff. I commend this method to all men riding shotgun on the Supermarket Express as it minimises conflict (“What are you looking for now?), speeds up the whole dreadful process of shopping, provides helpful exercise, and offers the opportunity for you to buy all the treats and luxuries that a parsimonious wife has been very careful to avoid (“Where did that bottle of single-malt whisky come from?”). One downside for me is that my marching pace is about four times the speed of the doddering pensioners, doting mothers and undecided housewives who clutter up the aisles, so there is a tendency for me to leave a trail of disorder in my wake, like a tornado ripping through a garden party on a peaceful summer’s day. The other downside is that Jane is not good at delegating and has a tendency to be imprecise in allocating tasks. I have frequently been dispatched, for example, to “get some sugar” and when, after scouring the entire store for ten minutes, I return to the mothership with two kilograms of that commodity I immediately get sent back with it, together with the comment, “Not that big. And I wanted brown/caster/icing [delete as applicable] sugar”, as if I were being wilfully stupid (of course, sometimes I am, just out of devilment). Which leads me to another thing: where do wives hide in the supermarket? Is there some alcove or Tardis on Aisle 4 (or wherever) that they squeeze into as soon as their husbands disappear on an errand, the hideout deliberately situated in a mobile signal dead spot? On many occasions I have scoured an entire store, twice or even three times, while struggling with the aforementioned sugar, two bottles of wine and a bottle of bleach like a little boy lost, and Jane is never to be found; eventually she appears out of nowhere, usually in the fruit and vegetables section. What’s all that about?
Anyway, to return to ASDA, my lesson passed smoothly and I was all setup for the future, should I ever need it. We loaded the stuff into the car and I observed how much I was looking forward to lunch and a nice cup of tea. Jane quickly put me right.
“Oh no”, she said, “we still have Lidl to go to. I don’t do all my shopping in one place.”
“You mean we’ve got to visit another supermarket. Oh, my God.”
Alas, it was true. Far easier to shop online, that’s what I say.

Well, 2023 has been a mixed blessing for Horatio Shacklepin and might be summarised as: diagnosed with prostate cancer, successfully treated, and living stoically with the side effects with fingers crossed.  The international scene has been even more dreadful.  What hope for 2024?  I found a very good comment by the broadcaster Gyles Brandreth about Winston Churchill in The Spectator magazine this week that I think is worth reproducing here:

 Not long after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941, Winston Churchill travelled to Washington DC with his Chiefs of Staff to meet President Roosevelt. On Christmas Eve, from the White House, Winston Churchill gave a broadcast to the world that I am surprised is not better known. He gave his listeners permission to briefly cast aside ‘the cares and dangers which beset us’ and let each home ‘be a brightly lighted island of happiness and peace in a world of storms’. ‘Let the children have their night of fun and laughter. Let the gifts of Father Christmas delight their play’.

I leave you with that thought from those dark days and wish all my readers, in all nations, of all religions and none, a very Happy Christmas and a happy and peaceful 2024. I’m off for a glass of mulled wine.

10 December 2023

Blog 128. Call me Sir

Mount Crushmore is back. Regular readers will recognise that this soubriquet was first attributed to the enormous pile of rubble left over from the demolition of the old Philips shipyard buildings at Noss Marina in Kingswear, where my boat is moored. Despite the pile being subjected, for over a year, to the attentions of an army of Lego men in coloured hard hats, assisted by a fleet of Tonka toys, the mountain seemed never to diminish, but rather to be transferred from one part of the site to another, then back again. It was so much a part of the landscape that, at one point, I contemplated planting a White Ensign on the top – to make a feature of it, as it were, and to claim it on behalf of the Royal Navy. When we visited the marina in August, it seemed that the mountain had – at last – disappeared and that the area that had once been the main shipyard buildings and our carpark was one large, cleared, concreted area, ready to receive the construction of a 69-room ‘boutique’ hotel and an apartment block for 41 luxury 2-bedroomed flats. However, when we returned this autumn I noticed that the pile was back again. Not the same pile, you understand, but a new one comprising, this time, not rubble but soil, this being the outpourings of the building foundations. You would think that, as the builders dug out the foundations, they would immediately deposit the dirt in lorries to take it away progressively and keep the area clear. Alas, instead, they simply piled it up, creating Mount Crushmore II. Once more, the pile is being stirred around by JCBs, while removing it piecemeal with the aid of only one lorry – apparently the only such vehicle left in the United Kingdom that is not being used for the construction of the HS2 rail project (of which more later). The forthcoming hotel and apartment building at Noss are way behind schedule, not least because of the ravages of Covid and its accompanying lockdowns. It was predicted that foundations would be laid in March this year and, indeed, some pile-driving did take place in early summer; but further progress was delayed – allegedly to minimise the effect of noise and dirt on the 232 berth-holders during the summer boating season. The hotel will be welcome as it will provide much-needed hospitality services and comforts to we berth-holders (at present, there is nowhere that you can even get a cup of coffee unless you count Jane’s Mobile Burger Bar, which is excellent but draughty). The apartment block will be less welcome as the proposed building is architecturally appalling and totally out of character with Devonshire in general and the old Noss site in particular. I am amazed that the design overcame all the hurdles of planning permission. I am also doubtful that there will be enough parking spaces for everyone, despite the new multi-story carpark. Rumour has it that all the apartments (note:’apartments’ not ‘flats’) have already been bought ‘off-plan’ at £1M each, so heaven knows how much the later houses and waterside-chalets will go for. Still, I cannot deny the sense of anticipation of seeing the first bricks being laid after waiting for four years. The latest rumour is that all work on the hotel and flats will be completed by December 2024. Yeh, right.

The old Philip & Son shipyard at Noss, situated about a mile up-river from Dartmouth on the opposite side of the Dart, has quite a history, being formed in 1858. The yard built many ships over the years, including minesweepers, corvettes, lightships and pleasure vessels before finally ceasing construction in 1999 – only 24 years ago. During World War II the yard was active in building minor war vessels as well as working with the US Navy on construction and maintenance of landing craft; indeed the whole River Dart on its eastern bank was a hive of maintenance activity for these vessels before D-Day. The remnants of the broadside slips and grids for beaching landing craft can still be seen at low tide on the foreshore of the Dart as far upstream as Maypool, about 2½ miles upstream from the harbour mouth. Slips are visible opposite my boat’s berth on the marina and the remnants of a USN shore maintenance base, now overgrown, are hidden in the trees (https://www.wessexarch.co.uk/our-work/noss-dart-d-day-remains-3d). An element of the US Coast Guard (USCG), which assisted in the manning of landing craft, was based at Greenway House, Agatha Christie’s summer home, about three miles up-river from the harbour bar, and murals depicting the USCG arrival, occupation and final departure are still visible in the house (which is now run by the National Trust). The BRITANNIA Royal Naval College was also occupied as a headquarters for the US forces and the College, Philips Yard, shipping and Dartmouth itself were attacked by the Luftwaffe in 1942, killing several people at the shipyard and in the town (Blog 106).

Although, to outward appearance, a quaint and picturesque small Devonshire town, Dartmouth is, in fact, a deep-water port with Chart Datum (Lowest Astronomical Tide) in the river typically as deep as 12 metres (39 feet) – even as far upstream as Greenway.  However, there are no commercial docks or wharfs on the River Dart so, although cruise ships do visit Dartmouth, they have to moor in the middle of the river.  During a bad spell of heavy snow several years ago, the town was cut off from the rest of the county and supplies began to run low: an ironic situation for a port that could, in theory, have been supplied by sea.

I pondered all these things as I stood on the quarterdeck of my boat the other day, viewing the river scene with my telescope while sipping my usual cup of black coffee as is my wonted custom just before breakfast. I was well wrapped up against the brisk south-easterly wind in my submariner’s sweater, seaboots and windproof coat, the ensemble topped by my Breton cap bearing the RNSA cap badge. I did have to endure some witty remarks from our ‘chummy’ boat in the next berth, reference to Jack Hawkins and The Cruel Sea coming thick and fast, but I was warm and caffeinated, and rose above the sartorial ribaldry. As I watched, with a critical eye, the Cadets from the naval college undergoing their boat work instruction my mind wandered, nostalgically, to my time at the college some 54 years ago. We worked a busy routine, as you might expect, with the day starting in the first term with Early Morning Activities (EMAs) at 0600 comprising PT, a run, parade training or Morse flashing practice. Breakfast followed, then there were After Breakfast Activities (ABAs) such as more parade training or Morse practice. A full lecture programme started at 0830 and we were required to “double up” (ie run) when outside between classrooms, which were distributed all over the college grounds, including down on the riverside at Sandquay. Many is the time that we reduced to a walking pace when we thought we were out of sight of any building or civilisation, only to have to start up again after hearing a faint, “Double up Cadets!” shouted apparently from nowhere. Interestingly, the lecture programme was split after lunch, depending on the season. In summer, the programme continued in the afternoon up to tea as normal, but the period after tea (1600) and up to supper (1900), was spent on an “activity”. This “activity” could be sport, river work, sailing, beagling, shooting or anything that was deemed to contribute to officer-like qualities. Just to make sure that we were not spending the time ashore (ie illegally out of the college) or counting the rivets in the deckhead of our cabins, we were required to keep a written log, which was scrutinised weekly. Being lousy at, and hating, sport I always spent my “activity” time on the river and sailing, though I also indulged in 0.22 shooting as the opportunity arose. In winter, however, the “activity” took place in the afternoon (to take advantage of daylight) and the classroom lecture programme resumed after tea and up to supper. I found this winter routine a little odd at first, because it meant we received lectures and instruction when it was dark, well into the evening. Evening Rounds would be at 1930 and we were then free to amuse ourselves before Pipe Down at 2230. After the first half-term we were allowed ashore (out of college) on Wednesday evenings, Saturday afternoons and Sunday after church, but we could also obtain a drink in college (cider only, not beer or spirits) at the sports pavilion every evening. In practice, we were absolutely shattered by that time. As far as boat work was concerned, curiously, there was little formal training in the activity, the skills being passed on by Sub Lieutenants – senior students if you like – who had returned to the college to complete their training after a year at sea in the Fleet as Midshipmen. The informality of that part of training was reflected in what we wore: we did not wear uniform for river work, only an RN-issue football shirt, a white cricket sweater, Action Working Dress trousers and white gym shoes (foul weather gear was included in inclement weather). Before we could Pass Out, we all had to qualify in at least six classes of boat, both under sail and under power, and those who had not acquired their “tickets” were put on a “backward boat-work” programme of instruction, their leave being stopped until they qualified – pour encourager les autres (a similar procedure was followed for those who did not pass the Naval Swimming Test – they were classed as a “backward swimmers” until they passed). It was in this area that the irony of the informal boat work training struck home, for those Cadets who had spent their “activity” playing sport instead of on the river – perhaps even playing, say, rugby for the Navy – were effectively penalised because they were deficient in boat work. Of course, realistically, anyone who represented the college or the Navy at sport was examined sympathetically by the boat instructors when it came to qualifying; this might explain the number of British warships that have hit the jetty when coming alongside, or have run over a buoy when trying to moor. Returning to the present day and me on my quarterdeck with my telescope on that day in October, I noted that most mornings and forenoons the college boats were out and practising industriously, the crew now wear naval uniform with berets, the boats fly the White Ensign, and the instructors appear to be mature seamen supervising a proper training régime. It was, however, heartening to see that some coxswains still cocked up their man overboard drills, bodged their “coming alongsides” and occasionally left out their boat fenders in error, just like we did. They are just as human and green as we were in 1969.
Excuse me a minute, I must have a word with the coxswain of Motor Whaler 3:
“Fender!”

I see that even the Royal Navy has gone woke now.  Personnel are expected to announce their personal pronouns, and interactions between personnel are to respect them.  My first reaction to the news was puzzlement: I am “Sir”; she is “Ma’am”, he or she is “Chief” or “Petty Officer”; and you are “Smith” (or whoever) – where is the big deal?  Alas, life is more complicated than that, and the Service now celebrates LGBTXYZ events and inclusivity as part of its many activities.  This last is a bad and very unwise development, not necessarily because I disapprove of different sexes, genders or orientations in the Navy, but because the policy is divisive and invidious. The Royal Navy has always prided itself on the concept of “all of one company”, with a ship’s company being, quite literally, all in the same boat together, whatever their rank, sex or inclination.  In a well-run ship everyone respects and helps each other without being told, hence the term “shipmate”. No one section of the shipboard community should be singled out for special treatment, celebration or being put on a pedestal. They should all work together as one.  I was serving in the early 1990s when the first British warships accepted women at sea and I noticed how, in some ships, mishandling the integration and initially giving preference to a narrow part of the ship’s company caused resentment, poor morale, inefficiency and unhappy ships.  These problems have since been overcome for women at sea, and our warships now are manned by “sailors” of whatever sex; but it would be a pity if the lessons had to be learnt all over again in the light of the 74 genders which, we are told, comprise the human race.

While I am on the topic, what are these “naval ships” that I keep reading about in our newspapers – even in the Daily Telegraph, which used to be a newspaper well-informed on defence matters?  Look: the term is “warship”.  I am sorry if the word “war” offends you journalists, but that is what the vessel does.  And while they are about it, would the media and the Royal Navy please stop referring to officers, particularly Commanding Officers, informally by their nicknames: it is not “Commander Bill ‘Sharkey’ WARD” , it is “Commander W R WARD DSC Royal Navy”.  Have a bit of dignity and decorum.  Hrmmph.

One of the latest pieces of news is that the number of Accident and Emergency (A&E) cases has increased by 80% owing to patients attending with sore throats and minor ailments such as earache or hiccups, they not being able to get an appointment with their GP. The situation regarding primary health care has undoubtedly never recovered since Covid, so – to some extent – I can understand the trigger that has led to this state of affairs. Before Covid, Jane and I could fairly easily get an appointment to see the GP of our choice by booking online for an appointment in a few weeks, or or by telephoning for an emergency appointment with the duty doctor on that day. Now, all appointments have to be made by telephone and this involves a very long wait from 0800 (when the switchboard opens), followed by a triage by the unqualified receptionist, leading to a decision that may result in a consultation with a nurse, a telephone appointment with a doctor or, the Holy Grail, an actual face-to-face consultation with a GP (note “a” GP, not necessarily our preference). As an alternative to the telephone, we can book an appointment in person by queuing at reception. Jane and I are better off than most: a friend of ours says that, for his surgery, he is not even allowed into building unless he has an appointment (the receptionist releases the door lock after interrogation); another friend told us how he was refused an appointment at the reception desk of his surgery and was told to telephone (he did so, using his mobile phone, while standing in front of the receptionist). Apparently, Britain’s GPs are overwhelmed and there are not enough of them. I am not in a position to dispute that excuse; what baffles me is, what has changed since Covid? Are we suddenly more sick than before 2020? Even more baffling is, why on earth would anyone try to see a GP because they have a sore throat or minor ailment, and who in their right mind attends A&E unless they are seriously ill? Have some people lost the ability to treat themselves, to clean and bandage a wound, to deal with hiccups or earache, to take soluble aspirin for a sore throat, or to go to bed and isolate if they have influenza? As to a visit to A&E, are they mad? Eight hours in a waiting room with other sick people, drunks, drug addicts and the insane, only to be given two paracetamol and advice they could get off the internet or from a pharmacist. The Department of Health has stated that everyone is entitled to a face-to-face consultation with a GP if there is a medical need, to which the obvious reply is, “…and who will determine if there is a medical need?” We have a Catch 22 situation here. I tell you, we live in a funny world.

We had an interesting tour of a sewage treatment works the other day. Now there’s a phrase you don’t come across very often in the pub or on the cocktail party circuit. I happened to read in the last newsletter of Wessex Water that they do free educational visits, known as “Round the Bend” tours for the public, and I thought it would be interesting. Never being one to miss an opportunity to give Jane a treat, I took her along too. Unfortunately, the nearest works with vacancies was quite some distance away, in Westbury in Wiltshire, but I gave that a positive spin by telling Jane that I was taking her for a Grand Day Out in another county. I have a passing interest in lavatorial matters because, in a previous life, I served in the navy design section for Sewage Treatment Plants (STPs) for warships (Blog 92) and I was curious to see how ship-board technology compared to shore plants. The tour started on a bright, sunny afternoon with our group viewing the open end of an 18” pipe, from which emerged (apparently) the sewage output from the entire population of Westbury (pop c13,500). Interestingly, it did not smell much and there were no visible signs of – you know – horrible stuff; in practice, the outpourings are heavily diluted. The liquid poured into a long trough then on to a moving strainer on a conveyer belt, which would remove rags, condoms, nappies, sanitary towels and other extraneous items that the good burghers of Westbury flush down their lavatories. As the strainer became blocked, the level in the trough rose, triggering a sensor that moved the strainer along to a clean bit of the sieve, the rubbish being scraped off and fed into a skip for disposal as general waste. After that, the effluent went into a settling tank, where all the solid matter (=poo) fell to the bottom, to be scraped out, compacted, and transferred by bowser for treatment elsewhere before being sold to farmers as fertiliser and compost. The liquid element went on to a series of ponds that you may have seen pictures of: round open reservoirs with rotating arms spraying out the liquid over porous rocks in which natural biological action takes place over time. The arms are not powered, but are driven around by the force of the liquid leaving the arms, the pressure being provided simply by gravity. Over several of these stages, the effluent breaks down through biological action, becoming visibly clearer and more pure, until it reaches the quality laid down by the Environment Agency as being of an acceptable standard to be discharged into watercourses and rivers. The standard is not up to the quality of drinking water, but it is safe for discharge. Thames Water [the company] is the only water authority in the UK to take the process even further by totally recycling the effluent to potable standard. Having drunk the tap water in London, I think this explains a great deal. The beauty of the process that we were shown was that it hardly used any energy at all: all the flow was by gravity and the action, natural. Elsewhere in the plant, we were shown a more active process, used for the waste from the industrial estates of Westbury, which basically involved blasting large quantities of air through the effluent in several stages. This process was quicker, but more energy intensive. I did ask about the problem, prominent in the press, of raw sewage contaminating our waterways at certain times. Apparently, in houses and buildings built after about 1920, our sewerage is split into two distinct pipe systems: one system for rain run-off from roads, gutters etc; and another system for “black water” from lavatories and “grey water” from washing. Before the early 20th century, the liquid all went into one pipe system, which, naturally, has to go to the sewage treatment plant. At times of heavy rain, the sheer volume of liquid from this older system overwhelms the storage capacity of the plant and so the excess has to be discharged into watercourses to avoid sewage blow-back in drains and domestic lavatories. The answer is to invest in greater emergency storage for the liquid in order to cope with storm surges – or to alter the entire legacy sewerage system that serves old houses, which may be a touch expensive. Modern housing does not create any problem. The tour took about two hours in total, and was hosted by quite senior staff who clearly were knowledgeable, very enthusiastic and highly motivated with their work. It was well worthwhile, and we were given a “goody” bag at the end, which contained an explanatory booklet to support the tour and, bizarrely, a series of useful recipes. By the way, “sewerage” is the pipe system and network; “sewage” is the brown stuff. Not many people know that.

In topical news, the government Covid enquiry rolls majestically along, with juicy revelations of foul language, contempt of ministers, alleged misogyny and much in-fighting from those in power at the time, but not moving towards anything that will actually be useful, ie “ what did we get right, what did we get wrong and – most importantly – what lessons can we learn?”  Instead, the enquiry – run by lawyers for lawyers – seems intent on conducting a witch hunt by way of court procedures and the aggressive use of KCs in cross examinations.  The fawning obsequiousness shown to the government experts who had advocated lockdowns, face masks and vaccine passports was in sharp contrast to the character assassinations and terse interrogations meted out to other experts who advocated a more balanced yet equally scientific approach.  The enquiry will doubtless cost millions and be a complete whitewash. What an opportunity wasted.

HS2 – the new high-speed railway line intended to link London with “The North” (ie Manchester and Leeds) will now be terminated in Birmingham because of the escalating cost of the project. This 225 mph line seemed a good idea at its concept because it promised increased passenger capacity, a freeing up of the existing rail network for freight, and 54 minutes off the existing 2 hour 5 minute journey time from Manchester to London. However, it has caused mammoth disruption to the Home Counties and considerable distress and loss, by way of compulsory purchase, for anyone living on the planned route. As of 2020, the predicted cost was estimated at over £106 billion, 184% over budget from the original estimate of £37.5 billion. With the cost spiralling out of control, the decision has now been made to curtail the project and to take the rail link from London only as far as Birmingham, about 190 miles away, saving 36 minutes on an existing 1 hour 26 minute journey. To add insult to injury, the route will not, initially, run from central London (Euston Station) to central Birmingham (Birmingham New Street), but from Old Oak Common in outer London to Birmingham Curzon Street. A rail link from nowhere to nowhere. Later connections are promised. Of course they are.
It is easy to pick holes in government decisions, both the original one to go ahead and the latest one to wind the project down, but the matter is still worthy of comment. My thought is that this was an exciting project that had the potential to bring Britain into the 21st century with a high-speed rail link equal to (or better than) those in Japan and China, but that it was not ambitious enough at concept. I think I may be alone in that view. The project would have benefitted more of the country by running the line from Inverness to London, thus providing a fast link for Scots and the true north of England to London, and a link to mainland Europe via Eurostar. Note the reversed starting point, which might have generated more support from northern Britons. I will not repeat my rant of Blog 123 regarding “The North” other than to reiterate that Manchester is not in “The North”, it is in the Midlands. As to cancelling (or rather seriously trimming) the scope of the project, I can understand the decision of not wishing to throw good money after bad, given the escalating costs, but it has left us with a lot of very upset people and a high tech white elephant: a 225 mph fast rail link going from nowhere to nowhere. Perhaps we need a government enquiry as to why the costs have increased. I know where we will be able to find a lot of lawyers.

As I write, Storm Ciarán (who started this business of naming a storm?) has passed through southern England and has left a trail of damage and flooding along the Channel coast.  Hampshire has declared a “major incident”, whatever that means, and we are advised not to go to work or school.  No change there then.  To be sure, we have had a good drop of rain, not only in Shacklepin Towers but also, last week, onboard the good ship APPLETON RUM.  South West Water has even lifted its hosepipe ban, so I can wash the boat again.  Oh to be in England, now that autumn’s here.

It is Thursday, start of the weekend. I’m off for an apéritif before dinner – the sight of all all that rain makes you thirsty.

2 November 2023