Wednesday 31 December 2008

Christmas as it should be


Here is the cosy scene on board Cirrus this Christmas.

We had arranged to visit Mike at his Yeovil home, to spend a few days over Christmas then return at the weekend to prepare for work on Monday. Little preparation was needed for this and we set off fairly empty handed with just the clothes we thought we'd need, some presents, and little more. Travelling down by train and negotiating the London underground is not the same as having a car of your own and being able to load the boot with everything including the kitchen sink, whether it is needed or not. Train travel needs a little more planning but we are used to this and enjoy the freedom it gives us. There are at least two things you can do on a train that are not possible when driving: reading a book and having a drink. As it happens we did both.

It was only a short visit, two nights, and given that we carried little food with us I suppose we sort of expected to find something we would be able to eat when we got there. But knowing this would be our son's first Christmas in his own place we did not place any great hopes on this. It was not, after all, why we were going.

We arrived late on Christmas Eve, about 10 pm having taken a taxi from the station, to find Mike in a similar state of unpreparedness to us. He had been working right up to Christmas, somehow losing track of the days in the week, and with living just over a small supermarket which gives him everything he needs, any day of the week and through into the evening as well, he tends to live day by day and buy what he needs when he needs it. He has never before been in the situation of having to "do" a Christmas himself as a sole householder with family visiting him so had not succumbed to the panic many families fall victim to. He had food in, enough so that we would not starve, but not what many might call enough to make a Christmas.

We had brought two bananas with us and might have had a few odds and ends, leftovers we did not want to leave on board Cirrus, but thinking it was rubbish, Kate had neatly disposed of the plastic bag containing these back in London. The local Asda supermarket, Mike's last resort for food, has always been open for him in the time he has lived alone but this time it let us all down; like everywhere else it had closed for the Christmas period. So here were three people with a box of breakfast cereal, some rice, a packet of cheese paninis and some pasta. Clearly this was gong to be an unusual Christmas although we did, to be fair, have a TV to watch.

But then we thought, well what had we come to Yeovil for? Was it the food and drink? No. We had come to be a family together and to enjoy our own company, plus maybe the odd Christmas movie. We were warm and we were dry, we had water and enough food to sustain us for the next 36 hours or more at least, by which time some enterprising local shopkeeper was bound to open their doors again. So for our Christmas we missed the overstuffed belly feeling, the drunken aftermath with the Christmas hangover all afternoon, the party hats, the false jollity and the chestnut stuffing and it felt good. I woke up the morning after suddenly realising what we had achieved. We had broken completely with tradition, with convention, broken the pattern of a lifetime, enjoyed ourselves and Kate woke up with her knitted hat almost finished.


Mike is, on his own admission, not a Christmas person, which maybe explains his lack of preparation (if not ours). Anyone else might have felt greatly discomforted by the situation but to all present the lack of a traditional Christmas dinner meant nothing. The lesson for us all here was that there need be no rules about how to behave when you are with those you love and cherish. Take away all the props of convention and habit and somewhere beyond there is life as it should be lived. The simple uncomplicated pleasures are what really counts.

By the time we left Yeovil the climate across southern Britain had gone from rather mild to colder-than-the-Arctic. An easterly wind coming to us from Europe lowered the temperatures by some 10 degrees and the clear night air brought a vicious frost to the ground. Just standing for 5 minutes waiting for the train brought tears to the eyes and we were beginning to be concerned for our unheated boat in London which we had left unprepared for this level of cold. Our water heater is most at risk as it has a water jacket that would be destroyed if it froze up.

We needn't have worried. Central London has its own micro-climate anyway and then there was cloud cover at night so the temperature had not dropped as it had across most of the rest of southern Britain. The cold wind does not have anything like the edge here that it did in Yeovil, something that we were rather grateful for.

Curiously, this cold weather has made us start thinking about where we might be next winter, and where Cirrus might be. We now feel we need to make some loose arrangement for a winter berth for Cirrus as a fall-back plan in case we get to the end of the sailing season and find it too late to get her in somewhere. We have a couple of options up our sleeves now and this sort of forward planning gives us more freedom to go with the wind or to stay put as we please. We now have only three more months left in our jobs.

Saturday 29 November 2008

Weekend Britain

This weekend Britain is what everybody expects Britain to be - cold and damp, the drizzle dripping off every tree and blade of grass and a cold that seeps right into the bones. We have deserted our London nest to visit East Sussex where my mother normally lives although at present she will be striding the decks of a luxury cruise ship on its final approach to Rio de Janeiro.

We took the train down from London yesterday evening after work and the bus from Wadhurst station. It was a cold and rainy evening, so arriving in the dark meant a struggle to read the station bus timetable to work out whether the bus turned round at the station or went on somewhere else. It turns out the station is a terminus so all we had to do was wait but even the driver seemed a bit perplexed when he did finally arrive. Instead of opening the doors we could see him struggling with some sort of control panel inside as he attempted to get the display at the front of the bus to change from 'Wadhurst' to 'Ticehurst'. Clearly he wasn't going to succeed and finally he gave up so we could climb on board. Barely had the doors closed when the bus shot off like a rocket, blasting long dark roads we could see nothing of from our brightly lit interior.

Somewhere along the way we figured out that the driver was foreign, Polish maybe, and it was his first day on the route. Maybe this was also his first time driving in this country, maybe he had high-jacked the bus, we thought, as he blasted down the winding country lanes.

We escaped at Tickhurst, as he pronounced it (which we rather thought was a better name for this place), beside The Bell pub in the village centre. Sadly, however, this was guarded by a wooden hoarding, as if being refurbished, so our hopes for a warming drink and a meal were thwarted. Not knowing about other pubs nearby we trudged off in the dark towards mum's cottage until Kate spotted an Indian take-away. All was not lost and the food turned out to be well cooked and tasty, if rather lacking in 'edge'. Once again my theory on Indian food is proven - the smaller the town, the less spicy is the food.



Finally, the Cruising Association's home beside Limehouse basin (and Cirrus Cat) is featured in December's Yachting monthly magazine, in case anyone is interested.

Tuesday 25 November 2008

Life with Brian

Living aboard a fibreglass yacht in winter has its pros and cons, most of which represent a new experience for us. But we are learning, every day, how to cope with things, some of which are expected or predictable and some less so.

Over the first few weeks when the British climate was moving slowly from late summer to autumn then into winter we had such variations of temperature, sun, wind and rain that it was difficult to do much apart from react to whatever was thrown at us. In the course of one week we would have a sudden cold spell, a few days of rain then warmth with daytime sunshine warming the boat and drying things out. But we are so sheltered by the surrounding buildings here in the centre of London that only rarely is there sufficient wind to air the boat in the way that we have become used to in other marinas and mooring locations. We miss the wind's drying effect which normally, over time, will keep the air fresh and regulate the moisture level of everything inside the boat.

Of course we have our Taylor stove with its impressively shiny chimney drawing air in at the bottom and taking it up and away above decks but even with this going steadily most evenings, after a month or so we began to notice that the interior of the boat was gradually absorbing moisture from our bodies, principally from our breath, and from daily cooking, washing, and so on. The drying effect needed to achieve the usual moisture balance just wasn't happening; it needed to be significantly greater and clearly just airing the boat when we could wasn't going to achieve this. The moisture in the air inside our boat was condensing on any cool surface it could find and there are plenty of these when the temperature plunges 10 degrees Celsius in the space of 12 hours or so.

Fortunately man's ingenuity with machines and our salary-laden bank account came to our rescue in the form of Brian (the name just seemed to work for us) who sits in one or other of the hulls humming away to himself, making our lives happier. He is sort of short and dumpy (although I wouldn't tell him this directly) with a plastic reservoir for catching the moisture he keeps busily extracting from the air around him. For Brian is a de-humidifier, a machine built to serve but one purpose, to make things dry. It is hard to believe where all the water comes from but he just keeps producing more of the stuff and we have to empty him out regularly to keep him happy. He even has a smart accessory which we use occasionally, a clear piece of pipe to take his extracted water directly into our bilges from where the float activated pump can squirt it overboard. Brian has transformed our lives. Suddenly the windows, which used to drip moisture every morning, are clear again and even the ends of the hulls, those awkward to reach bits where air circulation is negligible, are smelling sweet again.

We suspect that being on a relatively poorly insulated fibreglass boat we might be experiencing more condensation than one might get, for example, on a wooden boat but now we have the situation under control, thanks to Brian, we don't let this bother us. We come home from work and step inside to find the air as sweet and dry as if it were summer and we can get on with the routine of life on board. Tonight is washing night, which means a trip to the facilities block armed with our machine tokens and powder. Just another day really.

Monday 24 November 2008

Families and young children

We have had a weekend of delightful family visits, us to them in different parts of London.

Saturday we met with Adrian and Lucy who celebrate their return from a recent adventure sailing around Britain in their 30 foot sailing boat, Moondance. We take much inspiration from this with our own plans for 2009 being much the same. Setting off from the West Country they passed along the west coast of Ireland then Scotland, rounded Cape Wrath before coming south to the Caledonian Canal. For some reason that I still can't quite make sense of they passed through the canal twice so that they could come south down the east coast of Scotland, then England, to meet their own friends who live somewhere on the Essex coast. Finally they navigated to Southampton where Adrian's brother, himself a part owner of Moondance, lives. Although slightly less ambitious than this, our own plans for next year will take us through much of the same water so we were keen to hear of their experiences.

We met the pair in Islington, close to where they had been staying with family, with whom we spent a delightful afternoon chatting over a pub lunch. Stealing the show, of course, was Ava who at the age of 8 months totally captivated us all as she was passed around the table. We all had a turn at amusing this wriggling bundle of baby who calmly accepted our attention with complete insouciance. It was an honour to earn the trust of both Ava and her parents to be allowed to do this; for us it was an experience to be treasured.

Then on Sunday we met with more friends, another family about to depart on their own adventure. 
Adrian (another one) and Jill are emigrating to New Zealand with their young children and as I write this will be taking off from Heathrow. Adrian is a work colleague but we had not previously met his wife or any of his three children so once again we found ourselves spending time with smaller people. To gain the trust of strangers, particularly children, can take time and patience. It needs to find its own speed and cannot be hurried along but once again we were delighted to be taken into the confidence of this young family. Of course it was Dan, at 3 years old, who was particular captivating as he first exhausted himself trying to keep pace with his older sisters then recovered his energy again during the day. We had travelled across London to Kew Gardens to see our friends, arriving in a torrential downpour which soon cleared to give us glimpses of sunshine for the rest of the day.

It was a cold day which started with a layer of snow on Cirrus' decks so we left ourselves open and vulnerable by planning a day outside in these conditions. In hindsight I suppose it could easily have been a disaster if we had been caught in a heavy downpour but somehow we managed to keep everyone happy and arrived at the warmth of Kew's hothouse just before hypothermia might have started to be a possibility. Adrian's three delightful children hardly know what lies ahead as they leave Britain to take up a new life on the opposite side of the earth. We treated them in the Kew Gardens shop so that Ellie, aged about 7, could examine the ground through her plastic binoculars looking at where New Zealand would be if the earth wasn't in the way.
Finally we all refreshed ourselves in the 'Greenhouse', a cafe serving mountainous cake slices with tea or fruit juice and located en route to the underground station.
Dan, as 3 year-olds are wont to do, liberally covered himself with cream from his cake but we knew from bringing up our own children that this would soon be absorbed into his body by some kind of osmosis and give him just enough energy to keep going for the rest of the day. It was late when we left them alone for their journey back to the hotel where they would spend their last night in this country.

Saturday 1 November 2008

The cold snap

October hasn't yet ended but we have a sudden cold spell, the wind descending on us from the northern end of the North Sea, where it is almost certainly considerably cooler than here, and bringing with it some snow, some frost and a rapid change. This, so soon after a balmy mid October, has taken us by surprise, taken Britain by surprise, but with Kate and I so recently having taking up residence on the water we find ourselves both surprised and only lightly prepared. Warm clothing is a habit generally acquired slowly as the Summer draws to a close and Autumn creeps in. When it comes with a bang we cannot cope. We find ourselves wearing too little or alternatively over-compensating and putting on too many clothes. Our minds and bodies just need time to adjust.

So instead of being a comfortable transition from the warmth of our apartment to the cosiness of our boat we have gone straight into our first Winter on board Cirrus with a shock similar to stepping under a cold shower. They grit the pontoons here, and they have to as there is a thin layer of ice when we stagger off to shower just after dawn.

But the water in these showers here is endlessly hot, leaving a warm glow that carries us back to the boat to dress for work, and when the sun shines it warms Cirrus' decks and dispels the cold and damp. We might come home to a cold boat after a day at work but our small electric heater and, as soon as I can get it going, our Taylor diesel burning stove rapidly heats our small cabin to a liveable temperature. Life here carries on under a different set of rules but we have our own world here around us, one that will soon be off travelling with us inside it.

Saturday, 1 November, 2008
A couple of days of cold then, as ever, you can expect Britain's maritime climate to produce something completely different. And it has. The cold has relented, giving way to torrential rain. So, it being a weekend, this has called for some imaginative construction work to give us a little more shelter in Cirrus' wide cockpit. An ancient but nevertheless serviceable tent flysheet is now strung up between the backstays and the shrouds, floating just above the boom and giving us a delightfully orange shelter to huddle under. The rain drenches everything it touches and runs off our decks in streams but now we have a pleasant covered area from which we can stand and watch the world.

By evening the rain had barely stopped when the fireworks started. Whistles and bangs echo around the marina, coming from all directions at once although rarely seen clearly as we are so enclosed here. Then suddenly our neighbours in the top floor of flats to the West of us brought the head of every live-aboard above decks by setting off a series of powerful set piece fireworks from their balcony. I felt I should applaud such profligacy as I'm sure we had a far better view from the boat than they did.

Sunday 26 October 2008

Limehouse at last

One of many frustrations, a computer keyboard on which the letters 'i' and a 'l' have ceased to function, has held up the blog entry but now fixed, I tap away whilst the pizza is cooking.

Life is looking up at last, a bizarre thing to be writing when the rain is lashing down on the cabin roof and I sit gently steaming here. This is the first real test of Cirrus' new coachroof windows and I jump up every so often to check for leaks. There are none, and woe betide Gillingham Marina if there were, of course, but one sort of expects that with this amount of rain it may not all stay on the outside. 

From inside Cirrus there is a sort of blue cast coming through the new windows, this being nicely contrasted by the pool of light descending from the main hatch. The effect is quite exotic but from the outside the tinted windows are impenetrable, very dark and shiny in a black sort of way. This brings a whole new aspect to our lives as we are, in point of fact, now living in the most perfect of bird hides. We can see out but the wildlife cannot see in.

To illustrate this I am adding a rather poor picture of a heron standing on our pontoon just two metres away from us. The blue cast comes from our windows through which the picture was taken (cameras can't lie) but human eyes adjust to this making this a wonderfully intimate experience.

I am steaming because I have been out and about in the rain, re-positioning our belongings which seem to be scattered about the capital. We have rented storage which is loaded with the contents of our flat, from which we departed a couple of weeks ago, and selected items now need to be carried here to enhance our lives, teabags and other leftover food being a high priority. We ran out of teabags on board Cirrus during the passage into London and although I explained to Rich how there were more in storage he was unimpressed. 

These last weeks have been quite stressful but we really do feel we are home at last now even though here is much to be done on board to get life comfortable and we know this will take time. Immediately after getting into Limehouse the morning temperature rose sharply. Being in the centre of a big city is always warmer than outside but it really has been quite balmy. Still the rain falls so I'll not be going out just yet. I have rescued some clean clothes from our store and may tackle the washing facilities here later - tokens are needed for this. Lots of things need planning and organising but the pizza is ready for eating. 

Sunday, 26 October, 2008 
We are both enjoying life here, settling in well, and Kate has just about got over the lingering jetlag from her trip to Australia. Off she went to the 'facilities' earlier and came back moaning that she'd put a washing machine token into the meter but nothing had happened. I had to go off and investigate and after some thought, decided to peer into the rubbish bin that is strategically placed just under the meter. it wasn't long before I located not one, but two tokens, tucked in amongst the dryer fluff. So we now have all our washing done and have turned in a small profit on the day as well. 

Last Wednesday evening we came home from work and went straight out across the lock to the Cruising Association for their weekly lecture. Some chap who'd sailed across the Atlantic was showing his slides and giving a talk about them. The place provides us with food at a reasonable price, somewhere warm to hang out (albeit with the temptation of drinking too much) and interesting company as well as entertainment and it is so close that when we go there and someone asks us where our boat is kept we just go to the window and point. 

Most weekday mornings here are quiet, if that is the word to use when the Docklands Light Railway (DLR) trains start to rumble across the viaduct opposite us from around 6am and planes start rising from City Airport a little later. I have been trying to cycle to work two or three times a week but this means watching the weather forecast carefully as I won't set off if rain is predicted. Dicing with the buses and taxis is bad enough in good weather but when rain and poor visibility is added to the mix it is, well less than fun, to say the least. When the sun is shining it is always behind me and I am coming to terms with the fact that every man and his dog always seems to be trying to cross the road in front of me, wandering across at will, although most people are quite alert as they know that taxi and bus drivers give no quarter. Generally they and I keep a good lookout. Most alarming is when a whole posse sets off across the road en masse from both sides, everyone just timing their movement to pass behind the back wheel of the bike, but in doing so causing much alarm and discomfort to the rider, me. 

Normally here in the marina the boat lies still, movement free, as it is rare that the wind has much an effect on the water here, so enclosed are we with tall buildings. Tonight is about as bad as it will get and just occasionally, if I am standing up, I sense a slight movement. I have made contact with a local boat owner called Pedro who is sorting me out with some gas fittings I need to install. Being on an inland waterway run by the British Waterways Authority we must comply with Boat Safety Scheme whose inspector visited us last week and picked up a few minor things - an aged gas hose, an unsupported pipe - which I am having to deal with. Labeling seems to be a big issue with these people - the diesel tank must say 'Diesel' and the gas shut off must have a green sign to tell people where it is so I am having a big debate over the most efficient and neat way of complying with these provisions. I really don't need big green stickers all over the boat so I am looking for something a bit smarter that will please the man and not stick out like a sore thumb. Of course, I know only to put diesel in the tank but, as he says, someone else might buy the boat and immediately fill up with petrol then start the engine so the whole lot disappears in a big bang, taking with it half the marina and knocking out the windows of every flat in the area. And all for want of a small sign. What an imagination these people must have. 

We have been doing some more sorting out this weekend, getting our old boat cushions into the furniture store and picking up some important stuff we need on board. We are both looking forward to just lying in bed in the morning, waiting for 9am when the sun tops the flats opposite and peers in our windows, taking full advantage of the extra hour of daylight saving.

Monday 11 August 2008

Milestones

It is August and we taking a break from work, a brief holiday on board Cirrus, and something is different from normal.

We have taken our holidays this way for many years now, loading ourselves with provisions and clean clothes, stowing our bag's contents away in cupboards and lockers, the contents disappearing like snow in spring sometimes never to be found again, then casting off lines and motoring away to the next adventure. It all started when our children were too little to have a view on coming with us or staying behind and has continued right through to the time when they no longer live with us; they have their own lives and can make their own choices. Sometimes it seems that this is almost all we have done, all our married lives together.

Arriving at the marina on Saturday we took our time loading, shopping for food then meeting with friends Joe and Carol to hear tales of their own boaty adventures. The tide had lifted Cirrus from her muddy bed by late afternoon and the moment came to take the next big step in our lives. We took hold of our mooring lines, untied them from the cleats and posts then coiled and hung them up in the rope locker ready for... who knows what. Normally, of course, the lines would be left tied on ready for our return to the mooring but this time it is different. We are not planning to come back to this berth, ever. So this simple act becomes another milestone on the route to retirement and living aboard. Just how many milestones there are to go we don't know. Some of them stand out ahead like sentinels winking at us and daring us to go past. Some are less obvious and sneak up on us unprepared or maybe even pass before we notice. Moving out of the London flat will be an obvious one, of course, a big change of lifestyle we cannot fail to notice. But stowing the mooring lines just snuck up on us and jumped out with no warning at all. It marks the beginning of the end of our two year association with Gillingham Marina. Even though we will be returning in a week so the yard can give Cirrus a fresh coat of paint and some new windows, we are done with this particular berth.
So to all the creatures of the mud whose lives depended on Cirrus' twice daily rise and fall, farewell and... sorry.

Monday 26 May 2008

Reflections by Kate

Friday, 02 May, 2008

Today I'm listening to Radio 4 about people held captive for 6 months in Chechnya. It is an amazing account. The woman is called Camilla Kerr, the man Jonathan James. The book is 'The Sky is Always There'. They haven't seen the sky for 6 months. They are allowed to see old letters from their families for 10 minutes. They are released but full of fears and uncertainties.
It makes me realise how lucky I am. We are a bit stuck at the moment, but it is, hopefully, just a matter of waiting for our freedom from London. How can I grumble when we are in luxury here? There are 10 months left, hopefully the flat will sell and we will just have six months to spend until we retire. The new life is so exciting. We know what it is like, being on the boat for extended periods of time. We will relish the freedom, I'm sure, finding ourselves so busy that we will wonder how we ever had time to work. We will have put in the time and loss of freedom and can reap the rewards of being able to go where and when we want. There will be people to see and things to do. Just enjoying being together.


Monday, 05 May, 2008
Today was amazing. I went to the library a couple of days ago and returned with some leaflets about things to do. One leaflet was things to do in Islington, near where we are living. This morning was the dawn chorus.

We set off at 2.45am, no really! We had planned a speedy exit on bikes and the weather was fine. It was dark and we cycled past the Arsenal Stadium, through to Gillespie Road to the Ecology Centre and a warm welcome from Richard, the co-ordinator of this event. He invited our bikes inside and we were offered tea and apologies for getting the time wrong. "We are about an hour early", he said, "and the birds are not up yet". We were first treated to a techie display of bird song, swiping a pen across a card to demonstrate the different calls, then eventually we all stepped outside into a fragrant and lovely environment. There were woodland walks and ponds, all in the gloom which gradually became dawn, a huge, unique experience. We really listened to each birdsong and loved it.

After toast and tea and a peep at a video cam of a bluetit on 8 eggs in her nesting box, we shot off home to crash out till about 10am.

Malcolm wanted to see the display of Banksy's artwork in a tunnel near Waterloo. We walked to the Angel and caught the bus to Waterloo. The queues were long but it was again worth seeing; some amazing statements and artwork. We walked home via the pub where we shared a plate of nachos and had a drink.

Sunday, 11 May, 2008

Here we are on Cirrus and anchored in Pyefleet, near Clacton and West Mersea. The weather is gorgeous, very sunny but with a strong breeze keeping it bearable. We motored most of the way across, or should I say near, the Maplin Sands and my heart nearly stopped a few times with the lack of depth. I am rested and almost invigorated but it takes longer with Malcolm. He is still not quite able to shake off the bonds which drag his brain back to work.

Friday, 16 May, 2008

We have now been in Suffolk Yacht Harbour for two nights. We had a lovely sail up from Clacton, a sunny day but a strong northeasterly which meant we had to motor some of the way but the engine behaved impeccably.

We eventually managed to set sail up the coast to the Pye End Buoy, lovely and sunny and fascinating to watch the enormous ships coming and going to the container port which is Felixstowe. Sailing up to the Orwell means having a different perspective on the area.
Malcolm has different memories of this area. He was a windsurfer here, and this is where he and I first lived together, in Kirton, near Ipswich. I was still at university, trying to finish my degree with a toddler and a baby, Malcolm's baby. He bought a lovely house in Kirton with a big vegetable garden and surrounded by farmland. His memories are of windsurfing and the companionship of the windsurfing club, of his brother and his mother who both lived here at the time. So much has changed. Our boys have grown up and are scattered through the country, living in Newcastle, Yeovil and Sheffield. Malcolm's mum lives in East Sussex, widowed for the second time but now enjoying a new friendship.

Yesterday we walked to Trimley, a long walk through the Marshes Nature Reserve. It was very hot but with the stiff northeasterly to cool us, perfect walking weather really. We stopped at a bird hide and walked along the lane to Cordy's Lane. The lane has not changed since the Trotts lived there. It was strange to be amongst so many memories of family life. Our small boys creating havoc with perfect gardens, egged on by the senior Trott brothers. (There is evidence in the form of photographs of the senior Trotts on stilts and roller skates.) Also memories of Ron who, I believe, was delighted to be a grandad. He had a magical bond with Michael who in turn adored his grandad. No words needed to be spoken when they met up. Michael would just slip his hand into Ron's and away they would go on walks around Kirton and Trimley. The memories were there yesterday. Ron was lovely to Tony too. "Hello, Tony boy", he would say and he was delighted with brand new Ben too. I will always remember the Christmas get-together when he wanted to hold Ben straight away.

Today we boarded a bus to Felixstowe. We have forgotten distances but the places have an eerie familiarity. We remember the names of roads but have forgotten their relationship to other roads. Where is the railway station?

I suppose this is why Malcolm remembers differently. I was a mum with three beautiful boys. We lived in a world where a caravan of cycles with child seats processed to the local primary school and back. We were members of the baby-sitting circle, visiting other young families and doing the rounds of playgroup and baby clinic.

We have had a great time here relaxing and planning for next year when we retire. Finally we leave the area to sail back south again.

The passage down, through the Swin Spitway was rough but quick. We arrived at the Columbine Buoy at about 1700 and sailed slowly up to Harty. We were chilled and wet and it was good to settle for the night with the stove on to warm us. We sailed then motored through the Swale behind the Isle of Sheppey, the Kingsferry bridge lifting to accommodate an enormous ship and us going in the other direction.

I made bread as we motored on to Sharfleet Creek, two mixes, ciabatta and ordinary white bread, and the results (after rising the dough in the engine compartment) were voluminous. We ate salad and bread and are settled for our final night of this holiday. Tomorrow we sail to Gillingham, on the midday high tide. We will leave Cirrus clean and neat and drive off to see Malcolm's Mum in East Sussex.

On Monday I start my new job. Another chapter opens.

Friday 22 February 2008

In 12 months time my working life, and that of my wife Kate, will come to an end. For me this will be just 43 years after it all began, although to be honest there were a few gaps during which various people tried to squeeze some rudimentary education into me. My preparation for this unique event ought perhaps to be some deep reflection, either on what I have achieved or on what is to come. Or again maybe there really is no point in looking back, no point in trying to fathom out what if this or that had happened. It simply won't make any difference. The fact will still remain that I am here now and in March 2009 I begin a new life.

I shall be the same person, of course, that I have always been; bearded for as long as I can remember, ears slightly smaller than standard for a human and a long, straight, nose that has never been broken despite all it has been through. The thin legs that have carried me up mountains too numerous to mention and the sun or wind burnt skin that fades to pale every Winter. Little of what is external to me will change as I move from being a working man to a retired one, from a contributor of effort to one who benefits from the efforts of others. No, it is the radical shift in outlook that I must adapt to, acclimatise and learn to live with as I join the league of retirees, this is what concerns me. And there is no gradual run-in towards this, no gentle slope into relaxation and freedom from cares. I can expect no mercy as I am plunged from my world of target driven mayhem to enforced idleness, with only memories lingering on.

OK, that's the scary bit. Now for reality.

Retirement does not come as a surprise and nor should it be unplanned for. In fact if it does come along with no forethought, no imagining and no preparation then I really can't see why I should want it at all. If I were just to let the day arrive and awaken (despite the absence of the usual alarm clock) then roll over in bed and suddenly begin to think about the 'what next?' then what a waste this would be. All those years spent tipping the pension pennies into the jar just for a longer lie-in. No, I don't think so.

Malcolm