COWROAST CHRONICLE
MAY I FLOAT
THIS BY YOU?
quidquid facit ut navis tua natet **
Welcome
Aboard
Stop.
Please. Just for a moment.
Sense
the blade of an oar making an early morning dip in the water, the first cut of
the day in the river’s surface; such a satisfying feeling. Soon followed by a
second pull on the oars and the dinghy is away, free, silent, unfettered, into
the river and along the line of moored boats. Many of their crews are still
abed; cocooned in bunks and enjoying a lie-in.
But
the dinghy and its occupant are wide awake. Awake to the sounds of Summer, the
occasional chink from the rigging on a yacht’s mast or a clunk as the first up
puts the kettle on in a galley, somewhere, inside a craft bobbing in the gentle
wake of the passing dinghy. With the smell of coffee brewing and bacon
frying, the senses are heightened; the joy unbounded. Visually, sensually and
spiritually these are moments to be savoured and recalled whenever the spirits
are low or high. Never to be forgotten moments.
Some
such moments are often misremembered thus adding a rosy tint to memory’s
spectacles; but not this one. Over 60 years later I can still feel the rough,
rounded handles of the oars, hear the swish of the water, taste the freedom. I
can even smell the bacon.
Bliss.
A
memory of a small boy on holiday with his parents on the Norfolk Broads in the
50s evoking a sensation that in the years that have followed has repeated
itself on other waterways; the Great Ouse, the Thames, the English, Scottish
and Welsh canals and others.
Please
come with me on a cruise through those 60 years. I’ll try not to bang on about
just me and boats and stuff and concentrate on the humour, friendship and the
fact that every time I step on board a boat, any boat, I get those Christmas
morning feelings; excitement, anticipation, adventure.
If
you don’t celebrate Christmas then insert whatever gives you those three and if
nothing does then why not think about buying a boat, any boat. Bath tub or
oligarch’s yacht, if it floats it’s a boat.
**As it says above” quidquid facit ut navis tua natet” -whatever floats
your boat
Shall
we undo the ropes and float away?
Chapter 1
The Egg and Bacon Years
The coffee would, of course, have been instant. ‘50s Britain
had neither the desire nor the money to indulge in percolators, coffee grinders
et al. The thought of anyone I knew sauntering into any of the many outlets
existing nowadays whose sole purpose is to sell one of 20 different coffees in
a cardboard (recyclable, of course) cup for 2 or 3 quid is unthinkable.
Undrinkable.
Nescafe
had only arrived in the UK in 1939 just in time for the Second World War-good
job it was instant because you wouldn’t have time to get to a Costa before the
siren went off and you had to disappear below ground.
It
is more likely that what I could smell was Camp Coffee; a coffee and chicory essence,
first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd in Glasgow and it still exists. Now owned by Schwarz it is
often used for flavouring cakes. It still
has a sweet, predominantly chicory aftertaste and is generally regarded as a coffee
substitute.
But we
thought it was the real deal.
My
perception was that Camp coffee had been introduced into our kitchen cupboard
because my father had experienced its delights whilst serving in India and
Burma. Further up the road the aforesaid Nescafe was probably the beverage of
the U. S. Troops, led by Erroll Flynn, winning the war but Camp Coffee was the nearest
thing to coffee available to the British troops. Interestingly the label on a
bottle of Camp Coffee reflects some changes since the 50s though for a start
unless you specifically wanted to target the gay market you would not call it
“Camp”. A shame for both that word and “gay” but whilst the name has remained
the same the label itself has changed over the years.
The original label depicted a Sikh servant,
standing, serving a seated Scottish soldier. (Try
saying that when you’ve been at the sherry). The server carried a tray on which
there was a bottle of Camp Coffee. A later version of the label, introduced in
the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture and was seen as an
attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was
still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish
soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh
as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and
saucer of his own. All very right and proper
To return
to the bacon, which would have been real enough, the Wall clan were raised on
proper breakfasts and the smell wafting up the River Thurne at Potter Heigham
was and still would be irresistible. It drew even the most adventurous rower
back on board, the other adventures of the day postponed till after breakfast.
A
breakfast, sadly, denied to that rower some 65 years later, his elders (n0t
many of those) and betters (bloody thousands!) having decided that such fare is
verboten to him not just because of its unhealthy constituents or his burgeoning
waistline but because he has not done an hour’s rowing beforehand. The contents
of an unappetising bowl of muesli, containing the scrapings of a budgie’s cage,
laced with semi-skimmed milk are the order of the day. Except of course when temptation
calls and lapses occur and a proper guilt edged breakfast makes life more
pleasurable if a tad shorter.
My
childhood holidays away were as far as I recall always spent afloat. Our week’s
holiday on the Norfolk Broads was the only holiday away from home and
presumably happened because, before marrying, my father had fallen in love with
the Broads. Holidaying with friends, between the wars, sailing would have been
the main option as powered craft were rare and their cost of hire would have
been beyond his budget. No matter, sailing would have been idyllic as without
the now constant presence of powered boats one could sail calmly and quietly
from Broad to Broad without some eejit in a Captain’s hat and blazer getting in
the way.
A hand
written letter inquiring as to what yachts might be available for hire would be
sent to one of the small companies, often run as a sideline to a farming
business and a handwritten reply received. A postal order was despatched and
that was that. You took your food with you and bought what you could from farms
and a few shops as you went along. Nobody ate out. Pubs didn’t do food. A
butcher’s van called once a week. I think it was at the aforementioned Potter
Heigham. So the staple fodder of egg and bacon would have served the pre war
crew as it did our family in the 50s.
The
abovementioned muesli hadn’t been invented later increasing in availability in
line with budgie ownership over the post war years with the advent of higher
perches. Sorry, never could resist a bad joke.
My
father's memories of the Broads were of yachting, quiet solitude and occasional
visits to one of the riverside pubs. One
such pub that was the Dukes Head at
Somerleyton, memorable to me as a boy because the pub garden was landscaped
with a map of the Broads. It was quite detailed and occupied a sizeable piece
of land. Once the lemonade and arrowroot biscuit had been consumed I would use
the map to have what would now be regarded as a virtual cruise round this pretend
river complex. This was great fun and was made even more enjoyable by the
prospect on returning to our real boat of a second arrowroot biscuit- this time
with butter on it! Simple pleasure but I was a simple lad. Nothing changes.
In the interests of in
depth research especially if it involved a pint I planned a visit to the Dukes
Head for early 2020 but the Covid lockdowns meant I didn’t actually get there
till late 2021. I already knew the landscaped map in the garden had gone and
nobody I spoke to could remember it. Mind you I didn’t speak to many people as
the pub was closed. I’m pleased to report it was not closed to be replaced by
town houses though Somerleyton is a pretty part of the world and they’d sell
well. The pub was closed for refurbishment and was due to open towards that end
of October, 2021. I hope it flourishes.
My father
remembered the pub for another less cheerful reason. He recalled mooring their
hired yacht nearby and the crew made their way up the road for a well earned
pint. One of the company was a pianist and as was the way back then the pub had
a piano and, if appropriate, dad’s crewmate would provide the accompaniment to
a pub singalong. All very tame compared to the current plethora of screens showing
football, live and recorded music, fruit machines, karaoke, quiz nights and 2
steaks and a bottle of wine for the price of a small semi in Rochdale. After ordering their beer the pianist went to lift the
lid of the piano. It was locked so he asked the landlord for the key. “Not
tonight Sir I’m afraid” pointing over the top of the piano.
There,
laid out on a couple of pub tables and draped in a sheet, lay a body. “We
pulled him out of the river this afternoon. Undertaker can’t get here till the
morning so we thought it decent to lock the piano”
I tell
this story, not to introduce a note of undoubted sadness into what is meant to
be a celebratory book but to indicate once more how times have changed so radically.
Nowadays the poor chap would have been collected with the accompanying clamour of
ambulances and police vehicles and would have been in the mortuary fridge
within the hour. All the locals would have texted home with photos and updates
re the flashing blue lights and conjecture as to whether it was murder, was he
pissed, did he jump and “I won’t be home till closing time”, partly because
there were too many blue lights around for comfort but mainly because the match
doesn’t finish till 10 o’clock.
The piano probably now sits, silent, still
locked, stored in a pub outhouse waiting for its own inevitable and tuneless end.
Arrowroot biscuits have disappeared from the pub scene as well, along with
their neighbour on the bar, a jar of pickled eggs, lying untouched like a
disregarded specimen in the Pathology Department. I enjoyed pickled eggs but I
would welcome even more the sight of the arrowroot jar designed on the tilt to
give a tempting view of the large red lid inviting seekers after biscuit heaven.
Arrowroot
biscuits are remarkably good for dunking in your tea having a consistency to
remain intact far longer than a Digestive or a Nice though nowhere near as resilient
as that King of Dunkers, the Bourbon, that is virtually indestructible when
immersed. Dunking biscuits is a fine, noble pursuit and should be encouraged in
the young, demonstrating a sense of adventure and risk-taking; someone not
afraid of a gamble or the soggy consequences.
It is not
so advisable a practice for a boater and there will be a few examples later.
For now the most impressive dunking occasion in my childhood days was performed
by my father. We were cruising along, I can’t remember who was steering but for
some reason the old man was on the deck of the boat and was still wearing his
slippers. Not recommended footwear when cruising but I’m sure there was a good
reason. We heard a splash and turned to see a space where Dad had been. He was
in the drink. Mum went mental especially as the dunkee was a long time
returning to the top. After what seemed an age he surfaced, still with his pipe
in his mouth and, a la Popeye, blew a spurt of water from his pipe and
clambered back on board. When asked why he was under so long he answered “I
wanted to get my slipper back”
My hero, though
the old lady was close to doing to him what the River Waveney had failed to do.
So many good memories of childhood holidays.
The coach to Great Yarmouth to board the local bus to Wroxham, the “Capital of
the Broads”. Finding the boatyard in the maze of inlets and jetties that
comprised this boater’s paradise. Then boarding the boat for the first time
exploring every nook and cranny whilst the adults listened earnestly to
instructions from the hiring company’s man. Then out onto the River Bure for
the best week of the year; a week, the memory of which would sustain me for the
next twelve months easing the pain and relieving the boredom of life in a
classroom. A memory that comforts me still, hunched over my muesli.
To be continued.
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