Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

Here's a favourite poem, which is far less well known than Shelley's Ode to the West Wind, and concentrates on the brutal but invaluable north-easter, on which this island nation relied in the days of sail.

There is a veiled reference to Shelley's poem in the first few lines. I will post the much more famous Ode to the West Wind next, for comparison.

Ode to the North East Wind

Welcome, wild Northeaster!
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black Northeaster!
O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired are we of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day--
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play!
Sweep the golden reed-beds;
Crisp the lazy dike;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl;
Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snowflakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark! The brave Northeaster!
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can override you?
Let the horses go!
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go! and rest tomorrow,
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious Southwind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen?
'Tis the hard gray weather
Breeds hard English men.
What's the soft Southwester?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their trueloves
Out of all the seas.
But the black Northeaster,
Through the snowstorm hurled,
Drives our English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come; and strong, within us
Stir the Vikings' blood;
Bracing brain and sinew;
Blow, thou wind of God!

Charles Kingsley

No More Ads...

No, they didn't look right. After a fortnight, the adverts that appeared on this blog have been removed. They were a distraction, and cheapened the tone of the blog; and besides they will never make me a fortune. In any case, it would have been a fortune built on the digits of my visitors. Click, click, click. How many times have you clicked inadvertently on an advertisement, and cursed? I do not want to lose weight; I did not need a new car, I did not mean to click.

Copyright: Charlotte Watters

 So The Trouble With Old Boats has reverted to its pristine purity. Its aims are unchanged (what are its aims, I ask myself?) And the £3 or so that has apparently been accrued in the last two weeks will be donated to charity.

Coyright: Charlotte Watters

One click you may want to experience is that of Charlotte Watters, who illustrated the book of the blog. Click on the picture of the boat outside the shed (top right) and you will be transported instantly (depending on speed of modem connection, naturally) to another world: a world of beauty and artistry, for Charlotte is indeed a remarkable artist. One day the book will be a collectors' item, whereas at the moment you can't give them away (well you can, in fact. I gave one to my Mum for her birthday)...

Just for Brandon, by Special Request...

OK, here's the old faering again, from a different angle...

and another of the sjekte on the lake.

Time for a new Header

The old Oughtred faering I built has been popped back in its folder, to be replaced by a 15ft sjekte I built for a Sussex lake a year or so back. She was, to be honest, somewhat wasted on the water; a bit small for her, but she made a pretty enough picture, laid out on the bank under a washed out Sussex sky that day we went to launch her.

Probably my favourite rowing boat in terms of aesthetics to date. Quite narrow on the waterline, but that's fine for speed one up, and then as she settles with more crew she becomes more sedate.  What do you think? Be honest...

Second Hand Blues

I appear to own nothing that's new; well, strictly speaking as soon as you buy something it's no longer new, but I don't mean that. I mean that pretty well nothing of any value was bought first hand. The house, right? 1880s, or thereabouts; the Land Rover 1992; Sally II, the 1937 Vertue... and so on. Do I like old things, or is it that I can't afford new ones? Bit of both, probably. But I suspect that the underlying reason why I am attracted to secondhand stuff is that I enjoy mending it.

The Land Rover had the full spring clean over the weekend (there was a burst of sunshine for about five hours) and all the holes that appeared over the winter have been covered either with sheet lead or roofing material, and clarted (technical term: Scottish) with a mixture of bitumen and Waxoyl. Sally II's mast has been refurbished and her hull will get a coat of paint before too long. The old motor bike (which was about the only thing I bought new) is now in the category of things that need fettling before the summer. I think I'll sell it.

Owning all this old stuff means I seem to spend my whole time mending and repairing things. Do I enjoy it? Well, yes I suppose I do. It's definitely a male thing, this tinkering, and is probably deep down a replacement activity of some sort (let's not go there).

The latest old thing I have acquired is that 1980 flying fifteen. She'll have a new home and a new lease of life. I call it recycling, reusing, making do and mending. It is probably a hangover from the war, and the attitudes inculcated in me by my mother and grandmother who reused everything; never wasted nothing.

So most of my time is spent repairing things. What's wrong with that? What's so great about owning things that work, from new and then get trashed? One thing that did nearly get trashed were the bathroom scales (bought new but now three years old) which were reading everything from a flattering 65kg, to a more truthful 78kg, at random. They seem to have settled around 76kg. At one time they registered 80kg, and were heading bin-wards, until I gave them one more chance. They're on death row unless they behave. I'd settle for 75kg.

All this reminds me that I am also approaching my sell-by date, and long overdue for some (minor) repairs. And thus we are like the objects we collect: subject to deterioration from the moment we are born. But it does erk me somewhat that an inanimate object like a boat will still be around long after I am gone. Human beings are transitory; boats are forever (if subjected to routine maintenance).

By the way, look at the line of that old clinker boat. Perfect, built in Alligin, on loch Torridon. She's a flower bed now, simply and sadly for lack of that saviour of old boats who sometimes appears in the nick of time. He didn't. She was unlucky.

Ffffflying Ffffifteens...

That's what happens when you have too much time on your hands: you buy boats. Flying Fifteen 2796 is now mine, and you will be pleased to know that she is traditionally built out of a material that has been around as long, if not longer, than man himself: oil, plus a bit of silica and whatever else constitutes glassfibre.

Yes, I have never had a problem with glassfibre. It's an honest, man-made material that doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is. This boat, formerly Ffascination Feeling, Fascinating, Ffascinating Ffeeling and Ffruto del Mar (I like the last one) will be coming up the country some time in the next few weeks to take her place alongside the fleet of decrepit old Fifteens hanging about the clubhouse at Lochbroom Sailing Club.

Among the factors in choosing this particular boat was that she would not outclass all the others. So, if I have not exactly bought myself a slow boat, I did not buy the fastest or newest on the secondhand market. She looks good and solid, and original, built by Bernie Trenoweth in Cornwall, and a very good boat in her day.

So what has become of the wooden boat in the barn? Well, the owner is still swithering over whether he wants to sell, or maybe it's the offer I made; whatever, negotiations stalled and rather than waiting, I decided to buy a boat that will be less vulnerable on a mooring, and, to be honest, easier to upkeep.

That's not to say that the club has not given up on the boat, as once restored she would make a wonderful showcase, a high gloss varnished piece of furniture, and competitive to boot. I would hope to undertake the restoration to the highest standards. We will have to wait and see. It would be a great pity if she were left to languish for much longer in a barn.

Coville Update

I don't intend to post updates on  Thomas Coville's round the world progress, which you can track on http://sodebo-voile.geovoile.com/tourdumonde/2011/

But I do like the way the French sailors describe their world in a completely different way to us Anglo Saxons. Compare Moitessier's book about the Golden Globe with Robin Knox-Johnston's. Both great books, but oh, the difference in language.

From Coville's recent report comes a phrase that is pure Moitessier.

"Every cloud is a seller of dreams."

The dream being to harness the wind that clouds so often signal. And, 800 or so miles behind record-holder Joyon, he needs to up the pace with 19,400 nm to go.

On a more prosaic note, what is Coville himself trying to sell? The answer lies below... Would you risk life and limb to flog a few more pots of, if my French serves me, little vegetables and beef crumble? Vraiment, les francais sont fous, non?

http://www.sodebo-voile.com