What Next?

Arctic Tern, another Tammie Norrie or that Woodfish faering I was looking forward to building in 2012; it looks like being an Oughtred year, or maybe they'll all fall through and I can dig into my diminishing savings and go sailing for a few months on Sally, whose 75th birthday falls in May.

Whatever the future holds it will no doubt involve boats of some kind. And to my 35 followers (that makes me sound like some kind of messiah), a Happy New Year. All I would ask is that you post a few more comments on my blog. You can't surely let me get away with some of that rubbish without demur?

Just Add Water

Well, there she is, finished save for a few last tweaks, and awaiting the water. It's been a long one this; a build that has stretched out over much of the Autumn, because it could. So much else going on that it was nice to be able to pick up and leave off more or less at will, to tackle other things, not least a summerhouse and, for the first time in years, a trip abroad.

Now I've seen a number of Tammie Norries, mostly in glued clinker, and still can't for the life of me understand why Mr Oughtred persists in designing boats with that method primarily in mind. OK, I do, and I respect him for it. It just means that we have to rethink quite a lot of the construction details, notably the centreline. On a plywood boat the keel is slapped on last, whereas this one is made at the outset. Logically, as this is clearly a traditional clinker boat, the plan should be drawn for that method, and modified for glued plywood? Or am I being contentious as usual?

As it happens, I prefer to make up things as I go along, rather than following plans slavishly. This one certainly followed Iain's lining out pretty closely, transom and stem shapes and general arrangement, and yet leaving a whole lot to work out during the building process, which is a huge part of the satisfaction.

Nevertheless I would like to see how Iain might suggest we build this in solid timber one day, with a detailed drawing of the centreline, for example. And maybe add a datum line that does not depend on the boat being built upside down. It's OK if your moulds are all fixed to a jig, as everything kind of jigs itself, but working up from a notional datum at keel level it a bit hit and miss.

Among many changes from the plans, including my own take on the rudder design (mainly due to having a nice offcut of Super Elite plywood, perfect for the job) I simplified the thwarts, and made the aft benches easily removeable, for revarnishing. The floorboards are more workmanlike as well. Who wants to revarnish fancy floorboards every season? These are solid larch, primed and finished in Blakes' deck paint, sprinkled over with non-slip granules.

The whole ethos behind this boat was ease of maintenance. It's a common complaint about traditional clinker boats that they need a lot of upkeep, and it is true, but only if the initial finish is so glossy and so precious that you feel obliged to spend every winter bringing it back up to scratch (or rather removing the scratches).

This one is designed to be used and used hard, with a minium of fuss. She's precious but there's no need to treat her with kid gloves, like some of those show boats you see  in which you'd dare not set foot for fear of scuffing the Epifanes. A fresh water hose at season's end, a thorough drying out and a misting with Varnol inside, and maybe a lick of varnish on the thwarts and topsides. I hope that'll be the extent of it most years.

As for weight, I have to say that in solid timber - Scots pine with larch garboards, in this case - the boat is significantly heavier than a glued clinker version, but will sit better in the water I reckon. As for looks, well you can judge for yourself. You know what I feel about plywood and epoxy...

Near Miss

She's been afloat for nearly 75 years; next year is the anniversary of her launch in 1937. She's been through a dozen or so owners, and sailed from the north of Scotland to South Brittany and all points in between. She is the second  of the Vertue class,  brainchild of Jack Laurent Giles and perhaps the most capable small cruising boat ever designed. Vertues have sailed virtually [sic] everywhere there's water and round every cape, headland and ocean. She'll outlive me, with luck, the kind of luck that stood by her the other night.

It must have been sheer luck, and not the strength of her ground tackle and riser - all of which were renewed a few months ago, well before the storm out of the north west swept down on Loggie Bay.

Her near nemesis came  in the shape of a huge, rusty steel barge weighing god knows how much. Sometime in the early hours, around high water, this barge that had been lying for 20 or so years on the beach upwind took it upon itself to drift free whereupon it ran amok among the dozen or so yachts and workboats moored in the bay. With winds touching well over 80 mph it must have been horrendous: 20 tons of slab-sided steel careering through the anchorage like the proverbial bull in a china shop. And by a miracle, Sally, and all but one of the other boats was spared, though it must have been by inches, for she lay right in the path of the barge which fetched up on the beach just beyond where Sally lay.

One yacht was not so fortunate; whether hit by the barge as it careered through the fleet, or not, we will probably never know. But she was right in its path and from there to her resting place at Ardcharnich beach is clear water, with nothing to stop her drift.

Next morning, stem badly scarred we found her a few miles downwind, high and dry, holed on her starboard side, her port side badly abraded from bouncing on the pebble beach. With a temporary patch over the hole, Robin and John towed her back to Ullapool that night in the driving sleet, and next day we had her hauled and dried her out against the sailing club wall. Her owner was remarkably sanguine: "She's a lucky boat. Been aground five times now, and survived..." Make up your own mind.

My, How those Long Winter Nights Fly Past....

An extract from The Trouble With Old Boats (available from all good remainder shops, Blythswood, Oxfam and secondhand bookshops, priced from 99p, slightly foxed)

Dark and windy night in our Highland crofthouse, no telly, read everything, so we had the Ouija board out. It took me a moment to twig that I’d picked up Horatio Nelson, and it came as quite a shock, especially as I’d asked to be put through either to Horace, a forebear on my mother’s side who was purported to have stashed away a fortune in Kruger rands before passing away while fishing the Test last August, or failing that another relative, Horatio Sprague, US consul in Gibraltar when they towed in the Mary Celeste. No matter; what did England’s most celebrated admiral want, I wondered?

‘Need to set a few things straight, young man.’

Bee in his cocked hat about yachtsman’s ignorance of flag etiquette maybe? Something trivial from the great man. That was often the way with Nelson.

‘’Bout time we buried this Trafalgar nonsense once and for all. What’s it bin? Two hundred years? Bless me soul. Can’t ye leave me old bones in peace?’

Things were looking up. I grabbed my notebook. ‘But we do it to honour your memory, our hero.’

 ‘Well don’t. And that popinjay who prances around impersonating me with that woman on his arm, ’strewth, they trouble me sorely.' At which I think he meant that actor who impersonates Nelson at nautical gatherings, with a slim Ms Hamilton on his arm.

'Pah! My Emma was, bless me soul, a deuced sight more generously endowed than that slip of a girl. No tumblehome to speak of. Careening her’d be like heaving down a pinnace. My Emma was a first rate. Ship o’ the line. Broad in the beam, well fastened. When I came alongside, threw the grapples and fired me opening broadside…’

I tried to cut him short but he carried on it that vein for some time, speaking of buttock lines, bottoms and stays – naval stuff, you can probably imagine – until I managed to interrupt him, and advise that we lived in more prurient times, and besides, my editor was a Quaker. I lied. He sighed.

‘Pish. Where was I?’

‘Trafalgar?’

‘Ah yes. Trafalgar. Struck down in the thick of the fighting.Ticket to immortality and a prime spot in St Paul’s. Athough I’d have preferred a more weatherly gage. The Abbey perhaps?’

‘So the sparkly medals and the full uniform on the poop deck was on purpose, to attract attention? Kind of, how do I put it, "death wish"?' I ventured.

‘Nonsense. Remember when I left Portsmouth? Dashing down the steps to me cutter in full kit? Gets on board the old Vicky, stows me gear, weighs anchor and we're off Cornwall when – bless me – seems Emma’s forgotten to pack me second best. She’s not only forgot me old brown trousers, me smalls, me cravats, me silk stockings, but she’s sent me off with a trunk load of her stuff. So there I am, off to fight the Frenchies with seventy-two pairs of camisole knickers, in a fetching shade of pink, a t’gallant’s-worth of lace petticoats, fourteen bodices and seven ostrich feather bonnets. 

'Typical of the woman. Body like a goddess, brain like a colander.’

‘So it was either the full dress, medals and all, or Emma’s underwear on deck, your lordship?’

‘Exactly. Pink knickers and a feathery hat - not likely to inspire men in the thick of a sea battle. Of course, I kept that for the privacy of me own cabin. Nothing like a freshly laundered pair of knickers on a long passage. Remember we chased them  from Ushant to the Indies and back before we cornered them off Trafalgar. Clean underwear twice a week. Splendid.’

‘One more thing, your admiralship. That “Kiss me Hardy” stuff?’

‘Pah. Delirium. I was fast fading and here’s this vision of sobbing loveliness in lace bending over me, bodice heaving, eyes brimming. By my life! It was my Emma! Here at my last! Bliss! So, indeed, yes; I did whisper the immortal words “Kiss me” and “Hardy”, but not in the same breath.

‘When I saw Emma me heart leapt. “Kiss me”, I croaked. Then a pause as the mist cleared and there, instead of my dear one, was me old whiskery mate, flag captain Hardy, inches from me face, ear cocked for me last words, not the blessed Emma after all. “… Hardy?!!!”, I cried, with some measure of surprise. 

'Too late. Great wet smacker, on the forehead thank God. Ah well. Beats that fellow whose last words were something about bringing him one of Mr Bellamy’s meat pies, though I wished I’d thought of “I think I can smell burning”. Who said that? Brilliant, quite brilliant, don’t yer think, young man? Must look him up. He'll be lurking about up here somewhere...’

To Catch a Fly

Well, they say everyone's doing it the days; publishing books on the internet and crossing their fingers it'll go viral.

So here's the first instalment of a murder mystery, set on the banks of the little river that wanders through our patch of the Highlands. Well, it's not ours, exactly, it just runs through our valley. Kind of like a river runs through it.

To Catch a Fly

An Inspector MacDonald Mystery

CHAPTER ONE

One in the eye

The hooded crow, perched on a branch over the river, cast another quick hungry eye on the bright morsel hanging just out of reach. A cold wind ruffled its black feathers and sent the birch leaves rustling. The crow darted a glance, and seizing its chance, made a violent stab, only to lose its balance in a flurry of small, frantic wing beats. This was the third time he had mistimed the attack, failing to coincide with the inward swing of the small, moist, round object that had attracted his attention that morning, the elusiveness of which was now maddening him, blinding him to all sense of danger.

His first attempt had succeeded only in setting it swinging, like a marble on a string. Then the wind had dropped, the swinging had subsided and for a minute or so the crow could only watch the morsel floating, as if suspended in the air, so close, just feet away. A gust breathed through the trees, catching the ball, setting it in motion once again. The crow, judging his moment, made another stab as it swung towards him. This second attempt was more successful. The sharp beak made brief contact. The crow now sensed the sweetness, and the smell – a delicious odour of incipient corruption that obliterated all other instincts.

Using aerial skills honed over the years of scavenging the hills, the crow flapped noisily from his perch, and judging his approach to perfection, took the eyeball in his opened beak and with a delicious sense of triumph, swallowed it whole.

At once he knew he had made a terrible mistake. Who knows what goes on in a bird’s brain? Had this been a human the horror would have been instant. As the last shreds of optic nerve slipped down his throat, the euphoria of greed evaporated. The twin barbs of the salmon fly on which the eyeball had been expertly impaled bit and held. The 20lb monofilament to which it had been turle-knotted, held fast. The more the bird flapped and struggled, the deeper the hook bit.

At the beginning, four hours before exhaustion set in, and for a second or so at a time, the crow, like a hooked fish sensing escape, managed a few, panic-stricken strokes of flight. The line would then tighten, bringing him crashing to the ground in a tangle of broken feathers. Twice he managed to fly to the opposite bank and get a perch on the overhanging branch of a big rowan. But always there was the hook firmly lodged in his throat and the insidous, near- invisible line snaking down towards the river. Twice, having reached the branch, and recovered somewhat, he had taken to the air, only to be dragged brutally down by the strength of the monofilament and the weight of the 10 weight double-tapered Hardy floating fly line to which it was attached via a short length of heavy sink tip.

Once, in his increasingly frantic attempts to escape, the crow managed to lift the rod tip itself, which lay some six inches under the fast-flowing water of the quarry pool, beside which the matching Hardy Expert rod itself lay, complete with gold anodised Orvis Excel large arbour reel, an outfit that had probably cost its owner, who lay face down in the shingle beside it, around £2,000.

Wishful Thinking

Thought perhaps that if I put up a photo of a faering, I might just be building another one soon. Fingers crossed, but if it comes about then it will not only keep me gainfully employed for a few months, but satisfy my longing to build one of Iain Oughtred's most delightful, and my favourite, small boats. The perfection of simplicity.

Choose Your Poison

I have just been asked to contribute a piece about modern methods of restoration, you know, how to epoxify your old boat for the next decade. But I found it impossible not simply to reiterate that old mantra: "Restore like for like". If she was copper fastened, with oak timbers, then replace with copper rivets and oak timbers. You can probably justify a little high-end mastic, rather than some ancient, highly toxic concoction, and I would say that epoxy for plank splits, and certainly over a plywood sub deck, are an old boat's life savers, yet generally the traditional stuff is best.

Six litres of Varnol went into the Honduras mahogany planks of this skiff, inside, while the numerous splits in the hull planks were fixed with an epoxy/dust mix, and the topsides then primed with Woodseal before varnishing wth Hempels' Classic

The exception to the rule was my devotion to the now-defunct Woodseal, a single pot clear primer by Hempels, which was great as a first coat under varnish and paint; a really tough first layer, which gripped the wood fibres like egg to a non-stick frying pan (at least ours, until we discovered that frying eggs in butter is the answer). Now it's back to old technology, and Varnol (sometimes mixed with a little Cuprinol) as a first coat under anything, varnish or paint. It also is magic for revitalising old, dried-up, brittle timbers.

 So here is my list of poisons. What are yours?

Paints and finishes

Varnol to prime bare wood surfaces, revitalise old, dried up timber and provide a basis for a paint or traditional varnish finish, which can be anything good from International, Epifanes, Hempels etc. Varnol, thinned up to 75% with pure turpentine, provides a superb foundation, which to some extent penetrates into and sticks to the bare wood, and the subsequent paint/varnishes. It can also be left as a final coat, which can easily be touched up by misting with thinned Varnol.

Underwater primer, as a base coat for bottom paint. I don't buy the expensive stuff from the top makers, as it's a pretty simple concoction and my local stockist, Norlands, have a perfectly good alternative at half the price. I'll try and remember the name...

Varnish, best quality from Hempels, (Classic or Favourite), International, Ravilak or Epifanes. No two-pack products. Again, Norlands do an excellent varnish, which is thick and brown and is called Sea Plane varnish, which I like the sound of. Good for general use, and nowhere near as pricey as the posh stuff.

Primer undercoat, (Hempels or International Pre-Kote) often mixed with proprietary enamel to give a semi gloss before the final topcoat. Norlands do a cheap one which is fine.

Hempels Multicoat (for a semi gloss finish that requires one coat, primer/topcoat: bilges in clinker dinghies, for example). Highly rated: tough and easy to apply.

Enamel, best quality ie International Toplac or Hempels.

Black bitumen, to seal the bilges on old boats, after soaking in Varnol, or as a last resort.

With the demise of UCP and Woodseal I am looking for a bulletproof, high tech clear primer, ideally one pot. I suspect I will need to go for International's two-pack clear primer UCP replacement, or the equivalent Epifanes, and try not to waste the mix.

Glues

Collano Semparoc for all laminating. I have also used it as an epoxy substitute when building a clinker ply pram (with epoxy fillets to strengthen joints and seal end grain). Much better than Balcotan, which bit the dust for some reason. I do not mourn its passing...

Epoxy, to mend splits in planks (mixed with wood dust from the plank itself).

A Poem for November

THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL

by: Charles Mackay (1814-1889)

"MY strength is failing fast,"

Said the sea-king to his men;--

"I shall never sail the seas

Like a conqueror again.

But while yet a drop remains

Of the life-blood in my veins,

Raise, oh, raise me from the bed;

Put the crown upon my head;

Put my good sword in my hand;

And so lead me to the strand,

Where my ship at anchor rides

Steadily;

If I cannot end my life

In the bloody battle-strife,

Let me die as I have lived,

On the sea."

 

They have raised King Balder up,

Put his crown upon his head;

They have sheathed his limbs in mail,

And the purple o'er him spread;

And amid the greeting rude

Of a gathering multitude,

Borne him slowly to the shore--

All the energy of yore

From his dim eyes flashing forth--

Old sea-lion of the north--

As he looked upon his ship

Riding free,

And on his forehead pale

Felt the cold refreshing gale,

And heard the welcome sound

Of the sea.

 

They have borne him to the ship

With a slow and solemn tread;

They have placed him on the deck

With his crown upon his head,

Where he sat as on a throne;

And have left him there alone,

With his anchor ready weighed,

And the snowy sails displayed

To the favoring wind, once more

Blowing freshly from the shore;

And have bidden him farewell

Tenderly,

Saying, "King of mighty men,

We shall meet thee yet again,

In Valhalla, with the monarchs

Of the sea."

 

Underneath him in the hold

They have placed the lighted brand;

And the fire burning slow

As the vessel from the land,

Like a stag-hound from the slips,

Darted forth from out the ships.

There was music in her sail

As it swelled before the gale,

And a dashing at her prow

As it cleft the waves below,

And the good ship sped along,

Scudding free;

As on many a battle morn

In her time she had been borne,

To struggle, and to conquer

On the sea.

 

And the king with sudden strength

Started up, and paced the deck,

With his good sword for his staff,

And his robe around his neck:

Once alone, he raised his hand

To the people on the land;

And with shout and joyous cry

Once again they made reply,

Till the loud exulting cheer

Sounded faintly on his ear;

For the gale was o'er him blowing

Fresh and free;

And ere yet an hour had passed,

He was driven before the blast,

And a storm was on his path,

On the sea.

 

And still upon the deck,

While the storm about him rent,

King Balder paced about

Till his failing strength was spent.

Then he stopped awhile to rest--

Crossed his hands upon his breast,

And looked upward to the sky

With a dim but dauntless eye;

And heard the tall mast creak,

And the fitful tempest speak

Shrill and fierce, to the billows

Rushing free;

And within himself he said:

"I am coming, O ye dead!

To join you in Valhalla,

O'er the sea.

 

"So blow, ye tempests, blow,

And my spirit shall not quail;

I have fought with many a foe;

I have weathered many a gale;

And in this hour of death,

Ere I yield my fleeting breath--

Ere the fire now burning slow

Shall come rushing from below,

And this worn and wasted frame

Be devoted to the flame--

I will raise my voice in triumph,

Singing free;--

To the great All-Father's home

I am driving through the foam,

I am sailing to Valhalla,

O'er the sea.

 

"So blow, ye stormy winds--

And ye flames ascend on high;--

In the easy, idle bed

Let the slave and coward die!

But give me the driving keel,

Clang of shields and flashing steel;--

Or my foot on foreign ground,

With my enemies around!

Happy, happy, thus I'd yield,

On the deck, or in the field,

My last breath, shouting 'On

To victory.'

But since this has been denied,

They shall say that I have died

Without flinching, like a monarch

Of the sea."

 

And Balder spoke no more,

And no sound escaped his lip;--

And he looked, yet scarcely saw

The destruction of his ship,

Nor the fleet sparks mounting high,

Nor the glare upon the sky;--

Scarcely felt the scorching heat

That was gathering at his feet,

Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him

Greedily.

But the life was in him yet,

And the courage to forget

All his pain, in his triumph

On the sea.

 

Once alone a cry arose,

Half of anguish, half of pride,

As he sprang upon his feet,

With the flames on every side.

"I am coming!" said the king,

"Where the swords and bucklers ring--

Where the warrior lives again

With the souls of mighty men--

Where the weary find repose,

And the red wine ever flows;--

I am coming, great All-Father,

Unto thee!

Unto Odin, unto Thor,

And the strong, true hearts of yore--

I am coming to Valhalla,

O'er the sea."

Winter is Icumen In (Loud Sing What on Earth Do We do to Amuse Ourselves...?)

The Flying Fifteens have all gone to their winter quarters, and the keelboats are chocked up against the storms that will soon batter our shoreline, so what does one do in the winter? I have been toying with the idea of going rowing, something I only ever thought useful for getting from A to B (ship to shore; yacht to pub, etc) and now I see that folk in Ullapool positively relish setting off in their skiff of an afternoon just for the hell of it (and presumably the exercise).

I have it on excellent authority that skiff rowing is addictive. "I get these withdrawal symptoms," one friend told me "if I don't get out on the water at least once a week."  And it is not, definitely not the menfolk of the village who feel the need to brave the autumnal weather; but the women, who seem to have taken to skiffing like, well you tell me? Ducks to water sounds a bit sexist. Nevertheless, it is a phenomenon. Defies analysis. Is it the desire to keep fit? Escape household drudgery? The children? Husbands? Develop biceps big enough to wallop them with impunity when they stagger home from the pub?

Photo copyright Chris Perkins

I strongly suspect a bit of all that, but mostly a way of getting afloat without being shouted at, the curse of so many water-borne relationships. Five women in a boat and you have a crew. Add a man and more often than not he'll just start yelling and telling everyone how it should be done (although this is absolutely not true of our A team whose cox is the acme of calm and quiet authority) and arguments inevitably ensue.

I have it in mind to study this phenomenon more closely over the winter with a view to publishing a paper in the Journal of the Institute of Human Behaviour under the title "The Ladies Who Launch [OK, not an original title] or Why Women Prefer Rowing to Rowing.

And I might even go rowing myself... Alone.

Back Again

Nothing much to write about so I didn't these past few weeks, and yet, strangely, the stats tell an interesting story. It's as if those who chance on this blog have taken the time to catch up on all the stuff they may have missed in the past. Certainly there seems to be no discernible let up with the graph showing a steady three or sometimes as many as four people a week popping in.

No, it's more than that, he says immodestly. To date nearly 23,000 people have taken an interest, or maybe that's 23,000 hits from 1 stalwart? Who can say. Whoever you are, thanks.

News afoot, with the possibility of another faering to build, a launch for the South of France, another Tammie Norrie and a rowing boat for an estate up north. If all come to fruition I'll eat my apron. Indeed I hope they do not, as it will leave precious little time to celebrate a 75th birthday which falls next year. Yes, Sally II will have passed three quarters of a century, quite a feat for any boat. And last time I had a peak in her bilges, all was as sound as the day she slipped down the ways at Elkins in Christchurch.

Pitch pine planked with steamed oak timbers between grown timbers, copper fastened with a lead keel, the secret perhaps of her longevity is her strap floors, which tie the centreline together, basically, bridging the planking via the keel and bolted to the timbers. Tungum; that's the name of the stuff her first owner specified, for he'd read about this miracle metal in some journal, and its use in Wellington bombers' hydraulic pipes.

I've seen many bilges from that pre-war era, and most have a mixture of iron floors, copper and bronze fastenings, oak timbers and mahogany planking, which is a recipe for disaster down the line. So, a little foresight, and an extra £15 10s 6d in 1937 has ensured that Sally is still afloat (or was the last time I saw her, this morning when I drove to my shed to varnish the mast on the new dinghy).

New Day, New Photo

This is one of my favourite boats, and the smallest I have built to date. Built on spec, she's now owned by the young lead guitarist of one of the world's best-known singer's backing band. I have it on good authority that he's often to be seen out in the bay, on his own, presumably as far from the mad world of gigs and tours and venues and screaming fans as it is possible to be.

The design is by Karsten Ausland, in effect a small version of his Jan sjekte, of which I have built two 18ft versions and a couple of 16-footers, tweaked as to midship section but essentially as they came off his drawing board in the 1930s.

But it's this little son of sjekte that I like most. She's a bit unstable on her own, alighting on the water like thistledown, and stiffens up beautifully with a little body weight. Just like a fast rowing boat show be. And she just flies along. I can't think of a nicer little rowing boat. After all, what do you want? A boat that's stable and sluggish or light and fast? And she' a delight in a seaway, riding the waves like a bird.

Wish I hadn't sold her sometimes as she's the kind of boat that one day I will build for myself. Why would you want anything else and, just so as you don't think I haven't forgotten my old prejudices, why on earth would you want something made of plywood, when you can have the real thing? There, just so you don't think I've gone soft on the awful stuff.

Lapstrake (but not as we know it)

I suppose it has some similarities to building clinker boats, yet Oh how I wish it were that easy. Some people think the planks on a boat are simply that: planks, parallel sided, and all you do is slap them around a set of formers. Now, we all know this will not a boat make; more like a box, which is what I've been up to these last few days, namely a log cabin.

Have to say that all those straight lines did not come naturally, or the need for absolute squareness. Not that boats are not meticulously trued at every stage, or you'd get one side rising faster than the other. It's just the absence of curves that made me glad I was not engaged in the business of house building rather than boat building. It becomes kind of monotonous after a while laying down identical lengths of spruce, notching them into each other and banging them with a mallet.

But it's done now and the result is pretty good; a place to sit and admire the view. What's more it's light, whereas croft houses up here tend to be dark, with small windows dating from a time when the view was the least of your concerns. It was more a case of coming in from the fields, wolfing your porridge in front of a meagre peat fire and scuttling up to bed with  Morag holding a guttering candle. Must have been a miserable experience as these little cottages are hardly the best insulated, and certainly not in those days with earth floors and only thick walls to keep out the cold, rather than good old Kingspan thermal insulation.

I was told that a few inches of modern insulation is equivalent to a few feet of stone wall. Our log cabin has 130mm thick walls, a sandwich of spruce and insulation which means it's like one of those cooking boxes filled with straw in which you put your caserole in the morning and it's done to perfection by supper time.

Back to boat building next week with the added bonus that the third instalment is now safely in my bank account. Nothing like dosh to inspire you. And once again, an owner who is a joy to deal with. I'll work out how many boats and owners I have worked for in the last ten years one of these days but what I can say is that none of them baulked at paying; there has never been a formal contract with any of them and, with one exception, they all seem to have been happy with what I built for them. At least no one has come back to me with anything more than the usual wooden boat problems such as what varnish to use; and why is one side of my boat six inches higher than the other, to which I reply "natural movement of the timber. Quite normal."

Only joking...

Plus ca change...

Back from Brittany (balmy breezes, bright sun, baguettes, crepes, galettes, wine, flowers) to wall to wall gales, driving rain and Tesco's best. Why can't they bake French bread in Britain, or at least in Ullapool? Why is their cheese so bland? And their tomatoes tasteless, and, and...

We have a great local baker (struggling no doubt against the odds) but there's nothing like the taste of a baguette bought in the early morning from a boulanger, carried home on the handlebars of an old bicycle and eaten with unsalted butter and French jam. We live like peasants up here. Well, I wish we did. French peasants eat far better than us, with the exception of the sea food available here, most of which is shipped off to France and Spain. (And personally I hate crabs... indeed most things that crawl about under water).

 Sometimes it's hard to understand why we choose to live up here. Visitors go "ooh, what a lovely view... and we saw a deer too" and trip around the hills marvelling at the wild beauty. Those of us who live here see a landscape blighted by sheep grazing and denuded of trees by those same overpopulated deer, tolerated simply because shooting brings in money for the estate owners and adds to their value (and to hell with the damage to the countryside, let alone vehicles that habitually meet with them on dark nights).

No, for all the wild beauty of the Highlands there are some serious imbalances up here. Don't get me started as I would then have to enumerate all the blessings we enjoy: viz no cars, clean air, fresh water from those same hills (albeit tainted a wee bit at times by sheep and deer poo) good company, honest friends, great sailing (sometimes) etc, etc.

Anyway, enough of the post-Brittany blues. There's a dinghy awaiting a mast, and a lot besides so it's back to the grindstone and the charms of a draughty milking parlour and rain splattered iron roof. Once the radio's on and the coffee brewing it won't be too bad. It's just getting back into it after ten days that's the problem.

Off to France

At last, a holiday. With the Tammie Norrie at a nice stage of completion, it's time to take a break from the awful weather up here and head south for a few days. When I get back it'll be to make a start on the spars, flip her over and work on the bottom with a view to a late October delivery.

It's been a leisurely build to date, but it's time now to up the pace as there's another on order which I hope will keep me occupied over the winter.

Scottishboating.blogspot.com

I won't quote the whole post, as it would detract from Ewan's own excellent blog, but it starts well and gets better and is a measured response to my last post.

Read on, then go to Scottishboating.blogspot.com

'Adrian Morgan has just posted an interesting article on The Trouble With Old Boats, bemoaning the lack of profit in traditional boat carpentry, which he fears is partly caused by competition from colleges of boat-building taking on restorations as cost-subsidised teaching aids. His post ends with the words

' "Ultimately it's the likes of us, unfunded and unsubsidised what's trying to make a living from building boats, and a craft that can't scratch a living is irrelevant and deserves to die out".

'Some of the comments are reminiscent of the complaint by my wife's friend Pat, a now-retired professional opera singer, who would sometimes be approached after a performance by patrons asking "And what do you do during the day, dear, when you're not singing?" It's terribly easy for those on the outside looking in on what appears to be simply an enjoyable activity to forget that there's actually a lot of skill, self-discipline and time involved.

'Actually I suspect that the competition from the colleges isn't sufficient in terms of size to make a significant impact on the rest of what is admittedly, in the UK at least, a cottage industry...'

Well worth reading the whole piece, which ranges far and wide.

Speak for Yourself (2)

A couple of comments from people made me think I had not expressed myself clearly enough in my last ramble (below). So I've edited it. Those who read it the first time might like to revisit it with fresh eyes.

Speak for Yourself (edited)...

Any professional boat builder who says: "Well, I don't do this for money. Just for the love of working with wood, recreating the beauty of a bygone age, keeping the old traditions alive..." etc, etc, blah, blah, blah, is either reliant on a pension, independently wealthy or growing skunk in the loft.

Well I'll have you know that I, for one, am very fond of money and nothing makes me happier than the sound of an envelope being torn open to reveal the down payment on a new dinghy. My writing brings in a meagre sum every year, and decreasing steadily as fewer people are drawn to my erratic ramblings, which leaves me increasingly reliant on scratching a living in what the late John Leather, author and designer, yacht historian and brutal realist called "a precarious and unrewarding business..."

By which he certainly didn't mean we should not do our utmost best to make a go of it, but be aware of the difficulties and frustrations. John was not a romantic, but a true lover of boats and as keen as anyone to keep "the old traditions alive..." etc, etc. That had to be, in his view, of secondary importance, however, to earning a living plying a viable trade.

Those who build boats as a hobby have my full support and admiration. They can afford to build them to perfection, innovate, experiment. Who's counting the hours anyway? I and most of those foolish enough to build wooden boats commercially try and build as quickly as they can, for speed is good in many ways, not least your eye and hands keep fresh from day to day. And speed, of course, equals money.

So, the boat building perfectionists with a little more time on their hands are admirable. No one does it better. Admirable too are the charitable trusts and the training establishments. However, in passing on the skills, or keeping youth off the streets, are they helping potential boat builders secure commissions by taking on commissions themselves, at lower rates, or making it harder?

Ultimately it's the likes of us, unfunded and unsubsidised what's trying to make a living from building boats, and a craft that can't scratch a living is irrelevant and deserves to die out.

Getting There

Thwarts in and more Varnol misted all over and the little boat is beginning to smell the water. I have simplified the aft seating plan from Iain's drawings, which seemed a bit too involved, and in my version the side benches can be simply unscrewed to give better access, something I am keen on in a clinker boat which needs to be washed out periodically. Easier to keep varnished too when the time comes.

Jobs to do include fitting the knees, making the foils and mast, turning her over to finish the bottom and a myriad of little things involving shiny bits of expensive bronze.