Referendum Blues

It could have been all over. If only that were true. Perhaps the worst of it all is that the referendum was completely unnecessary in the first place. Parliament is the place for decisions on such a scale as this. However imperfect our electoral system (and I am one of those who questions the democratic value in simple majorities and the results of our first-past-the-post elections) at least discussions take place in a debating chamber where some of those debating are well informed and briefed on the issues and where their decisions and processes offer opportunity for scrutiny by us all. 

In contrast to the recent referendum experience, I watched the debates when Equal Marriage legislation was progressing through both houses. I spent a lot of time in London, outside Parliament, speaking to and adding to the noise in support of change to the law to allow fairness for all. I faced and talked to many people who were engaged in counter demonstrations and personally received a lot of abuse from some of those conservative Christians who seemed to make up a majority of those who were campaigning for the status quo at the time.

The remain in or leave the European Union debate has not allowed for the same degree of thoroughness to be exercised. Instead we were forced to watch a very bad circus with remarkably little information readily available. I had to look hard for the kinds of information that would help me make up my mind as to which way I should vote. I also watched a number of YouTube videos from obscure corners of the web where arguments for and against were presented by people in possession of deep and broad knowledge. Above anything else, searching for information on such a potentially vital subject was hugely time-consuming. MPs, on the other hand are theoretically skilled in negotiation and debate and are paid to spend time in discussing legislation. Yes, of course, there are frequent shows of intellectual underdevelopment but, in the main, debate is rigorous, informed and mostly healthy. 

My instinct was that we should stay in the EU although there was a part of me that was drawn to a notion of “independence”. I was not, however, entirely sure that an “out” vote would make the Disunited Kingdom any more independent given a world dominated by multi-national and corporate interests. I felt I needed to find out what had informed these points of view, because I found the “why” difficult to articulate. I was also prepared to encounter and give due consideration to ideas and arguments that told me a different story. Instead, the loudest noises seemed to emanate from a lot of very empty vessels. The main weapons on both sides appeared to be fear of what might happen and lies about the perceived problems. 

Very late in the process I encountered arguments for leaving that were being made from a socialist perspective and these needed far greater consideration than I had the time to invest. By the end of the process I felt angry that the whole deal had been a waste of time and effort on a macro scale. It had generated much more heat than light. The simplicity of the process was a poorly judged exercise in vanity by David Cameron who took a massive gamble with all our futures for the sake of proving how out of touch he really was with popular mood, contrary to his own apparent beliefs.

Inevitably the referendum inspired responses from artists across a number of disciplines. My song, "Referendum Blues”, is one of them.

The lyrics began to take shape as I tried to explore, unravel and articulate my personal points of view. The phrase, “In or out, in or out”, in the first part of the chorus became a hook and suggested a shape for a melody. In the verses the rhythm of the lyrics spilled out in the manner of some mid-sixties protest songs. It didn’t take long to realise that I was channeling Country Joe and The Fish’s “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixing-To-Die Rag”. I used the shape of the opening to inform my own melody and, in effect, “fix” the song as a type of protest. Before I had written the tune for the verses I also felt that the coda should use the English folk song, “The Vicar of Bray”. Roy Harper had, in the 70s, used the tune for the opening of his song, “Kangaroo Blues”. I wanted something that was stereotypically English and I contrasted this with the European anthem, the “Ode To Joy” from the fourth movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony. Part of this crops up in all the choruses and in full in the final chorus. 

To me, the ultimate compliment was from a fellow songwriter who claimed after a first performance that he had no idea which way I was going to vote. Quite enough of my songs are streams of invective. Here my emotions were aimed at what was going on while our backs were turned and we were distracted by this whole sorry process.

Referendum Blues

Marshlander

       

In June of 1975

Two things happened, changing lives.

Unto us was born a son

Two lives changed by adding one.

The other thing was just as mad,

First referendum we'd ever had.

In or out, in or out,

Do you want to stay in the club?

Out or in, out or in,

Screw the lamb, Le vin is in.

Wilson, Thatcher, Edward Heath

All said, "Oui", to great relief.

Enoch Powell, Tony Benn,

Noes joined, won't see that again. 

Common Market, EEC

Land of opportunity. 

Coal and steel, iron ore and scrap

Put the treaties on the map

Paris, Rome, Maastricht and Lisbon

Brought us into closer union. 

No lire, guilders, marks or francs.

For ECUs, Euros, all give thanks.

In or out, in or out,

Do you want to stay in the club?

Out or in, out or in,

Screw the lamb, Le vin is in.

Wilson, Thatcher, Edward Heath

All said, "Oui", to great relief.

Enoch Powell, Tony Benn,

Noes joined, won't see that again. 

Common Market, EEC

Land of opportunity. 

Here in twenty ... sixteen

Once again the old routine.

Some say yes and some say no,

Some say the Brits have got to go.

Apply distraction, no attempt

To cure the causes of dissent. 

In or out, in or out

Marginal issues abound

Out or in, out or in,

Tear it all up and start again. 

Blame the victims, blame the poor,

Hear the one-percenters roar. 

Fundamentalists and bankers

Multi-national, corporate arms dealers, chemical and energy conglomerates, food manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies.

Tony, Dave and all their mates

Pull up the ladder, lock the gates

Selling England by the pound

We acquiesce without a sound. 

Services we thought we owned

Are gradually being boned. 

Isn't there a cause to riot?

Why is it so bleeding quiet?

The time has come to make a mark

But does it really matter?

I feel I'm stumbling in the dark. 

I'm deaf from all this chatter.

This sideshow, now the main event,

No thoughts of taking action. 

The silver's sold without consent

How clever this distraction. 

Of Homelessness, Wind And The Naming Of Boats

Starting each new essay with an apology is beginning to become a habit. Is it really nearly three months since I posted anything? If anyone is following this, I apologise. In my defence I have actually begun a few posts. I just haven't got round to finishing them. I know some of them are in my Mars Edit folder somewhere. Today I shall risk computer meltdown and type directly into Blogger and force myself to complete something ... hopefully before a catastrophic freeze or crash.

I am homeless for this month, or rather I am in an enforced state of nomad-hood. My narrowboat home for the past few years has arrived at the stage where "something must be done". While it's no secret that I have spent most of the past five years pinned to the bank owing to engine problems, I may not have complained that, during this period, I have also been attempting (in the alleged manner of King Cnut the Great) to hold back the waves of rust breaking through the paintwork (okay, I know he wasn't really trying to claim power over the sea, but a story is a story). I have used rubbing agents like steel wool, wet-and-dry and even power tools to get the the worst affected parts of the cabin exterior roof back to clean steel. I have treated it with rust inhibitor/converter, and then I have primed, rubbed, undercoated and, before I got the top coats back on, the rust was bleeding through again and there were constant new outbreaks in neighbouring patches. I become despondent very easily and eventually gave up. Several months ago I arranged for the boat to go back to the yard to be done properly. That time is now, August. Consequently the boat is now in a boat shed in a local marina.

P. and I made the journey last Wednesday. There is, of course no reason for anyone to remember what the weather was like last Wednesday. We looked at the forecast in the morning and discovered that the morning was going to be the least windy time to travel. By late afternoon we were being promised wind speeds of about 35+ mph. In narrowboat terms that is about the same as "whoops, watch out!" Being flat bottomed, a narrowboat could be whisked off to Oz on a stiff wind. If not to Oz, then easily pushed on to a bank, a jetty or other boats. The only hope is to be in forward gear with sufficient  momentum and enough power in the engine to be able to steer. Any other manoeuvre, including mooring up, is tricky at best. Reversing, when one has reduced control anyway, is the most risky manoeuvre, This is when the wind can do as it will. We managed to be ready by eleven o'clock and set off with the wind in the mid-20s. Surprisingly I made good progress, completed the journey in about two hours. We arrived at the yard and tied up before the bigger gusts hit.

I've not mentioned it before (for reasons of paranoia), but for the past few years my blue boat with its tastelessly grandiose gold trim has been called, "Timeless". The previous owners were a couple of men who became friends through both having boats moored at the farm. One lived in a house in the village. The other lived on the mooring next to mine in his own boat. "Timeless" was originally owned by a Welsh carpenter who moved to Bulgaria. Les and Tim bought the boat between them with the intention of doing it up as a project and selling it on. At the time the boat was called, "Mab". Tim and Les did not like the name, "Mab". I guess they were unfamiliar with Shelley's epic poem, and may have known little of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. It seems they did not know that Mab was queen of the fairy folk. They were worried that potential buyers might be put off by a name some might read as an acronym. Not only was I surprised to hear this blatant Islamophobia, but staggered at their temerity in admitting it. The solution it seems was to rename "Mab". Having put such a massive amount of work into replacing the original engine, cleaning up, refurbishing and refurnishing the inside and in repainting the exterior, they decided to use their names to commemorate their feat - Tim and Les. Add an "e" and an "s" and what do you get? "Timeless". They commemorated the name by finding a large vinyl stick-on clock with no hands to match the vinyl lettering they used for the name. It was a nice idea, but the name and the motif never really did much for me, however much I loved the boat and the effort they had put into making it look beautiful. 

Timeless - as she once looked

Despite the unacknowledged bromantic origin of the boat's name it always struck me as the kind of name that retired people would use for what they might anticipate as the perpetual holiday that allegedly follows retirement. It was altogether too petit-bourgeois for my taste. I suppose that confirms that I am a snob. I have always felt similarly uncomfortable when parents use parts of their own names to to create a name for one of their children (to be truthful I actually find that rather creepy) and naming houses after the names of the owners is just unimaginative. I once lived opposite a house called, "Carobrialyn". Last time I saw it Brian and Carolyn had divorced, sold the house and it had a new name. Had I believed in fate I would have said it was inevitable. Returning to the boat and adding insult to injury, there is another blue narrowboat out there also called "Timeless". It too bears the same horrible, handless clock sticker. I don't think either of us could believe it when the other one cruised by my mooring one day a few years ago. I haven't seen it since. Perhaps it too has metamorphosed into something else. 

I feel I can tell you this since "Timeless" has today been shot-blasted to bare-steel anonymity in preparation for several coats of primer/undercoat/top coat, which will be in a different colour scheme altogether. I shall also rename her (that is probably the first time I have used a feminine pronoun for the boat), but I am still paranoid enough not to reveal too many details. There will undoubtedly be some anonymised photographs at some stage soon.

Timeless - last Thursday, 4th August 2016

Nameless - shot-blasted and naked 8th August 2016

Renaming the boat has caused me agonies of indecision. I started off wanting a variation on the "Marshlander" name, without using the word, "Marshlander". That would be like advertising my address wherever I went. Although I am a completely unknown musician, it would be just my luck to encounter someone I had offended in song and who felt that direct action was an appropriate expression of their right of reply. Potentially the list is now quite long. Perhaps it could be a married man out cruising, a self-righteous homophobe, someone who sees no harm in circumcising children, an ultra-orthodox Christian, a Mormon, a supporter of Daesh or even Mr Carter himself. I shelved the Marshlander idea on the basis that I preferred the idea of a person's home being a place of refuge and considered boaty names like "Queen of the Marsh" (which would have been appropriate on so many levels), although rather too grand for an ageing narrowboat. I went through a phase of considering going back to the original name. I thought I would read up on Queen Mab before I decided, because I didn't want to get saddled with a malevolent sprite. I'm glad I did. Just as Mab wasn't a fun character in the "Merlin" stories on television. Mercutio in "Romeo and Juliet" paints her as somewhat mercurial too:

... she gallops night by night 

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; 

O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight, 

O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, 

O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream, 

Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 

Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: 

Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail 

Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, 

Then dreams, he of another benefice: 

Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, 

And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 

Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 

Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon 

Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, 

And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two 

And sleeps again. This is that very Mab 

That plats the manes of horses in the night, 

And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs, 

Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes: 

This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, 

That presses them and learns them first to bear, 

Making them women of good carriage ...

Sorry, but giving women cold sores? No thanks!

So, what to do? A moment of enlightenment shone when P. and I were walking alongside the Regents Canal in London a couple of weeks ago. We stopped to talk to a number of boaters and in one conversation a young woman, who had just rescued some very young moorhens from an attacking coot, suggested a boat name should reflect a passion and mean something. I knew this, but after she said it a whole new avenue of ideas opened up. I began to think of favourite songs and that is what will happen, I think. However, you, the reader, will never know, because my paranoia will assert itself and why would I advertise my address to the world? 

The naming of boats - it's a serious business. I think there is song potential in this idea. I must re-read a favourite poem from my childhood that I also read frequently to my own children, on the naming of cats from Elliot's "Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats". 

Of Grandchildren, Dear Friends, Sandwiches And Sometimes Being In A Right Place

I swept up an armful of sandwiches. "Are all those for you?" enquired the young man behind the counter.

"Cheeky buggar," I thought. "No," I said.

Later in the day, in another town and at a supermarket checkout, another young man asked me, "How has your day been?" Despite the intrusion into an area of a stranger's life in which he probably had little truthful interest I answered, "Interesting."

"Interesting good, or interesting bad?" he asked. Maybe his initial enquiry was more than simply an expenditure of hot air.

"I'm still thinking about it," I replied.

I had started the day in Hampshire.  The third day in succession and the fifth this week of grandfatherly duties after a cry for help from one of my daughters.  This daughter is usually very independent and has rarely, if ever, called for help, but she has had a tough couple of weeks.  My son-in-law was really struggling to meet deadlines at work, my year-old grand-daughter had been unwell for a fortnight and was barely sleeping.  A cold, a post-inoculation hangover and a new tooth were making life impossible for everyone. She could not possibly be left in her usual nursery. I made the first trip earlier in the week when my daughter needed some childminding help in order to be able to attend a getting-back-to-work job interview, but life was getting on top with a stack of commitments and exhaustion building up.  Being SATs week, my regular school had cancelled and, now having a few days bunched together with no impending gigs or rehearsals, I had planned to test out the boat engine repairs, by taking a river-trip to the accountant to deliver last year's books and coming back to the farm the long way round.  The twenty-five minute road journey took me six hours by water last year. This year I had bought both a key to the lock enclosure and the right sized windlass for the lock paddles on this system, so I was hoping for a marginally shorter journey, assuming I could avoid getting grounded again at an overnight mooring spot. 

I was going to start out on Tuesday and be back by the weekend. I'd half planned the route I was going to take, but the weather was so bad I put off the start of the journey for a day.  Wednesday was better and I started prepping the boat for the trip.  Then the text came through. It was a group text to selected family members and a cry for help.  I really wanted to ignore it, let one of the others respond and get underway, but I knew I wouldn't. Perhaps if I left it long enough someone would step in before me (after all, I'd just got back, it was someone else's turn), or I could start the journey and then say I was too far away from my van to be able to help by the time I saw the message. I knew I wouldn't go through with either plan, but I continued prepping the boat anyway. Eventually my conscience became an itch that would not go unscratched. It only took hearing the catch in her voice and my soft, old heart melted. She is not manipulative and I knew the exhaustion and frustration were very real. It may have been nearly forty years since she had placed me in a similar situation, but I knew what she was suffering.  "What time do you need me by?" For once I was in the right country at the right time.  Arrangements were made for me to be the designated adult to pick up the older grandchild from school.

It had been a lovely few days reconnecting with my grand-daughters.  Who knew that a five-year old could bounce solidly for three hours on a trampoline in the garden after a full day at school and a visit to the park on the mile and a half walk home? I also rediscovered that delightful satisfaction in having the younger one snuggle into my shoulder and fall asleep for three hours after only having slept for two hours the previous night. When she was awake we played with her toys, read stories and sang songs (okay, I did the reading, the singing and most of the playing, but she was an active, if somewhat captive, member of my audience) and I loved every minute. 

As it happened s-i-l made good progress on the end of year assessments for his college students and I would now no longer be needed on Saturday. He was able to bundle both girls into the car as he took the older one to her weekly dancing lessons and my daughter left for her Saturday teaching job with a different dance school. I was going to call round and visit my eldest son's family with two of my grandsons on the way home. My son's oldest is fourteen and flexes his growing personality using appropriately challenging behaviour. He is also a very talented keyboard player and drummer and loves to compose - which he does very nicely albeit still somewhat derivatively while his knowledge and skill are developing.  Even so he is far, far in advance of anything I achieved at his age or indeed until I was much older.  He generally talks to me about bands I've not heard or have never heard of, so I always look forward to spending time with him and learning new things from his world. The first thing I had to do upon hearing that he went to see Bring Me The Horizon was check them out on YouTube when I got home. To his credit, though, he is, like his father, a big fan of both Bellowhead and The Treacherous Orchestra. I am looking forward to the time when we can converse in complete sentences. I worry that I probably work too hard to fill in the gaps between each monosyllabic utterance and condescending glare. I didn't let them know I was coming and they weren't in. A joy of living in the moment.

Nearby, however, was one of my oldest school friends. It seems our entire cohort has used well our six decades to rack up troubles, anxieties and failed relationships. He married and started his family nearly twenty years after me. His youngest son is younger than my grandson. My friend and his wife have medical issues, and a severely depressed daughter, which have impacted the lives of everyone in the family.  Their oldest daughter is just finishing university and came out a couple of years ago. She is someone I could envy. She learned to know herself at a much earlier age than I did and avoided some of the heartache my late coming out caused. Surprisingly my friend understands completely how my circumstances made my situation so different. I haven't seen him for decades, although we have kept in occasional touch by e-mail and telephone. For some reason his number is not stored on my phone and all I have is an e-mail address and a LinkIn connection. I sent messages and didn't really anticipate a reply.  I was trying to remember how I located his telephone number last time we spoke and enlisted Google's aid. Google didn't supply the phone number, but via an entry on the Companies House website did supply an address that sounded familiar, so I entered that into the map app on my phone and drove as directed. I pulled up outside a house at the end of an unmade cul-de-sac and rang the bell. He answered and my erratic visual memory failed me yet again.  As I stared to try and find a face I could recognise on this older man he spoke and I knew it was him. My visual memory may be disconnected, but my aural memory is better than average. He and the family were on the verge of going out. I promised not to stay long and only wanted to make contact while I was in the area. We sat, his wife came in, we all talked and shared some of the darkness and joy of the last few decades. Four hours later we hugged our goodbyes. So much for fleeting visits. It still felt fleeting, though, and there is still so much of the world that needs putting to rights. It felt good to have been in the right time and place for those few hours. I am sure that meeting again will be easier next time.

The journey on the M4, M25 and M1 was straightforward as the traffic was relatively light, but I was tired and the van was beginning to wander as I struggled to stay awake.  I had to pull over for a break, a nap and the safety of other travellers. British motorways are rubbish!  In France one cannot drive more than a few kilmetres without passing an "aire" - one of those very civilised pull-overs that, even at their most basic, have toilets and a place to park overnight if required. In England we are often forced to travel for dozens of miles before having to endure one of our motorway service areas, which often have crowded, restricted parking with undersized parking spaces and cramped, smelly, poorly attended toilet facilities in overpriced and usually closed food halls - ah, the food halls of despair. Even when they are open and busy they still look closed. From getting on to the M4 at Reading it is scandalous that the next service area would not loom into view until I reached Toddington on the M1. I made it ... just. I would like to apologise to anyone who was anywhere near me on that journey. Because I drive a van I usually park at the further reaches of public car parks and I headed for my usual corner at Toddington. Immediately the reason for the high speed blue-ing and two-ing of passing police cars became apparent. Near to the space where I often witness peculiar and mysterious exchanges of vehicles among recovery vehicles in the dead of night was an articulated lorry. There were two police cars. A number of police officers were gathered in congregation at the rear of the lorry which had been opened to reveal packages on pallets and perhaps a dozen or more people, mostly men, but including at least one small child, whose journey from who-knows-where had now come to a stop in the sort of circumstances they must have been praying would never happen. The passengers looked exhausted, bewildered and resigned to whatever horror fate would inflict on them this time. All were dressed in uniformly drab non-European, non-African outfits looking like jumble-sale mannequins.  I couldn't tell whether the quilted jackets were helping against the chill and the Arctic wind of our recent Spring weather. I assume this was a party of "illegal migrants" about which our printed press so frequently needs to warn us. They looked more pathetic than the fanatics the media tries to portray. Immediately I wondered whatever could have been the events that would force them to undertake such a horrible journey in the most squalid, dangerous and uncomfortable of circumstances. I wondered how long they had been in the lorry, when did they last have anything to eat or drink, when did they last have access to a toilet ...? It struck me very forcibly that, but for the fortune of circumstance, it could have been me in the back of the lorry. What would it take to force me to go on a similar journey, where my eventual destination and fate would entirely depend on the goodwill or otherwise of other people who had no interest in my personal welfare? I thought how not even the love of my man and the promise of a home in a country that is sympathetic to my circumstances has motivated me to move from the UK during the past decade. How desperate must these people have been to give up everything they know for being kept in the back of this lorry by Bedfordshire's finest until someone made a decision about the next stage of the journey for them?

I still needed to sleep, so I shut my eyes and nodded off. I came round an hour later and everything in front of me looked more or less the same, except that I could no longer see any children and the lorry was now surrounded by several emergency vehicles, including two ambulances and a fleet of police vehicles of most of the types used by the Bedfordshire Constabulary. The men were being held among the pallets at the open rear door on the lorry. I hoped the children and at least one parent of each had been taken somewhere more comfortable than this bleak car park. Police officers congregated or ambled, presumably with purpose and awaiting further orders. I wondered again when these people had last eaten. I considered approaching the police and asking if I could buy them some food. I was pretty certain I would be turned away and told to mind my own business, so I decided I might have more luck if I were a little more pro-active. I set off for the food area of the services, and realised this was not a simple task.  For a start I could only guess that there might be cultural and ethical considerations about any food I decided to buy. I suppose most people apart from me and and other relatively well-off Westerners eat animals, but Muslims wouldn't eat pork products and many Africans cannot digest milk. I supposed there were also many other constraints to take into account, but I didn't know what they might be. I opted for sandwiches and Greggs was the closest place. They only had egg or cheese sandwiches anyway, so I bought my armful of sandwiches and filled a carrier bag. I turned back to the unfolding tragedy and, removing my sunglasses, approached a policeman and police woman on the edge of the action. "I was wondering when these people had last eaten," I explained.  "Is it all right to give them these sandwiches?" The policeman looked at me for some time and it felt like he was trying to size up what this old hippy in a headscarf was up to.

"Under other circumstances that could be me.  I couldn't not do something. May I give them these sandwiches?" I swear I saw a moment of watery-eyed humanity flicker in his expression, but he regretfully informed me that the travellers would not be allowed any food until they had been formally medically checked. The British authorities could not be allowed to be held responsible should any of the people in the wagon prove to have undisclosed allergies. He wanted me to go away and to take the accusatory sandwiches with me. I said I could not eat all the sandwiches and I would leave them with him where they might have at least a chance of doing some good. "Even if you and your colleagues end up eating them, please take them," I insisted. Both police officers verbalised their recognition of my "incredible kindness" and took the bag.

As I walked away I felt angry with myself that I hadn't the courage to break the cordon and give out the food personally. I felt angry and ashamed that the powers of authority valued back-saving over simple humanity. Here were men who had been prepared to sacrifice everything and everyone they knew in order to be able to find safety for themselves and their families, who had already endured unimaginable hardships with enough stoicism to get them as far as the UK - well, I know it was Toddington, but there are bound to be worse places - who were now facing a very uncertain future in a completely alien environment perhaps fearing that the authorities here valued life as little as those they may have experienced at home.  On top of these fears, dangers and indignities they were being infantalised. Here were grown men being refused food in case something in it might prove bad for them. It was like the pub landlady I know who puts up notices all round her pub warning customers not to feed her dogs cheese or chocolate because either might prove fatal. I would assume that the men in the back of this lorry might have some idea of the foods they could safely eat. 

I wonder when and where they sat at a table with proper nourishment or had a place to lay their heads.

Right place?  Who knows? Yes, it has been an interesting day.

Of Engines And Yet More Hope

Oh dear, I was sidetracked.  I meant to write about my boat engine again, but I got thinking about P and the love he mixes into his delicious food. He has always been like that. When much younger, and his father took him and his brothers skiing, P would get out of the torture of being pushed down inappropriately steep mountains by opting to stay home and undertake kitchen duties.  He would stay home and play the piano all day until it was time to get a hot meal ready. He undertook both activities with love. He still does.

Over the years I have lived on it, and having not been able to have any faith in the boat reaching a destination whenever I set out, I decided reluctantly to take it to the yard where the mechanics would not only be qualified but also accountable. Doubtless it would cost far more than the very little The Engineer was willing to charge, but at least the job should be finished in one or, at least, fewer goes than it had been taking so far. I mentioned this before being betruffled in the previous entry.

My main concern now was the leak of diesel fuel that was swilling around in the engine tray. If it got any higher it would trigger the float switch operating the bilge pump and dump diesel directly into the river.  I could not have that and mopped it out again before I left. The yard had little work on at the time and were able to accept my boat at a couple of days' notice.  By the time I had travelled the ten miles or so to the marina the bilge was filling again with diesel.

The two mechanics took one look at the engine and concluded the main culprit was, once again, the fuel injection pump. Two visits to a specialist repairer and servicing agent were obviously not enough in the course of a year so the pump was removed and would be collected after the weekend. That accounted for my first three days in the boatyard.  While I was there I asked if they could do some other bits of work that needed doing. They fitted the replacement inverter, repaired the horn and fitted a spotlight which I had never had.  The inverter is a 3kw pure sine wave type and will now charge my computer battery.  The 3kw is, of course, not at all necessary for such a job, but the pure sine wave bit is. The previous inverter that came with the boat was of the modified sine wave type and sent the computer into a total tizzy when I attempted to charge it up. The confused device didn't know whether it was coming or going and beeped continuously as the digital power cut in and out. However the new inverter has since also proven useful when running the engine and using the washing machine.  Without running the engine such an operation would have emptied the batteries completely in almost no time at all. At the end of a full wash cycle the battery bank was still reading full. Letting the engine idle while using a vacuum cleaner seems to lead to a net reduction in battery voltage.  I don't know yet whether that will improve with the increased revs required when the engine powers the boat along. I'll need a domestic assistant or another driver to try that out. I have also yet to try baking a loaf of bread in the breadmaker using the batteries via the inverter, for which the engine would also need to be running.   I would only be able to attempt that on a longer trip of about four hours, so I may try that out when I get round to taking the accounts books and other paraphernalia to the accountant.   Out of interest the sky is cloudy at present and I am sitting in a cloud of foul smoke from the horse woman's fire.  She's burning the bedding from the horse boxes again and the wind is blowing this way.  Naturally I have just put out a line of washing to dry.  When I bring it in it will be well-smoked and I shall trail the aroma behind me wheresoever I wend.   In these conditions the panels are putting out 32w and 2.2A of power are going into the batteries. They are reading at 13.8v. Not bad.

Meanwhile, back in the boatyard and when the pump returned nearly a fortnight later they put it back back and serviced the engine. We also looked at the gas locker where holes to allow any stray gas to escape had been drilled through the hull at or under the waterline.  Whenever I fill the fresh water tank these holes sink below the surface and my gas bottles stand in a couple of inches of water until I have used sufficient water for one of the holes to allow egress of stray gas above the water line. This always struck me as weird. The mechanics concurred. It has never made sense to me that part of the boat should be designed to take on water that swills about at will.  We made plans to add to the list of tasks that need to be done when I bring the boat in for the whole of August to have the paintwork blasted back to bare metal and the painting done properly.  Hopefully that will at last stop rust from bleeding through.  My efforts to deal with the ongoing rust situation have proven futile. Raising the floor in the gas locker, plugging the existing drainage holes and making new ones higher up would make it a little easier to keep the rust out of that compartment too.  I expected my trip to the boatyard to be over with in a day or two but, two weeks later and nearly £900 lighter, I could make my way back to the farm. My next trip could see me laying out nearly ten times that amount.

During those two weeks I had to sacrifice my usual beautiful views for these. Now I know precisely why I have no wish to live in a marina.  Through the window on the port side I could see whatever boat had been buttied up with me. 

On the starboard side, however, was this stunning vista of the corrugated workshop wall.

The journey back took me some three hours and it was with no real sense of hope that I lifted the boards covering the engine.  At least I couldn't see any diesel.  There was, however, rather a lot of oil and a great deal of water.  Ughhh!

Obviously to be continued ...

Of More Truffles And Marzipan

Shame on me for missing April.  I meant to write and heaven knows there was certainly enough to write about, but I didn't get round to it.  I took advantage of being too busy and too tired and probably too cold as well.  

I went to France to spend a week with P.  As always it was great.  We came back to the UK on the same flight so that he could stay with me on the boat for a couple of weeks.  I even fancied that we might get out for some boaty travelling.  We got less than ten miles … and I was stuck in the boatyard for the next fortnight awaiting the return of the fuel injection pump (which had gone off to be serviced/repaired for the third time in sixteen months) during which time P. had to head back to France where more work, exams and piles of papers needing to be marked were waiting.

As usual on the boat, P becomes very domestic and, when not knitting, he commandeers the galley for the important business of conjuring up confections of the most delicious kind - in between delicious meals of course.  He brought marzipan in pastel colours and first made batches of marzipan sweets with dates and other fruits and from liquids clear or in various shades of brown poured from the bottles with which he has filled my food drawer.  It started with Madeira a few years ago.  I realised after a lifetime of teetotalism that, while pretty much undrinkable (even French people don’t drink Madeira), it does wonderful things to a vegetable sauce. So, on the trips when I could afford the extra costs of taking a suitcase, I began to bring flasks of the stuff back from France.  After that came the brandy, the whisky (or should that be whiskey?), the kirsch. the orange liqueur and there may well be vodka for all I know.  I can’t drink any of it, but I do try from time to time to see if the flavour has changed into something that others seem to find delicious.  The joy of alcohol has completely eluded me.  

Rubbish at making delicious sweets, but excellent at clearing up

After the marzipans it was off to a neighbouring village’s shop for clotted cream.  P. is often distressed and appalled at the state of the chillers in most of our food outlets here.  At home in France he likes to put butter and cream in almost everything.  However, in the UK most of the big supermarkets don’t seem to sell proper cream.  They do sell worthy products of the reduced fat variety filled with chemical colourings, flavourings and preservatives and often oils extracted from the plantations that spring up for a generation or two between the periods of destroying native rainforest that may have been in place for thousands of years and the dust that’s left after the palm oil plantations will no longer grow, but it doesn’t taste like cream - even I know that.  After failing to find real cream at any of the big supermarkets in the nearest town he was overjoyed to find, and become curious about, Cornish Clotted Cream. It is now the main ingredient in his chocolate truffles.  He confectioned for the two final days of his stay leaving me with no space for cooking in the galley after he left, just trays and trays of lovingly hand-crafted truffles, most of which contained more of the boozy contents not used up in the marzipans.  The whiskey (or whisky) and crystallised stem ginger ones were particularly successful.  He added them to his list of favourite truffle recipes and made cling-filmed trays from the tops of used and long-disappeared, ice-cream containers along with instructions as to whom these gifts should be given.  Each of the hundreds of truffles had had their microscopically small pink sugar hearts tweezered into formations and patterns.  Thankfully those destined to be covered in coloured sugar strands could be rolled in saucers filled with said sugar.  Even P may not have had the patience to apply each strand individually.  Still, his sweets are known amongst our friends and they always know when he has been here because I turn up to places with boxes of truffles and marzipans.  Invite me somewhere and you may find out for yourselves.

P. labouring in the galley

A tray of truffles from P.'s fair hands.