ReadBev 34. Bankers & Businessmen

Bananas in Heaven  - 12/08/2015

I am blown away by the succinct explanation of human behaviour by Yuval Noah Harari on this TED talk (click link to watch… it’s only 17 minutes). Here we have a simple explanation of how we got here, how it has become possible for us to embrace the story… but now to consider why.

The photo has nothing to do with it by the way... it's just I take thousands of pics, some ok, and never do anything with them so here's an opportunity to air a few.

Bankers & Businessmen

Lie to me

and let me live your dreams.

Your dream of your yachts and your mansions,

you can have them all

because I sweat and slave

and sleep the wretched nights away

with staggering exhaustion.

Punish me

if I dare to resign or get up off my couch

with my crisps and TV where you peddle your tales

of murder and mayhem and world domination saying

“See! Speech is free! Here's BBC!”.

Ignore me

to death

as I shoulder the load of your work and ideals,

heartfelt appeals and the glazed eyes of children that

you starved and made landless

with your profiteering plunder

of the world.

Blame me

for consumption and car and cancer of the ear at my mobile phone

while I gaze from a chemical haze through my lashless lids

at your yacht on my telly as I lie on my bed.

Blame me for the terrible cost I have laid

at the door of the starving society that you,

you  have enslaved.

BS Aug15

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Painting the Tiller

2006

I’m back. I’m painting the tiller. Buttermilk. Delicious colour goes on creamy and sweet. The brush makes silky streaks in the thick paint that then pulls tight to make a smooth shiny surface… stroke and dip. I dangle my legs over the edge of the stern and feel the water pull at my toes, a cooling breeze lifting up the evening from out this sunny day of hazy heat.

I’m back and didn’t even know I’d gone away. Decided for certain yesterday that if it came to it I would pack in the whole idea, sell the boat and start again at something else. I’ve done all I can do and can fight no more in this oppressive place that I wonder sometimes might be my own head. I start, I fight, I get disgruntled, I move. Deciding that. Acknowledging there was no more I could do, and after all, it’s a joke to think we are in control anyway… that seems to have brought me back.

Back to where? To here where I can potter and feel and be and know I am in present time. I feel the water tug and my Peccadillo hugs my butt to hold me up, up and away from the dark water. Oh what respect the water demands… I heard it call deep and treacherous the night the cat took a look ; a sucking indifference and fathomless disregard for the stuff of air and life and breathing. The canal is not the same as the singing sea. Confined to cut and lock and stagnant servitude it snatches at the drama and desolation of life and grieves for the communion of horses who understood such tethers on spirit that should run wild. And so is sadness drawn to the canal.

A father cycles past with his two boys on the towpath. He opens his voice in a loud cobble wobble and the boys join in with legs splayed, laughing. Merrily we sail along, sail along. The paint sticks and drips, and I wonder if I have added just enough thinners. My dad could have told me just how much if he’d been here. Could have told me what to do with all the paint and the engine and the fixing, so he could. But I’ll be fine and I learn every day. If I lived a hundred years I’d learn something new every day, and that begs the question… how can I assume I ever know anything if there is always so much to learn?

Cathy’s dad tells stories. The first time I met him he didn’t hardly speak till he was well pissed and his first talk to me was to tell me of the fine Scottish words that have been lost. “Kich.” he said. This being my first conversation with my father in law I was eager to continue the conversation so asked the only question I could think of.
“How do you spell it Mr McRae?”
“Q… U… I…”
“Oh for God’s sake don’t be so disgusting.” said Mrs McRae.
“Q… U… I…C… H… E…”
“Rubbish,” Said Helen, “that’s quiche.”

But another time, he cut through the rabble of a family gathering to expound “No welding on the Queen Mary.” Now we were talking. “Rivets. Just millions of rivets.”
“You’re kidding?” I said.
“Nope. Not a single weld. The blacksmith threw the white hot rivet up to the catcher… he had a cup… he’d catch it in his cup and never missed. The riveter would hammer it into the hole and there’d be a guy on the other side… the two of them would hammer at that rivet… one two, one two” … he swung his arms to and fro till you could hear the ringing blows in the ship yard … “and when that rivet cooled it pulled so tight nothing could ever part it.”

Mr McRae doesn’t walk so good these days. Years and years kneeling on the steel hulls of boats as a ships plumber have taken their toll. When he tells these stories his eyes lift out of here and now and transport you back to those grafting days when men hammered and strove and worked to build great ships of solid steel with not a single weld.

My Peccadillo is solid steel but nothing like those majestic old birds. But still she is a trusty dame with a fine line to her bows when you see her sail towards you on an autumn cut . I’d decided that whenever possible I would sail towards clients to collect them, rather than having them arrive at her moored. That would make a fine impression and folk could say “ooh what a fine barge I am going on.” and then the trip would be all the more special.

And I’d be standing at this fine buttermilk tiller, smiling.

For Susan...

This return to CC is inspired by a fellow canal boater who plans to bring her narrowboat up the Clyde…

Well Susan I could gladly run you through the preparations we made, the fixtures, the cost, the hours and the sweat. The considerations seemed legion, and their implementation continued till the day before we left but even then, with all the advice in the world, things happened that we hadn’t prepared for.

I’m so glad we did it in good ship Peccadillo… but I’m even more glad we didn’t sink or die. 

Perhaps my overriding memory of both the Clyde and the Forth is the indifferent application of scale: water to boat. After the rigours of the wind-over-tide on the Forth Jubilee I was breathtaken to see the improved handling of Missee on Loch Fyne, she being 30 tons and 12’ beam compared to Peccadillo’s 16 tons and 9’6”. The 60 ton vessels I currently skipper on Loch Lomond are proportionally indifferent to the rather alarming waves that fetch up in a gale over the 26 miles from the south… but I imagine the calculation works the other way in the case of your 42’x7’ and, I’m guessing, less than 10 tons?

All of this said, I still dream of the day when the west coast of Scotland begins to realise its tourism potential and certainly there are moves to do so. The Marine Tourism Strategy is dubbed “Awakening the Giant” but I feel that better describes the tide of activity on the canal right now! 

Yes, the firth of Clyde. There was a day up Loch Long, surprisingly sheltered from the winds of the morning, with water like glass and a view of Scottish hills that is the envy of the all the world… and I though surely… surely we could get a wee flotilla of canal boats down the Clyde and onto these moorings for a weekend…

That’s the key though; company. The outcome on the Forth would have been very different if Donald hadn’t been there in the rib to flatten the waves so that I could turn Peccadillo out of the wind into the mouth of the Carron. At one point there were to be 5 of us heading west but in the end it was just Peccadillo, and if I was ever in that position again I would get a little budget to hire one of those many lads with their ribs… so many out there who would love such an adventure. Consider that if you do it Susan.

Consider that and plan your tides, you have to use them. Never take any wind over the tide but if you’ve time for a whisky one evening I’ll sing you a story (not really sing!) of a force 5 behind Missee on Loch Linnhe that swept us into Corpach at nigh on 8 knots… oh joy. Not least of all because we were finishing with the sea! 

But with all the planning in the world you can’t predict wash from other vessels, and there is one particularly bad catamaran ferry between Dunoon and Greenock that creates dangerous rolling breakers for a wash… they travel for miles. Our breakdown between Greenock & Sandbank was fuel blockage, with sludge having shaken up in the old steel tanks (who has access to the fuel tanks for cleaning?) so would recommend, for a tidal journey, a gravity fuel feed from a smaller portable; canal boats don’t use a lot of fuel at 4 knots. 

The RNLI were marvellous, and impressed with our chart/tidal/route planning and tow preparations. It was Davie Brown who helped me rig up a large rope all the way round the stern after Jimmy warned of the dangers of towing a steel longboat in rough waters. They can simply tear apart. But rest assured, it’s a known fact with sailors that the RNLI will never ever criticise or correct anyone for calling them out as their greatest concern is that a boater in distress may, through embarrassment, delay making the mayday or pan pan call for even a few minutes, and those minutes may make the difference between life and death.

Fortuitous it was that Peccadillo broke down and turned home… because as she left Rhu for Bowling one of the fins came away from her prop. As I wrestled the old one off (fortunately through the weedhatch, Ian… we didn’t have to crane out) to replace it with the one that the angel Joe had brought, I cast my mind back to the start of Clyde to Caledonia at Edinburgh Quay… to the bump bump bump down the Union that I squarely blame for the large crack that that was evident once we got it off. Man I must have hit at least six large obstructions up there; my wide beam, though technically 18” draft… but she hunkers down in that shallow water, even at 2 knots. With all the preparation in the world we couldn’t have known about this… imagine if it had gone on the Dorus Mor…. 

And that’s quite enough of a story Susan… forgive me for waxing lyrical but it has been wonderful to return to the Odyssey. I’m so glad I did it but I really don’t want to do it again… but if you do, call me for crew! We need more adventures, more boats, but yes, sensible ones.

Here are the Clyde to Caledonia Waters

Collected from Peccadillo, Missee and a little dolphin watching vessel in the Moray Firth...

Bowling Beach and Margaret

I’m picking up the blog again after coming somewhat undone with Clyde to C…
Never mind, all journeys are good and it seems I’ll get a chance to gather my waters after all, setting off with Colin and Ann on their barge Missee tomorrow, Wednesday, headed for Ardrishaig. Meanwhile come for a walk on the beach with me… a letter to my sister Juliette.
(You can also see it on the Clyde to Caledonia blog .)


Margaret Donaldson
I learned today of the passing of fellow poet Margaret. What an aching space this will make in our Bank Street Writers group, but I am glad to hear she went peacefully. The poem below is not finished but I wanted to put it up today.

Bowling Beach
Keep this secret Bowling beach to yourself; it’s an Eldorado for mosaic artists like Jane and Julie and for stained glass masters like Joyce. Just before the Erskine Bridge at bowling the River Clyde narrows significantly, and Julie and I believe that boats of old (and, sadly, of today) ditched their rubbish overboard when entering and leaving the city. Tumbled glass and pottery can be found in abundance, and this is where, after the gales of 2 January, I found 46 complete vintage bottles, perfectly preserved in river mud, in which I am now collecting waters of the west coast. She heard a story once that tea clippers from China would bulk up their ballast with that blue and white china (broken or no?) and then ditch it before they docked to deliver their cargo; can anyone confirm or refute?

Letter to Julie

How generous Bowling beach was today! Clambering down to the beach I could tell there were major changes; two huge trees had been deposited in the middle of your stick drawn sand grid, long gone. Standing next to them I raised my eyes to the tops of the wall staves, way above my head, and sensed the volume of water that must have been swirling about this very space … my head under water…. for these giants to drift over and settle here. 

It was a spring tide, low. Extremis. Low low low. I knew it because the timing of the tides has woven into me after weeks and months of watching them and the weather. I still watch the weather… check the winds and their direction. Winds and rain, wonderful rain that flattens waves. So low was the tide that treasures stretched in all directions; I hardly knew where to begin. As I arrived the Waverley was passing, her grand red funnels towering through the trees as she pattered her way to Glasgow along the dribble of river the tide has left.. Richie took fright and bolted away from the beach. I remembered that the last time we were here the Waverley came by when just as fireworks display had gone off at Erskine Hospital across the water… he’d been terrified. Poor chap. Had to keep him on a lead the whole time.

To the high wall  I went first, where we found the stag horn driftwood. Among the scabby plastic I found a whole coconut with a missing eye. Peering in I could see the solid white flesh, perfectly in tact, and when I tipped it up the creamy milk poured onto he beach. What a thing! Where could that have travelled from? A distant island or a fairground in Largs or a passing ship… such stories we could tell! I split it on a rock to reveal clean white coconut…what to do with it?? Couldn’t eat it; much as I love this beach its filth is poisonous. Failure to wash hands after foraging will guarantee a dose of the runs. I could take it home for the birds… but in the end I left it there on the beach.

What other treasures were there? One complete wee green medicine bottle, ancient bits of blue & white pottery (can I put them in your box?) and one extraordinary piece of green tile, well worn. Many excellent bottle necks and just one glass stopper. A tiny round compact, so old that all marks were gone. The little catch dutifully opened as I pressed it but alas, the hinges came apart as it opened, and the dark, odourless, sandy kept its history for a secret.

Richie was leaning forever shoreward in his collar, whites of his eyes straining backwards on his face in relentless anticipation of explosions and certain death at the Erskine Hospital for old soldiers.

The sun was getting on down by now and a wistful sunset began to paint itself on the Clyde. I cast a loving glance ever and again towards the Kyles. Such an ache was in my heart for this firth; not sad or regretful but full and hopeful. It is not done yet. To get a boat for THESE waters, now that would be worthwhile.

I sat on the top of my plastic bag of treasures, promised the river I’d stay there till the curlews cried again in the shallows across the way. For an age that soft crrrr crrrr crrrrrr had carried across the water from the mud flats like a river’s caress. They were quiet now. Only oystercatchers and seagulls shouted to echo the noise in my head… stupid thoughts squawking incessantly.

I sat. I waited. But the curlew didn’t cry. The dog strained in his leash and the cold of wet sand began to creep into my buttocks. 
What’s the time Mr Wolf? 
Two curlews past a heron.

The sun dropped further in the sky, clouding over, chilling. 
Come on curlews I whispered, chastising myself for such pathetic commitment to even this, the tiniest of meditations. In the end the dog began such distraught whimpering, casting back and forth, that I abandoned my vigil with a soft apology to the waiting curlews.

What else did I find? Two tennis balls for Richie, a beautifully rusted big spring and the tiniest bright red apple you ever did see. Perfectly formed. Perhaps the greatest treasure was an ivory and tortoiseshell clothes brush… ancient… bristles all gone to reveal a startling pattern of dark, black holes in contrast to the soft brown magic on top. NOW I wanted you there, wanted to shout LOOK at THIS my Julie!!! And looking up I thought how if you were here we’d come picnic here, spend a whole day… or if not a day a good few hours round this lowest tide, scouring the beach and maybe making wobbly sculptures with our finds. I laughed to think how others might turn their noses up at this filthy beach, littered with tampon applicators and old plastic bottles bleached and blind. But for you and me? A treasure trove! And if you’d been here you’d have helped me wrestle free that fine length of coir rope around the trunk of that well travelled tree. We’d coil it up and bag it and march back to the boat for all the world like two hunters with the low slung dripping carcass of a stag, slain to save the starving village.

Back at the boat we’d brave the rolling of disbelieving eyes as we laid out one precious piece after another on blank, damp swathes of kitchen roll. The air would be filled with happy chat of mosaics made and to be made, or candlestick sculptures of white wax dripping over tumbled green bottlenecks.

Eventually the rolling eyes would shout and the table would be conquered in favour of dinner. Precious blue pottery would be packed into cardboard boxes as you flew back to Canada and I returned to a world of nonsense in which coconuts are not shy of their labelled packets, brushes must have bristles, apples must be largely eaten off pieces of pottery that form entire plates. Bottlenecks must needs be attached to their bodies to make soft glugging sounds as we pour their whisky out.

And boats? Boats must be sold to settle mortgages. Not sit expensively round to welcome home marauding beach parties and tease dreamers into planning voyages of folly.

love, Bev


Margaret Donaldson
You are the dark green of the moss.
Not even the moss but the shadow beneath it,
moss, so damp, long after the rain has been.
You are the brightness of the sun on stone
long after its story has set.

I find you in this sacred ancient place,
find the prints of horses hooves,
myths in soil turning to gallop past
the bark of a thousand trees into
a sky of a thousand blues.


You are the air between the feathers
of  the gryphon swan, the story of
a thousand lives, from knighted lands
long, long ago. A glint
in the storytelling eye.

You are all around.

I was there you said, I was here.
And now I go elsewhere.

BS Aug12

Bowling and Safe

Arrived Bowling 1600 Tuesday 10th July.

That's it... for now.

Prop Repaired

A million thanks to Joe and Teresa for bringing a replacement prop out late last night (getting home to Kirkintilloch goodness knows when he had to be out on the road by 5 this morning) to Davie Waterson for the prop, Davie Morrison for tracking another down, Jimmy and Anne for putting up with running commentary of procedure and panic... Wow how lucky I am to be so surrounded by loving support... And how I aware I am I have stretched it to the limit! Let's not forget Mike who hung around with his indomitable good cheer as I got the prop off and, even as I type, is undertaking yet another arduous bus journey to Rhu to crew with me today.

My writing, you observe, has descended into relatively inarticulate functionality. So tired sweeties but pregnant with stories that I look forward to harvesting. Meanwhile if you want a flavour of the magic go to the breathtaking blog of Gerald... The Frenchman who materialised out of the mist of some mariner's tale on a hand made yacht with a matching dog called Vega. He and his photos are out of this world. Just enter these search words in google and click on the translate option next to the link... Unless, of course you would like to read it in French? keikiwai gerald blogspot

Rhu to Bowli.... Uh uhhhh

A perfect run from Sandbank to Rhu with Graham yesterday , river perfect and flat when Mike arrived today and we set off for Bowling... Bowwwwwwling... Cannnnaallll.... Hoooome... Baaaaaath... I could almost taste the shortbread on Gerry and Morven's wee round table... Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

BUMFFF .... Something hit the prop.... Boomff boomff boomff boomff... Something was not right... Back into Rhu marina... Weed hatch open, one of the prop fins completely gone. No go. Would shake the whole arrangement to bits. But Joe Holland is on his way with 2 props, and he doesn't take no for an answer when it comes to mechanical outcome.

Here's hoping cos after tomorrow the weather closes in again...

cc +61 Dunoon

I've been putting off doing this blog entry, no prizes for guessing why. Peccadillo will not be going to the Atlantic sweeties and there's an end to it. Dunoon is as far as I go. There was rather more excitement in the first 10 legs of the journey than I'd intended for the whole thing, and after the breakdown last Monday I had a little sit down of my own... weighing up adventure versus responsibility. 

Bottom line is that it's one thing to risk my own life, but those of others? No way, and I can't handle her on my own out here. The bob on the Firth of Clyde was not life threatening but the Forth was. And I can see how to make it safe but don't have the wherewithal to make it happen. 

1) at least 6 months to just sit and wait, be available (my crew too) for good stretches of settled weather (it's been a nightmare these past few weeks!)
2) at least 1 large rib (that's one of those large rubber power boats) for company, assistance in the event of breakdown and the occasional push of speed
3) lots and lots of money to pay the astronomical fees of these marinas that charge by length; at 50' I'm paying the same rate as HUGE sea going vessels... no account of the actual size of the boat

Sooooo, as everyone gathers for Falkirk Wheel 10 celebrations and I sing happy birthday to me I look back over it all and think, what a disaster? Embarrassment? Frayed knot sweeties... I sit out here in the Holy Loch (rather too far out to be honest... the wind's picking... force 7 tonight and she's fair gettin shoogled aboot... so that's why the other yachts snuggled right in to the marina!). It's the most beautiful mooring south of Croabh near Oban the boaters say... I sit here with a little brown dog and a fine cup of coffee and think, Peccadillo is not for these tidal waters, not with any dignity... we both knew that. But d'you know what? She's the only boat I have, the one that I know best, and this was my only chance to have a go at it... so we did.

And we've had a grand old time. There's a wee weather window coming in on Sunday so we'll wend our way back to Bowling via a couple of other marinas. It's the canal, but no' the Crinan canal for me!

Day 10: Bowling to Dunoon (Holy Loch) on 25Jun12

Well the story has traveled far and wide already and some of you have even seen it on the
RNLI's Helensburgh Lifeboat Station website
so there's no hiding the fact that we broke down in the middle of the Firth of Clyde. There's a story, of course there's a story... but you're going to have to wait for the full version. Here are the bare bones...


We set off from the Bowling Sea Lock shortly after 1600, a little ahead of the top of the tide at 1725. Our sweet, warm send-off party (Jimmy, Gerry, Colin & Anne) had immediate validation of the furrows on their brows as I turned 50 yards out of the lock and sailed directly over the breakwater (it stands well above water at low tide) instead of proceeding to the exit. What they couldn't see that we were greeted, on exit, by an enormous wave, the wake of a passing tug. I had no choice but to turn and meet it head on or we would have been flipped before we even left to wreck dock. The wee yacht that came out with us was tossed about like a paper cup.


But there we were, off at last. That beautiful river all about us and the exhaust roaring in our ear (Jimmy has made a high extension for tidal waters). Our trusty crew for the day was Mike Storry, Adrian and Billy Billy Billy... singing in the galley again; oh Peccadillo was smiling. At Dumbarton Rock we tested the radio back to Bowling and Alec said the signal was weak so we tested it on the Clyde Coastguard. It's quite something getting past the embarrassment of talking on the vhf radio (yes sweeties, even for me). I mean
Clyde Coastguard Clyde Coastguard Clyde Coastguard 
This is Peccadillo Peccadillo Peccadillo
Over...
You just feel like such a pratt. But as the communications progress you come to grasp the reason for all the formality... the form of it that makes it clear who's saying what when in the rush of wind and water... and the roar of the engine. Mike found this exhaust noise most disconcerting and Adrian, and engineeery sort, began to suggest all sorts of baffle solutions. But me? The closer I am to the heartbeat of my engine the happier I am, and she was running so sweet I didn't mind the noise at all.

Anyway, the Coastguard were reading us loud and clear and indeed, just 5 minutes later asked us for assistance as a member of the public had reported seeing 2 adults and 2 children on a raft off Langbank. Ohhh it was GRAND to have a mission, and we duly scoured the horizon (unfortuately looking directly into the sun). Now Langbank is a really shallow piece of water... long banks were built at right out into the wide shallow Clyde to force the water down the main shipping channel and so keep it clear. With Peccadillo's 2' draft we were able to search well beyond the shipping lane though the tide was dropping so we couldn't take too many chances (having used up our luck for the day sailing over the breakwater...).

We never did find the raft though we did see some old timber posts that could easily have been mistaken for people... we abandoned the search and carried on. The sea was slight but the wind, between a F2 and a F3 began to make a nuisance of itself as the tide turned against it. For any other vessel it would be a giggle but the wind resistance and uncomfotable water makes the engine work doubly hard and I decided that it would indeed be Sanbank (Dunoon) and not Rothesay (as we had tentatively hoped) that we aimed for this night. The engine is the bottom line for me and I've come to know when she's working hard... as Joe says, just continuously running that engine for 5, 6, 7 hours... it adds up. The temperature was sitting lovely and I just kept the throttle comfortable but that dastardly wind kept our speed below 5 knots (over the ground), even when the tide started to trundle.

As we passed the Coastguard at Greenock point the sea began to rough up a bit. Although the recorded wind was still relatively slack, there seem to be ribbons of fast stuff that whip along, and then there was the wash, broadside, of those blasted ferries. Anyway, Pecc was managing it all well, but after nearly 5 hours of uncomfortable water I wanted to check the prop shaft coupling (on the nastiness of the Forth a couple of bolts came loose). I asked Mike to ease back on the throttle, count to five (to let the prop shaft stop spinning so I could look at it) and then carry on.

Here was the mistake. As the throttle slowed some shaken up sludge settled in the pipe, and as he opened it again it shlurped up against the lift pump filter and blocked it. The engine died. This is the first time I've heard that sound in 12 years (apart from the time I ran out of diesel). Nothing I could do would get her going again, bearing in mind that getting into the fuel line is out of the question as it is a mighty mission to bleed this baby. Indeed it took the mechanic and I six hours to do so the next day... Joe remotely diagnosed the problem immediately but even after we'd cleared the lift pump we kept heading off on one investigative red herring after another because we couldn't start her... even though the engine was turning over ok. But that was just it... she's a pig to bleed. Won't stop once she's going, but won't start once there's air in the line.

Anyway, blah de blah you're saying, what about he drama bit... Mike called in the Pan Pan (step before mayday - to warn other vessels to stay clear). The police launch was upon us in minutes because we were strategically bobbing in the MOD Submarine lane. They offered to tow us but the Coastguard said they'd prefer us to wait for the RNLI boat from Helensburgh. Peccadillo was beginning to rock rather wildly with the waves from the ferries and passing tankers and I had to ask the Police boat to shield us from them at one point. Note to self: priority in a situation like this to perhaps get the dinghy in the water to try and hold the bow to the waves... she naturally swings broadside and begins to roll really uncomfortably.


The miraculous RNLI men, Robin, Davie and Chris, were there within half an hour... in fact I think it might even have been less, and the Coastguard watched the whole drama unfold from their window! Mike and Adrian leapt into impressive action and Billy defused some of my tension with his unassailable good cheer... the bastard LOVES adventure... I don't think I'll take him again cos I want a BORING trip.


I sent a silent thank you to Jimmy, Scott and Davie Brown with who's help and advice I had attached, with great difficulty, a HUGE tow-rope right the way round the boat (danger of towing a boat like Pecc is that she can just split... or things snap off). What a mission it was but I think the whole setup made it clear to the RNLI that I had approached the journey with every possible caution, and they didn't give me a hard time at all.


Sooooo, as we hurtled into Dunoon at 6.5 knots and Stevo and the Dunoon gang set out to meet up with us in their boat, everyone was just so kind, and so busy, and so enjoying the adventure that the abject humiliation dissipated long before we got there. I marvelled at the energy of these magnificent men in their shiny yellow boots and space-age helmets; at the alacrity and strength of Mike and Adrian skipping over the top of the barge, at the indominable good mood of that Billy boy and at the relentless encouragement I've had from one and all to keep going.


But as this was all going on I stood stunned at the stern... the first time in 12 years that she has so much as missed a beat and this is fundamental to my journey. I dropped down and tried one thing after another... tried again and again to start her... sinking in disbelief. Yes I had cleaned the diesel tanks... I do it every spring (this comment for any of you who might be considering putting yourself in mortal danger by suggesting as much) and I now have a contingency plan for this event. 


But the whole escapade has shaken and drained me beyond measure. Pecc feels tired too, though she warmed to our carresses the next day, Dr Stewart and I as we gently explored every bolt and wire, pipe and charge till she was sitting snug and sweet, purring again and ready to go.


To go? Where do I draw the line between adventure and irresponsibility? I have passed hundreds of boats on my journey so far... less than 1% of them moving. Dare I say the report on the RNLI website was a little pleased to have been involved (not a single canal barge callout since they opened in 1965). And here I am on MY Peccadillo in DUNOON! It's stunning... and I'm going to stop and think... for a week at least. A big think sweeties... what to do... I'm just sooooooo tired after all this preparation and trying to get the money in.... need to rest and think

and write.

*********************************************


Anyway... by way of therapy I did do some writing in Dunoon

indistinct

Reach for the stars

and feel the ground dissolve beneath your feet.

Watch, wide eyed, as the hard facts of your life

slip out from under your searching toe

and you are left clinging to the spar of the billowing sail

of an unknown yacht

shaft of an arrow let loose to cry

Why?

What?

Fade to mist in the suck and blow that is

the air in your lungs,

questionable existence

questioning resistance

to the one hard fact...

that you are everything and nothing

even the questions are no longer your own

all you can do

is keep breathing

Midsummer: Where am I?

Where is Peccadillo and what's going on?
Forgive me the tardiness in blogging but to be honest? I hit a little bit of a brick wall this week. I have been teaching from Monday to Wednesdays (IT Tutor with the Community Department of the City of Glasgow College - finish up next week, phew!) all the way through the journey so far, hosting commercial charters on weekends (what wild and wonderful clients I have had... could this be called work???) to raise money for the trip, organising and partaking in hearty celebrations at the Glasgow (Olypic Flame) and Dunoon (6th International Burns) parties. Colin & Anne (of Missee barge with whom I sail next week) have given up trying to speak to me as I am inveriably hurtling through whenever they catch a glimpse. A positive blur. How about lunch said Anita and I just laughed maniacally in her face saying YEAH, MEBBE AUGUST! (I have since apologised). Between these I have been martialing ongoing hospital appointments (another good blood result, yay!) and trying to get final trappings sorted on Peccadillo for sea state. (yes yes I know sea state is a windy term but i like it for the sense of boat readiness.)


Peccadillo is in Bowling. Gales prevented us from getting to Dunoon for the party (sadly we had to drive there; fantastic bash Billy, but most of the videos need to be censored... Mario!). (The pipers won the competition on Saturday by the way - hurrah!!!) Weather-wise we then missed a wee window this week between relentless lows (they are coming one after another and look for all the world like a stirng of beads that the gods are dragging carelessly across the pressure chart - problems with the jet stream apparently?) They bring gales and nastiness blasting from the east, and as they ease the wind turns West North West agains the outgoing tide that we need to carry us down (wind against tide = waves and we've had our share of those thanks!)


While I have been teaching on Monday's to Wednesday's the water has been like glass, but as Thursdays come so do the winds. There have been brief windows but there's a danger of, even if we make it to the Holy Loch or one of these other posh marinas, getting stuck there for 10 days... at £40/day. It's a sickening sum though I'm beginning to think I might need to bite the budget and risk it.

A window is opening up at last... we will drop to the bottom of the Bowling sea lock on Saturday night, spend the night in there with the gates open and set off with the 0405 high tide. Unless the predictions deviate ENORMOUSLY before then... and it is, after all, the west coast of Scotland so of course they could...

So, speak to you from Dunoon and beyond (hello to the new Russians and Mexicans following this blog!). There should be an article in the Scotland on Sunday this weekend (more about the wee spark but hope Peter mentions Clyde to Caledonia... bet you anything there will be a picture of RICHIE!) and the radio show of course... though I'm a little embarrassed to say until it's in the bag as so many of you had your ear clamped to the radio at 0630am last Saturday! Sorry!

Finally I'd like to share a piece I put together at the Bank Street Writers poetry group on Wednesday. The exercise was to look for inspiration from a piece of writing and then see where it takes you. This one grabbed me, conjured up images of the Custom House on the canal at Spiers Wharf, and the CC life lesson of having been brought to a complete halt by the elements (my schedule is as nothing in the face of the wind - I am sooooooooo not in control any more!). Yes that's right; they put the custom house on the CANAL because this WAS the hub of imports, not the poor old Clyde and the vagaries of it's shallows. This piece also puts me in mind of those I bring with me on this journey, some passed and some here, but all equally present to me. Ray, Pete, Nick (who has now been ordained and his new name is Mai Tri Siddhe), Daz with whom I have been sharing some existential angst and our Johnno who has hurtled off into the beginnings of his breathtaking cycle round an inordinately large piece of America. And John Cochrane for whom we take a song and a prayer to the Corryvreckan as he begins a journey much more arduous than ours.

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 La casa deidoginieri - by Eugenio Montale (exerpts)
"The Customs House" - translation by Allam Cameron

Libeccio sferza da aani le vecchie mura
The salted wind whips against the ancient walls

La bussola va impazzita all 'avventura
The compass spins and madness calls

Ed io non so chi va e chi resta
I do not understand who goes and who stays

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salted wind on ancient walls
compass spins madness calls
and none of us can know
who goes
who stays

chi va e chi resta

Gerry Loose Scrabble

The temptation to play with the "Clyde to Caledonia" magnetic letters on the side of the boat was too great for Gerry Loose, moored alongside us in Bowling. The battle began, but half way through we lost the little square of purple that converted one G to a C... and things have opened up since then.

cc +42: 6th International Burns Celebration (Dunoon)

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Day 9: Glasgow to Bowling

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cc +34: Olympic Flame Party Glasgow

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Day 8: Auchinstarry to Glasgow

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Day 7: Grangemouth to Auchinstarry

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Day 6: The Dark One on the Forth

The day started lightheartedly...

... but after the Kincardine Bridge things went desperately dangerous in a terrible sea... tide ripping out East and the wind gusting well against it, stronger than a force 4, ENE... and we were trying to head ESE to the mouth of the Carron. Donald and Geordie had returned to escort us in the rib but as things chopped up they had to cast off and keep their distance for fear of damaging the rib.

Most of the other boats had been through this water ahead of us, Gamebird being the most remarkable with her tiny dimensions... they were all safely in the sea lock except Colin's cruiser that had stuck in the mud under the M9.  Donald estimates the waves were approaching 1.2m and there wasn't a thing he could do but look on. Peccadillo went so well... rode those waves and took on very little water, and didn't break so much as one mug...but this was not supposed to be the scary bit! I've been so busy passage planning the west coast I'd thought to just tag along on this one! The crew was not safe and sea protection kit was not in place. As we headed for Bo'ness I tried to turn to starboard a couple of times, making for the Carron, but this created such a dangerous roll that at one point the prop left the water and Donald says he had a clear view of the underside of the bows... about a 35 degree list. I radioed the rib to say "I cannot turn"... not knowing for a minute what I thought they could do about it. But at this Donald shot across the bows and raced some figures of eight that momentarily flattened the surface... long enough for me to swing my stern to the wind... and the danger was over.

I'm not proud of any of this. I have been mightily humbled and am grateful for the lesson.

We'd missed the tide for the Carron so moored up on the mud at the yacht club till 2330 when we had enough water to get into the sea lock.

And guess what. Having survived that godforsaken sea and broken not so much as a teacup... as we returned to the sea lock I lost reverse throttle and hit the wall... Everything fell... Went below to find glass everywhere, a candle had started a small fire (the yacht club was only half a mile from the Sea Loch so we had stood down the sea-readiness and had dinner) and it took us till 0330 to clean up. (This after helping Donald pull Colin's cruiser in).

Anyway, pecc hull is fine but I cannot get the throttle mechanism to work...  we wrestled her back to Auchinstarry and I have a charter on today to do day 8, auch to glasgow... We can limp that. But I discovered in tidal waters that she overheated... Resolution to all this? I need to put the big gearbox in, replace all cables and mebbe get a new morse control a new engine... a new story... And all I want to do is sleep... I'm so tired. It almost feels a relief to decide I'm gonna have to call in a mechanic now, but money money money has been flying out in all directions.

Having said that, money has also been coming in, along with warm wishes... There were pats on the back aplenty on the canal bank as the story travelled from east to west... I feel full and still and small in a way that perhaps you only can having stood more terrified than I thought imaginable watching the bows in front of me drop eight feet into solid dark sea. But she rose every time and braved those waves better than I...

... I wet my pants just a little bit.

Day 5: Stirling to Grangemouth in the Jubilee Flotilla

While 1000 boats prepared to assault the Thames our flotilla of 7 canal boats and 12 ribs dwindled... but we set off in more wind than we wanted and made our way to an Idyllic evening in Stirling city centre where the povost promised pontoons would be set up for future visitors... hurrah!!!

Peccadillo played host to

Clackmannanshire Council (01259 452011)
Provost Tina Murphy
Depute Provost, Councillor Irene Hamilton
Councillor Donald Balsillie (Ward 2, Clackmannanshire North)
oh, and Davie Jones... but we were keeping quiet about him.
Yes really... Davie Jones.

Stalwart crew of the day were Billy, Amy and Mario.

Day 4: Falkirk to Grangemouth

Getting ready for we knew not what.