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).