Last wisps of gas

We have now been living in our new home for a little over six months... so perhaps we should no longer refer to it this way. But part of the reason it still feels new is that there is so much we want to change about the place to make it feel like it is ours. Decoratively we have stripped the paper from a few walls, opened up some internal spaces we had no need for and of course we have completed The Bathroom Project. Redecorating the whole house to our own taste is definitely going to happen at some point but  something prevents us doing more at this juncture. It is the heating system, the LPG gas boiler, which we want to change to an air source heat exchanger. Having been through this process in our previous house (in that case discarding an oil boiler) we know that this will mean some serious disruption as the new pipework and radiators are installed so it would be premature to decorate any rooms before this is done.

The tank of gas that came with the house has served us well by providing hot water and central heating for over six months. But then one day, inevitably (25th March to be precise), we drew off the very last gasp of propane. We had already decided, believing that the long process of getting a new heating system would soon deliver, that we would not top up the tank with more gas when this happened so that was the moment our taps ran cold. No more hot showers and with cold radiators our house became one in which we suffered chilly mornings until our small multi-fuel stove could be lit and our tiny electric fan heater started blowing warm air. Getting out of bed from under our warm duvet became a challenge as this was winter, spring was weeks away, and whilst our high-on-the-hill position might give us the best view for miles around it is also a windy spot, heat being sucked quickly away when the wind blows. So we developed coping mechanisms to get us through. We apologised to our visitors for the lack of comfort, we threw more logs on the fire and when a hot shower opportunity elsewhere did come our way we grabbed it with both hands. Fortunately there were sunny days and we discovered the house had a bonus feature, the south facing conservatory, which traps the sun's rays and converts them into heat. Open the connecting door into the house and some of this warmth changes places with the colder air inside, bringing relief for a few hours until the sun drops behind the hill for the night.

April brought the first traces of spring and longer days brought warmth too, not every day, but often enough for us to carry on. Thermal vests and thick jumpers do work, so we discovered. Then finally we had a visit from our heating installer, something we'd been pushing for, and the words that came out of his mouth caught us completely by surprise.

"We can do you next Tuesday," he said. "Would that be ok?"

At first we thought we might have misheard him but then we realised he was serious. Perhaps our sorry state had rang his sympathy bell but whatever it was we could hardly believe that in just a few days our lives would be changing, for the better.

So it was that exactly one month after the last wisp of gas squeezed its way out of the tank in our front garden there was a line up of vans outside from which emerged more plumbers and electricians than you could shake a stick at. Large white packages (our new radiators) were carried up the steps through our front door and lengths of shiny new copper pipe disappeared into the space beneath the house. Before we knew it our present heating system was disappearing out the door, the boiler included (I didn't even get the chance to wave it farewell) and rumbling noises from beneath the house pointed to the old pipes being cut out. 

We tried to keep out of the way; it was a cool and breezy day so with the house doors open to allow access we hunkered down in front of our stove to preserve our body heat.

It took four strong men to lift the new air source heating unit up from the road and onto the prepared base at the rear of the house but once this was connected up it did at least look like we might have heat by the end of the day. However it was then we were told that the wrong cylinder had been ordered, too big to fit in our kitchen cupboard space, so by close of play we had new (bigger) radiators in every room, loads of shiny new copper plumbing but still no hot water. For this we would have to be more patient. 

Two days later the plumber returned, and he brought with him a fresh set of muscles.

 These were soon deployed to lift the water cylinder up from road level.

It is hard to believe that this is the smaller, slimline model, but when we see it installed in our kitchen cupboard an hour or so later we realise why the bigger one would not fit.

The cupboard that was once home to a nice looking gas central heating boiler now has a tall insulated cylinder, a couple of expansion vessels (squashed into the top) and a control panel that looks like it could run a starship. There are also several interesting looking white boxes, one of which seems able to talk to my phone using the house wi-fi. Naturally this is the first gadget I am keen to get working as soon as the new heating system is up and running and couple of hours later, after we say farewell our workmen, I am communicating electronically with the new beast.

More importantly though, for the first time in over a month we have heat in the house and a bathroom shower that delivers hot water. We can't wait to get under it.

Boat delivery

The previous entry here might have suggested that we felt it was a little too early in the year, a little too cool and unsettled to be going sailing. But then something unlikely happened.

After our successful launch I was walking back from our pontoon berth when I found my passage blocked by the contents of someone's boat, an assortment of boaty bits, scattered about in an untidy heap in front of me. They were mostly rather old things, dirty looking fenders, coils of rope, pieces of wood and other mysterious objects but inevitably I stopped for a chat with the young couple who were clearing out the boat moored alongside. I discovered they had just bought her, an elderly but heavily built sailing yacht, for very little money. They are sailing novices, having very limited experience, but plan to take the boat to Whitehaven in Cumbria, over a hundred miles to the south but closer to where they live. Doing this alone was clearly going to be a challenge so someone with greater sailing experience would be useful as crew on the passage. I was sort of drawn in and almost before I knew it found myself agreeing to accompany them. Thinking back I was as surprised as anyone by this decision. What was I thinking! But there again, why not. 

March is, of course, rather early in the year to go sailing in Scotland. This, together with the untried and untested nature of the boat itself will certainly raise a few eyebrows. James, the boat owner, had already lined up an uncle, Darren, to come along so we have a crew of three. Does this make it less crazy? I don't know.

With a fair wind the passage might be done in two days, avoiding overnight sailing, and a logical stopping point just short of half way is Campbeltown where there is a sheltered loch and a good marina. But will the weather be kind to us so we can make the passage in two consecutive days? Forecasts are studied closely and disappointingly they change each day, the wind direction for the latter part of the voyage starting to come in from the south, just the direction we need to go. Strong headwinds are not what we need.

In the end we decide to do only the first leg, then leave the boat in Campbeltown until the gods give us a fair wind.

So off we go. We meet a cold easterly wind at the start but once we turn south along Kilbrannan Sound it warms up a little and with the sails up we are making good progress, the boat's elderly bow cutting smoothly through the water. The mountainous Isle of Arran blocks our wind for a time so the engine goes on but overall the passage goes smoothly and by 4 pm we are safely docked.

For the next leg, however, we really need a gentle westerly, ideally with some north in it, as this part of will take us around the Mull of Galloway then eastwards towards Whitehaven. Timing this passage right also means having both the wind and the tide going our way and whilst the tide and the tidal currents are reliably predictable, the wind is less so.

James has bought the boat with the idea of living aboard, close to where he works, then travelling back home at weekends. This will give him the opportunity to fix her up in his spare time and to sort out some of the things on board that are not currently working. One of those is the sea toilet, pretty essential one would have thought, but of course in a marina there are always facilities on hand. In all the boat is solidly built but has suffered somewhat from years of neglect. The sails are tired but serviceable - they would certainly get the boat to Whitehaven - and the small but powerful engine is one of the few things that does seem to have been looked after properly; it starts easily and runs well. There are, however, a few minor but rather annoying deck leaks to sort out as these have resulted in soggy boat cushions and as a result sleeping on board something of a trial. James is undaunted by this but his enthusiasm to complete the passage must be balanced against safety for what will be open sea, first across to Galloway and then across the Solway Firth.

Our first weekend passage plan came to nought as the forecast changed constantly and the presence nearby of deep depressions with strong winds brought us to the conclusion that it would be too risky. In the end it turned out to be cold and very wet with winds filling in from the south, exactly the direction we want to go. We need two days of favourable winds and all the gods seem to want to send us are contrary ones.

Then a few weeks later the forecast shows a run of north-easterly winds, some of which conveniently coincide with a weekend. Fresh plans are made with much studying of charts and tide tables. These are particularly important because our passage will take us around the Mull of Galloway, a place which boasts a notoriously rough patch of sea. But forecasts change, each day, so is this one going to stay good for us?

The day arrives and we are all up early to catch the tide (me sleeping on a soggy cushion on board and the other two sleeping in their car) although a little later than planned. There was a fresh breeze blowing into Campbeltown Loch all night long so on getting up I donned as many clothing layers as I could, the result being that after a few minutes sorting out mooring lines and other preparatory jobs I was sweating profusely. 

Here I am just starting to manoeuvre the boat backwards out of its berth into the most spectacular sunrise you can imagine. It is cold and breezy but although the water looks flat this turned out to be the calmest part of the whole day. 

To leave the Loch we had to motor out along the entrance passage which took us directly into the cold north-easterly wind and this was our first encounter with the rough water we were to experience all day. The heavy boat plunged headfirst into each wave, spray coming up and hitting us right in the face, covering us with salt.

Eventually the ebbing tide carried us out into deeper water where we turned south east and raised a small sail to begin our six hour journey across to the Galloway coast. Now the waves came at us from the side, rolling the boat about violently so that holding on to something solid at all times was essential. Most of my earlier body heat was gone and every jet of spray coming across the boat snatched away more and more heat from our bodies as we stared ahead towards our destination some twenty miles away. The hours ahead would be grim, all three of us soon succumbing to sea sickness and shivering in the cold. We clung on, gritting our teeth and hardly speaking as the boat romped along merrily, taking it all in her stride as if she was actually enjoying it. But in these conditions the crew are by far the weakest part of any boat.

Many hours later a decision had to be made on whether we should carry on to our planned destination, Portpatrick, which would have involved many more hours of suffering, or whether we should go instead into the safety of Loch Ryan and Stranraer harbour. The wind strength, force 6, had propelled us along and the cold and the rough seas had taken us to the limit of endurance so Stranraer it had to be. Although this was not the ultimate destination for James it is at  least closer to his home and therefore easier for him to visit, a place where he can fix a few boaty issues whilst waiting for a fair wind to carry him on the last leg home. Once safely in and warmed up we all agreed that despite the hardship we would not have missed the experience as it had given us a good appreciation of how much the tough little boat could take. Safety must always stand above everything else though.

Sailing soon

All those house projects taking up our days has inevitably meant that our other interests, touring the country in Martin and sailing, have been on hold. But then it is winter and although we are crazy enough to contemplate campervan adventures at this time of year, when it comes to sailing, we do prefer to be laid up ashore. Since moving house we no longer have an accessible garden where she can be stored on her trailer so Eun na Mara has spent the winter months tucked into a corner of the marina car park, a few streets away from our home.

She is close by, safe and secure, and needs little attention other than a periodic check up. In fact she is totally boxed in by other much larger vessels. But there is a deadline coming soon, a day when all these boats will be lifted back into the water, the timetable for this being determined by the marina and thus being beyond our control.

So this explains why, contrary to my better judgment, I find myself lying on my back beneath the hull on a freezing cold day getting spattered with blue antifouling paint from the roller I am swishing about with one hand. No matter how carefully this job is carried out it is inevitable that some paint ends up on the painter and at the end of the day I just know I'll be discovering the impressive adhesive properties of the expensive product I am applying. Its purpose is to inhibit the growth of marine organisms (a posh phrase for barnacles) and in order to do this it is described as 'self polishing', another way of saying it wears off. Which explains why all boat owners have to go through this procedure every year and why marine paint manufacturers make so much money from us.

Phew! It feels so good to have got all that off my chest.

Our rather elderly sailing vessel is a tough little beauty but the hull is showing its age, rather weathered, a faded version of its original.

So out comes the T-Cut and after several hours of polishing we have a new boat, a darker green... until it fades once again in the sun. Next jobs will be to raise the mast, to restore all the cushions and other things stowed ashore then stock up the boat with some victuals. (For the benefit of landlubbers this is the sailor's word for food.) Launch day is not far away now.

When it comes to getting our boat from shore to sea we have a choice, one that owners of larger boats do not have. They must have the services of a crane, a crane driver and a couple of helpers to assist with positioning the slings as well as a close enough stretch of deep water. The availability of all these things ties them to a day, an hour, and even then to their place in the launch day queue. But we have a trailer on which our boat rests quite happily all winter and then, tied to the rear of our van, both boat and trailer will follow wherever we decide to go. To move from land to sea we need just one more thing, a gently sloping ramp, the lower end of which is beneath the water we wish to sail in - a slipway. Such things exist in many different places and whilst they may not all be suitable - too steep, too shallow, weed covered, too narrow, too short - when we are out and about we are always on the lookout for one that might one day serve us. It is, however, more than a little stressful launching this way; there is so much that can go wrong and the internet is full of videos of boat launch fails which highlight this. The objective is to get the boat into the water by sliding it smoothly off the back of the trailer which is then pulled back up the ramp and driven away. But there's a lot to think about. For instance, at the rear of the trailer there is a lighting board which is connected by an electrical wire to the vehicle. Should this enter the water, especially salt water, the lights are guaranteed never to work again. The board and its long electrical cable must be removed completely before starting to reverse down the slip. Similarly any straps which secure the boat whilst it is on the trailer must be removed and, of course, the tide must be right, with enough depth to float the boat once it leaves the trailer. The final point to be aware of is that once the boat slides off its trailer it will continue to drift away - boats don't have brakes - and will be at the mercy of the wind and current so it must be secured to something nearby or else someone must be on board ready to start the engine so as to manoeuvre the boat to safety. Of course one person must be left ashore to drive the vehicle with its empty trailer to a safe parking place (always remembering that the lighting board must be reattached before going back on a road). Of course this is merely a summary of the boat launch process but in practice every launch is something of a gamble with a long list of variables.

As it happens our home port has an excellent slipway; wide, clean, and plenty long enough for an easy launch. It is, however, used every hour by the car ferry which runs across the loch so launching from here would be a race against time, an added complication to the already stressful task.

So there we have it. For these, and a host of other reasons, we have decided to have our boat craned in this year.

And we are nearly ready.

The mast is now up. Unlike many larger sailing boats, our mast spends the winter lying horizontally above the deck supporting a full length cover. Raising this large piece of wood to a vertical position is something the boat's designers took into account so that two people, acting in unison, can do it quickly and without any real risk involved. All the halliards and sheets (sailing boats don't have ropes) have to be laid out in their right positions so nothing catches as the mast rises then with one person lifting from the rear and another pulling on the forestay halliard the mast rises, pivoting on a securing bolt in the tabernacle. (I make no apologies for the technical language used here. If you find this difficult to understand then feel free to use Google.) The other boat owners in the yard seemed quite impressed that we had done the whole job in around thirty minutes when on their boats they would need a crane and half a day of reconnecting and tensioning things to achieve the same. We were lucky with the weather too, one of the rare dry days set amongst a series of wet ones.

In the final days before launch the marina car park is a hive of activity with boat owners clad in protective clothing, lying flat on their backs, paint rollers in hand. There is much banter and joshing about each others boats and judgements being passed on whose hull has been polished to the highest shine. Ours has no hope of matching up to the high standards set by some owners, so we don't bother trying.

Then comes the day. The forecasters didn't quite get it right - it was cold and wet - but when our turn came things went smoothly with no hiccoughs.

Of course, all the rules state that 'man-riding', flying through the air in company with your boat, is not permitted for safely reasons but come the day, every boat lift had at least one on board, standing ready to start the engine once the boat is back in her natural element.

So there she is, afloat again and looking as pretty as ever in her usual berth. A bit of warmth now is all that's needed to tempt us to go out sailing.