When it rained on our parade

Now I've sorted the photos out, hopefully a few retrospective - illustrated! - holiday posts.

The weather was on the whole magnificent. When it did rain, it was good enough to do so at night (and on at least one night served well in keeping disruptive local youth - yes, in Stratford - away.

There was one exception though. Braunston, Saturday June 28th, on the morning parade. The only time I have been wetter while fully clothed was when I fell in at Droitwich.

Thanks to Sarah of Algonquin for the photo

Never mind. It was a good opportunity to don my sou'wester in front of an appreciative audience and demonstrate general indomitability.

Because it was a Grand Union year, we got to tie up in the Arm, where it was still raining.

We'd feared we might be disturbed by the loud music from the beer tent, but avoided this by going to the pub.... Actually, I think we went to the Nelson with the Herbies on Wednesday, and the Boat House with the Owls on Friday, so perhaps we did go to the beer tent on Saturday... Yes, we did - crowded in to get out of another downpour and by sheer luck managed to get a table near the front. And the music, though quite loud, was worth listening to.

When we got back, the rain had just about stopped.

Tonight's view from the stern end

In Worcester, showing the fenders not yet properly replaced following their forced rearrangement on the Lower Avon.

Worcester also has good charity shops.

I had not expected to like the Severn - even Nicholsons, which likes everything, describes it as featureless. But, so far at least, it has charmed me. It helps that it is wide, so the ubiquitous trees are not overwhelming. It has flowers, relieving the monochrome verdancy, even if they are mostly the hated interloping Himalayan balsam.

It even has some aggregate traffic (I'm told that this has now ceased on the Trent).

So the Severn, so far, is a hit. If there is a pattern emerging regarding my riparian preferences, it seems to be that I like 'em wide.

Onwards to Stourport tomorrow and all being right with the world, supper in the Holly Bush.

Oh, and here's last night's view (possibly this morning's)

Just right

Tewkesbury has got it just right. A genuinely historic town, proud of its history, but living with and in it, without being a theme park.

Some good charity shops too.

Turn, turn and turn again

Apologies, I have been most remiss in not posting. I will try to catch up, with photos, later. Tonight finds us in Tewkesbury. We left Stratford yesterday morning and made good time to Evesham, where we spent last night. A strange town, not what I expected, but perhaps I should have done, given its main industry. Yesterday went well, though the weather was changeable. We were warned that we would have to descend Evesham lock backwards, which we did, aided by a rather splendid female lockkeeper in a polka dot dress. We knew too that we would have also to come down Chadbury lock backwards, which was our first lock this morning. What we didn't know was that we would have to repeat the feat at both Nafford and Strensham. I have got very good at turning round in weir streams. In Evesham we could only get down at all backwards; in the other three it was a question of getting the gate open once down.

Today we have also had a broken gear linkage, fortunately when approaching a lock rather than turning round in a weir stream, and, annoyingly, unshipped the rudder in the process of mooring. As it has been rather a trying day, I am feeding Jim up in Wetherspoons before he attempts to right that in the morning.

The Avon has lots of trees.

Made it!

For now I will just paste in the post I have just put on CWF -

'Chertsey is currently tied up below lock 50 on the south Stratford - so we made it!

Bridge 58 was not a problem; we got through easily. We did take it very very slowly, dead square, and the ballast in the front *might* have helped. Apparently this bridge has received attention from the local canal society and IWA since 2012 and has been restored to something like its proper dimensions.

The ballast may have helped also at lock 40 where the wing wall does come in a bit but we got out without any trouble.
In lock 42 we wriggled our way down but got out with no problem.

We got stuck in locks 45 and 47. In both cases it was at the bottom and on what appears to be Chertsey's widest spot, the top gaurd on the starboard side adjacent to the rearmost crossplank. In lock 45 this was just below a widening of the lock wall. We could have flushed it out except we couldn't get the gate open as I couldn't move back. So we refilled it a bit, held the boat back, emptied it, opened the gate and flushed out.

47 was trickier as the sticking point was higher above the waterline in the lock. We got over that by Jim jumping down onto the port side, though I guess any moveable ballast would have done.

Lots of CRT volunteers, only one of whom opened the top paddles, chucking the boat around and bashing the rudder against the cill.

Most thanks to Ian on Holland whose experience and quiet authority saved the day.'

Apologies to all those willing volunteers who would have turned out later in the week. We didn't expect to get here so quickly, and having done so thought we would try as soon as possible so that we could call out reinforcements if necessary. Look forward to seeing some of you at the weekend though!

Queens of Hatton

Two big boats, two blokes on bikes, and two women who can steer in perfect accord = Hatton heaven! Two hours fifty without even feeling like we were hurrying.

We left Blue Lias at 0700 and are now tied up three locks down the Stratford canal, where we arrived at 1745, having travelled most of the way with Tina and Ian on the josher Holland.

Very quick update

Sorry for the silence... sometimes you just don't feel like getting the iPad out at the end (or even the middle) of the day. Had a lovely sunny relaxing weekend at Foxton last weekend, then a leisurely run to Braunston and a few more sunny daysnat Braunston before the weekend started. A lowish key Braunston. It rained heavily on Saturday and I got soaked in the parade. Yesterday was nicer, with the Herbies playing on the deck. We sought advice about getting to Stratford and have decided we have to try - lots of people want to know how we get on! So on Sunday we dropped thenplanks before the parade, put a ton of coal in the fore end during it, and have borrowed a blue barrel from Fenny. Last night we filled it and our tanks with water at Blue Lias, having left Braunston at 3.30.

Holiday plans

The start of the Big Trip approaches at last!

The trip itself is dependent on almost split second timing, but with stops and festivities built in. The plan is this...

On Friday I have a work meeting at the British Library, so that will be handy as it takes me half way (in terms of time; a lot further than half way in terms of distance) back to Newhaven, so I will then go up with Jim in the car to Foxton, to rejoin Chertsey. Once we've unpacked the car, Jim will take it to Stretton to await our return there and come back to Foxton by train and bus. We plan to spend this weekend enjoying the Foxton Locks Festival and meeting up with the Herbies before departing for Braunston. The following weekend (27/28/29) will of course be spent at the Historic Narrow Boat Rally at Braunston, but we have to leave sharpish as we are due in Stratford upon Avon for the River Festival on Friday 4th. We'll be making the journey there by canal, but when we leave it will be by river - our (but not Chertsey's) first time on the Avon and on most of the Severn. When we get to Stourport we will stop to enjoy the delights of the Holly Bush, before continuing via the Staffs & Worcs and finally the Shroppie to Stretton.  If I've Canalplanned this correctly, it's 171 miles and 149 locks, six tunnels and one major aqueduct (which I have a lovely photo of Chertsey traversing circa 1970).

The first week's travel will be very leisurely; the second less so! Hopefully we will be accompanied for part of the way by Herbie, and for another part by Bernard with Enterprise (in case we get stuck in one of those narrow bridgeholes...). New territory includes the Avon, the Severn, the southern Stratford canal and Stratford itself.

So far I fear we have not managed to secure an organ for the hold. But at least we will be there, fifty years after Chertsey's pioneering appearance at the IWA Festival of Boats and Arts in 1964.

Orange and date cake

I fancied baking on Saturday when it was pouring with rain, but I didn't fancy going out. So I came up with this rather gorgeous vegan variation on Delia Smith's 'marmalade cake'.

You will need:
8 oz self raising flour
4 oz marg
4 oz caster sugar
grated rind of a large orange
heaped dessertspoonful of marmalade
1 teaspoonful orange juice (possibly not vital; the original recipe has vinegar!)
6 fluid oz milk (soya works fine)
4 oz chopped dates
generous teaspoonful demerara sugar.

I did it all in the Magimix, but the theory is this:

Rub together flour and marg. Stir in caster sugar, orange rind, then marmalade. Gradually add soya milk and then orange juice. Finally (especially if using Magimix) stir in dates.

Pour/scrape into a lined 2lb loaf tin and sprinkle the demerara sugar on top. Bake for about an hour at mk4/180 until you can poke something sharp into the middle and it doesn't come out gooey.

It's rather crumbly at first but firms up a bit (and the crust softens) if you keep it for a day in an airtight box. I kept it in the fridge as I thought it might be prone to mould, but then I ate it so that became academic.

Really, well worth a try. I thought it was lovely and it doesn't scream 'vegan' (not that there's anything wrong in that of course, but sometimes the most appalling stuff gets passed around in the name of vegan cake and you're supposed to make allowances - with this, like Kath/Carrie's banana cake, you certainly don't need to.)

Random record

Randomness is a great aid when one is paralysed by trivial choices. I often enlist an online random number generator to, for example, choose which CD to put on. The day before yesterday it selected the Tom Robinson Band compilation 'Winter of 89' which I'd almost forgotten I had. Being a rather old and probably inferior CD, it skipped alarmingly on 'Atmospherics' but other than that it was a lovely bit of time travel back to my not very misspent youth (although I did miss the last train home after going to the TRB 10th anniversary reunion at the 100 Club in 1987 and ended up rather embarassingly getting a lift home from Lewes in a police car). I still have the T-shirt!



Last night I enjoyed a compilation of Elizabethan anthems and organ music. However, the system cannot be relied on not to occasionally throw up some late Scott Walker, which as everyone knows, is only for decoration. Tonight I could be listening to 'The Drift', but despite having bought it when it came out, I haven't quite gathered the mental strength to actually play it yet.

Looking over Ladybower

That was the title of this weekend's walk, and here we are doing just that.

This week's walk was a bit of a contrast to the previous two.

For a start, the weather was very different - far more bracing, with frequent heavy showers, wind, and occasional horizontal rain.

Secondly, the scenery was different too; heather moorland for the most part, in contrast to the green pastures and twinkling waters of earlier walks.

We set off from (in not necessarily in) Hope and started with a fairly serious climb up towards Win Hill. Skirting the very summit, we stumbled and paddled our way down the other side, where the rocky footpath through the heather had become a brook.

We agreed to curtail the planned walk slightly on account of the weather, and finished off in the very welcoming Woodroffe Arms back in Hope.

A walk in the woods

This week's walk, on Saturday, was titled 'The hidden bluebells of the Peak' - hidden they may have been, but we tracked them down, on a splendid walk taking us fro the Grouse Inn at Grindleford via Grindleford station, through Rough Wood, the Derwent Valley Heritage Way, Hazelwood, Mill Wood, Stoke Ford, Eyam Moor, Froggatt and back to the Grouse for a very well earned pint. The walk was nine miles, but with quite a serious climb at the end.

With much of it on narrow rocky footpaths, opportunities for photostops were even more limited.

The weather was fabulous

And here we are having lunch

We were accompanied by three dogs. Wolfie was my favourite.

Last wonder

For some reason Blogger isn't letting me comment on my own blog, so in orr not to keep Halfie and Alan in suspense any longer, the last (and arguably least famous) of Rolt's seven wonders of the waterways is the Burnley Embankment on the Leeds-Liverpool. Which I haven't seen either.

The one out of the seven which I have visited - and indeed traversed - is the Standedge Tunnel.

One out of seven

How many of Rolt's 'seven wonders of the waterways' can you name without looking them up? Shockingly, I've only visited one of the seven. Must do better.

Proxy peregrine pets

I don't know why my employer advertises this webcam on the staff homepage if they want us to do any work.

A walk in the park

On Sunday I went out with the Ramblers for a second time. This was a slightly unusual walk as it was a 'hen' walk for one of the walkers who is marrying a fellow walker next month, and it culminated in a tea party in Baslow village hall - very kind of Heather to have a total stranger along.

I entered into the spirit by wearing something pink, as requested, but didn't go as far as some who were kitted out with flowers, feather boas and glittery hats (but thankfully no illuminated plastic penis headwear, as I saw once on a train to, where else,  Brighton). It was a serious walk for all that, nearly ten miles with some reasonable hills. The route was described as Baslow - Chatsworth Park - Carlton Lees - Rowley - Manners Wood - New Piece Wood - Baslow, for those of you to whom that means something (I just had to go and look it up again as I have no memory for places at all). Quite a bit of it was within the Chatsworth estate and we saw two sorts of deer as well as plenty of lambs. And bluebells.

The weather was much better than forecast. The only trouble with these serious walkers is that there's barely time to stop and take any photos, and you have to remind yourself to take notice of the view.

Musical interlude

If this works, that is.

Kath and Neil (nb Herbie) on hammer dulcimer and mandolin respectively accompanied by Chertsey on PD2.

Desmond

After the tat auction, the highlight of the Foxton weekend had to be the Sunday night quiz. In order to avoid entering a competition there was no chance of winning, Jim volunteered for bar duty, while I - with the more modest ambition of Not Coming Last - put together a crack team of (former and sort-of) engineers and seasoned boaters who had just the slight disadvantage of not being steeped in history.

These biennial quizzes, viciously compiled by Peter of Stanton, focus on recognising obscure places and knowing obscure facts, and, this time, on being able to do big sums. Well, that should have given us an advantage at any rate! The interval question asked how many lockfuls of water were lost to evaporation in a day on a typical pound of the Oxford canal. Dimensions and evaporation rates were provided and the boys set about with their slide rules to calculate the total volume lost. This took quite a long time and they came up with different answers, none of which were very helpful as we had no idea of the official capacity of 'a lockful'. Meanwhile I, while completely fazed by the sums, suggested a much simpler process of calculation which would yield a depth in a lock rather than a cubic capacity. This turned out to be 1.5m which it seemed a ptty fair bet was half a lock (it was fortunately multiple choice) and so the answer proved.

Moments of glory for me were recognising Drakeholes tunnel (Adrian and Linda will be pleased) and identifying the head of navigation of the Chesterfield, though I couldn't for the life of me recall the name of the (Norwood) tunnel. Less glorious (also in the 'terminal' round) was when I recognised a photo of Sheffield Basin, aka Victoria Quays, which was part of the question, and bounced up and down in my chair going I know this one! I know this one! And one of my fellow team members said 'it's Leeds...' so confidently that I went 'oh all right then' and wrote down Leeds. It was Sheffield of course. However, this didn't make any difference to the final rankings.

My ambition had been not to come last. After the first round, this was indeed our position, but we climbed steadily (and then dropped back a bit) to finish third from bottom, with a score of 67 out of 120. To salvage even more pride I roughly calculated that this was not just a pass, but a 2:2. Hooray for The Bewildebeests!

Sugar

I bought some demerara sugar a while ago in my local Spar. They only had one brand: Silver Spoon. I was sceptical at the time, but I didn't have my glasses, and I wanted to tick every item off my list, so I bought it.

This morning I put on my glasses and read the whole packet; the recipe for crunchy gingerbread men and all. Nowhere does it say 'produce of'. I thought every food product had to state where it originated from? I looked twice but it still didn't. My fears were pretty much confirmed.

In short, this is not (what I would consider) genuine demerara; i.e. raw cane sugar, but coloured and flavoured white sugar. I know this because Silver Spoon proudly proclaim on their website that theirs is 'the only sugar grown in Britain'. And that means it's not cane, because sugar cane doesn't grow in cold soggy Britain, but beet sugar, and it also means that it's heavily refined, whatever it may look like, because otherwise it would taste of beet.

Now, I know that no sugar is actually good for you, and to me that means that if I am going to use it, I want it to be worth it. I want the best stuff, with real flavour, not an artificial substitute. And then I started reading about the sugar refining process, and I was even more certain.

While genuine unrefined cane sugar has undergone very little processing, white sugar emerges from a process involving phosphoric acid and calcium hydroxide (yes I know there's phosphoric acid in Coke, that's why it dissolves your teeth and kills germs). The process requires a lot of heat too. It then has to have molasses or even just caramel colouring added back to make brown or 'demerara' sugar.

I have a slightly more than passing interest in this subject, because my late Uncle Woodie worked on a sugar plantation in Jamaica; I think his family owned it. He only talked to us about it once, but it was fascinating. He told us how the cane was cut with a machete; the thick hard stem was cut at an angle and you had to know what you were doing. One worker stood in the wrong place and the cut section slid down and its edge sliced his foot off (I/he may be exaggerating slightly with the 'off' but who knows).

And of course there is a tenuous waterways connection. One of the last four remeining sugar refineries in Britain, producing beet sugar to be sold as Silver Spoon, is located in my favourite waterways town, and locals often wonder at my choice, citing the smell that emerges from it. I can only say that so far, I haven't been at the right time of year, or with the wind in the right direction to experience it.

Expand your knowledge today with interesting Wikipedia articles on sugar cane and sugar refining.

Balls

Many people who know me are surprised to discover that I am a big fan of snooker. I started watching Pot Black as a child, and the course of my life might have been quite different had I spent more time revising for my A Levels and less watching the 1983 World Championship. Back in those days my favourite player was the exciting young Steve Davis. I'm not sure when (or how, really) he acquired a reputation for being boring; when he first arrived on the scene he was a breath of fresh air, the first of a new generation, and brought a combination of potting and tactical skills that possibly hadn't previously been seen in one player.

Given that I have so little time for most sport, what is it that makes snooker different? It took me a while to work it out, but I think the answer is very simple. With most games, as a spectator, you can only appreciate the action in retrospect. As soon as it happens, it's over. Snooker however gives the audience the delights of anticipation, thinking alongside the player in a way that just isn't possible with faster moving sports, nor in games like golf where you can't see an overview of the field of play.

Over the twelve or so years I didn't have a TV, my snooker viewing went into abeyance, so now I'm hooked again I really notice the cahnges that have taken place. None of them really seem to be for the better - although I suppose that overall one should be pleased that it has changed relatively recently.

The first is the players, who seem, to a far greater extent than previously, to be a series of unprepossessing clones. Sometimes it's difficult to take an interest in the outcome of a match because both players are as bland as each other. It doesn't help that they are also nearly all so young. I have transferred my allegiance to Ronnie O'Sullivan, one of the few of today's players who was on the scene when I last watched, because both his age and his character make him stand out - and his game is a joy to watchmof course.

Secondly, sponsorship. Snooker has always been heavily sponsored - Benson and Hedges, Embassy - but 'waistcoat' sponsorship is a new one on me. The shocking thing is how tacky it is - crude badges clumsily attached like a child's 25 metre swimming badge sewn to his trunks. Given that the players' entire waistcoats appear to be provided by the sponsors (surely that many people couldn't spontaneously choose the same shade of pink satin lining voluntarily), I'm surprised that the sponsors' names and messages aren't directly embroidered on. This has clearly served to take another chunk of individuality out of the game - Doug Mountjoy's ruffles and Kirk Stevens' white suit would find no place in today's game, and that's a shame. I was however pleased to note that in the UK Championships (but sadly not the World) they had resurrected the wearing of ordinary ties for the afternoon sessions and reserving evening dress for the evening, as is right and proper, and helps add to the sense of occasion.

Thirdly, the appearance of female referees is, on the face of it, a very welcome development (female players would be even better but I fear the days that might have been possible have passed). However. The female referees are not at all like the male referees. They are not elderly, greying, or paunchy. They are glamourous, coiffed and heavily made up. This does not seem much of a blow for equality, to be honest, and it is hard to rebut the charge that in their current form, they are distracting. This is not because they are female, but it only applies to the females. And that's a shame too.

Finally, in some ways the biggest change, and the one I find hardest to understand and indeed to countenance. The application of the 'miss rule'. It used to be that if a player was snookered, and failed to hit the ball he needed to, he was penalised by giving away points. His opponent could put him in to play again, if they felt this would be to their advantage, and if a snooker was gained as a result of a foul, the oppenent would be given a free ball. Very, very, rarely the referee would declare a miss if he felt that in his professional judgement the player had not made a real effort or had missed deliberately. In such a case, the balls are replaced as they were before the miss and the fouling player has to take the shot again. I think I saw this about four times in all the years I was watching. Now however, a miss seems to be declared literally every time a player misses, even when it's clear they've made a real effort to play the shot millimetre perfect. The crime now seems to be not deliberately missing, but not taking a sufficient risk with regard to subsequent positioning. The balls can be replaced and the shot retaken half a dozen times, giving points away to the opponent every time. This seriously interrupts the flow of the game, and undermines the unstated but central tenet of tha game, that of playing the balls where they lie, and taking them, good or bad, as you find them. It also seems to me to be a dangerous move, in that it is tacitly accusing players of trying to cheat, to obtain an unfair advantage by not playing to the best of their ability. Snooker is a game that prides itself on gentlemanly behaviour - one of the commentators said last night that, along with golf, it is the only sport in which players will routinely declare a foul against themselves, even if the referee hasn't seen it. Treating players as potential cheats can only undermine that.

Anyway, I'm off to go and put BBC2 on. All I can say is that it's a good thing that there was no Red Button when I was seventeen.

Beautiful morning

Just in case you thought I was going to do nothing but moan...

Location:Kings Lock

This river is not endearing itself to me

Back on my bugbear, the River Soar. For once a nice day, apart from the wind; dry and with plenty of sun. A few things still managed to go wrong though, but we still managed to make it to Mountsorrel, where Jim and I have never stopped before. The first two pubs we tried didn't do food on Sunday evenings, so we ended up at the Quarrymaster. Formerly the Railway, this was clearly a new venture - the owners having been been there since November. Things didn't start well, as the Bombardier was clearly and severely off, but it was replaced without a murmur with Bass which was fine. The revelation though was the food, which was all excellent. We met the chef, who was not long out of a local college, where he had won prizes. So that made a very nice ending to a somewhat trying day.

Location:Mountsorrrel

Rudder buggered

Yesterday evening, at Fradley, out travelling companions wondered idly whether we had ever unshipped Chertsey's rudder, and if so, how hard it was to get back in. No, I said. No idea; it's never happened. Must have forgotten to touch wood because you can guess what happened today...
No, it wasn't on a lock cill; it was as I was pulling in to drop Jim off at the innocuous and unassuming looking Branston lock, I just very gently reversed onto a rock about three feet out from the sheet piling, and knew immediately what had happened, despite never having experienced it before.

We struggled with it for a bit and managed to get it sitting (as we realised later) on the skeg but not in the cup. It didn't feel right but we struggled on, until it fell off again, catching Jim's hand in the process, as the tiller bar dropped a couple of inches, against the sharp corner of the rear door hasp (important job: grind that sharp corner off).

So we limped on very slowly until we got to Shobnall Fields in Burton, and having fortified Jim with lunch and a cup of tea and a great deal of sticking plaster (and TCP and a rubber glove), resumed trying to resite the rudder in its proper place. The only way really to do it, in the water, is by trial and error, Jim lifting the tiller with his shoulder. Every time we thought it was there though, a few trial sweeps led to it dropping out again. Eventually it was Iain who, employing the same method, either by luck or experience achieved success.

So on we have gone, ending up eventually just beyond Swarkestone lock, where we have not been to a pub but have enjoyed a lovely meal with Clair and Iain on Plover.

The starter motor is performing excellently, and today we have tested it on starting the engine when it's hot, which it has achieved without a murmur.

Location:Swarkstone

A pleasant surprise at the Mucky Duck

A lovely day's boating has brought us to Fradley, where we were lucky enough to secure a mooring right by the pub. I have blogged before about my less than impresssive experiences of this iconic canalside pub, so I'm very pleased to be able to report that tonight it was very good - a good range of beer, not served in hot wet glasses this time, and some very nice food too.

Location:Fradley Junction

Well, it worked for the Welsh Development Agency

We have made it to Penkridge without incident, hooray. Along the way I have amused myself by memorising the names of the locks by setting them to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

I know it worked for the Welsh Development Agency because thirty years later I can still remember: Dunlop, G-Plan, Revlon, Berlei; British Airways, Hotpoint, Kraft. Kellogs, Esso, Hoover, Sony; Metal Box, Ferranti, Ford. I wonder how many of them are still made in Wales?

Location:Penkridge

We have lift off

Amazingly, wonderfully, the new started motor started the engine first press of the button - letting us know just how knacked the old one had been. And in the end the dreaded job took less than three hours. So it's still dinner in Penkridge tonight....

Location:Stretton

Progress report

After much swearing, hacking of knuckles and wielding of hacksaw, the old starter motor is off...




... and the new one in place.



Now it needs to be done up and connected and then we will have the moment of truth that will make or break this Easter trip...

Location:Stretton

Last minute hitch

Well here we are, all ready to set off...



And the starter motor decides it's finally going to give up the ghost.



This starter motor has been problematic for a while, insofar as it wouldn't engage when the engine was hot, unless hit with a sledgehammer kept in the engine room for the purpose.

So, we had been preparing to replace it. We had a spare, which we got completely rebuilt last summer by the nice man in Hednesford, and it was just a matter of getting round to fitting it. However, it appeared that in order to undo one of its bolts, it would be necessary to lift the engine. Thus the job kept getting put off.

This morning however, the old one finally decided to stop turning over with anything like enough power to get the engine running - despite trying it with two newly charged and one brand new battery. Jim is now, as I write (and I have to keep breaking off to fetch him tools) seeing if, by cutting the straps on the electrical conduit, which are fixed under the engine mounting bolts, he can get to the recalcitrant nut without having to undo these.

If this can be done, and if the new starter motor works, we will still hopefully catch up with Plover in time to leave tomorrow morning. If not, then disaster - because I have the bar rota.

You may ask why we don't hand start it. Well, firstly because we haven't put the hand start chain back on since fixing the high pressure fuel pump cam, and secondly, because the reason there wasn't any point in doing that is that only one person has ever succeeded in hand starting it, and we can't take Mike Askin everywhere with us.

The latest cry from the engine room indicates that while the nut has been undone (on the right hand end in the photo) there isn't room for the starter motor to clear its studs because one of the engine mounts (on the left) is in the way. The trouble is, these engine set ups were never designed to be worked on in situ; for any major work they would be lifted out and swapped.

Such are the delights of ancient boat ownership, and the perils of procrastination.

Location:Stretton

Post about nothing very much

Basically, we're ready to set off tomorrow, nice and early, to catch up with Plover in Penkridge and thence make our way to Foxton in convoy. Of the three possible routes we are taking the one that was initially bottom of our list - via the Soar. It is the obvious way to go, the shortest and quickest route, and it hasn't rained for quite a while now has it... Anyway, we will be travelling up river so it won't be as exciting as our first experience of that waterway on Warrior was.

The glamping boat has survived the winter well and is proving most commodious. Last weekend we put in one of the window cloths so now have natural light to the bathroom (well, it does have a bath even if it's not actually a room. Although it is in the sense of being the space between two stands, or possibly a few knees) and the living/kitchen area.

Most of the brass is polished, and there is a modest floral arrangement of willow and blackthorn on the cabintop.

Easter here we come!

Late entry in the battle of the stoves leaves the field standing

I'm just back from a weekend spent preparing Chertsey to set off to Foxton next week, and the most exciting thing I have to report on is Jim's new purchase - a two burner Origo stove. He's been quite keen on getting one for a while; they are all the rage with the lumpy water mob, apparently, and Alan Fincher was waxing lyrical about his, which he showed us at Braunston last year. I of course was dubious but I am happy to admit that I am completely won over.



The Origo is fuelled with alcohol, giving a hot, virtually soot free flame. It is as easy to light as gas - just turn the knob and poke a long lighter down into the burner. When the kettle boils, turning the knob back puts it out. The flame is adjustable - not quite as finely as gas, but it goes low enough to cook a squash curry without catching it. It boils a kettle pretty quickly, comparing favourably with the Primus and certainly faster than the Beatrice, although possibly not as fast as gas. You sometimes get some condensation from the flame if the kettle's cold, but it does no harm.

The unit is compact and stable, as it is designed to be used at sea. The alcohol is held in a kind of wadding so it is completely spill-proof, making it very safe. The only downside I can think of is the cost - they are expensive to buy, ours having been on offer on Amazon at £135 - and to run. Jim bought a case of 12 x 1 litre bottles of fuel for around £36 and we got through one of them in the time I was there, cooking one dinner and making lots of tea. But for the convenience, cleanness, speed and lack of worry about safety, I think it's worth every penny, and we will probably find cheaper sources of fuel. The alcohol is uses isn't meths, by the way, and compared to meths hardly smells at all.

One Beatrice is being kept in case we run out of alcohol; we have just stocked up on paraffin for the Tilley lamps so there is still a frisson of danger to keep life interesting. Particularly the danger of banging your head on one. The Primus (which was actually a Monitor, bought unused, boxed and dated 1953) appears however to have sprung a leak. I haven't investigated in any detail, but the bottom of its windproof biscuit tin was swimming in oil - so it's lucky we didn't need it. I have three other old pressurised paraffin stoves, including a genuine Primus, so I shall keep one for display, but I don't think I would really mind if I never had to light one again. On the other hand though, I'm glad that it's a skill I've mastered. But it's mod cons all the way now!

Bridgehopping

As Halfie correctly identified, I was in Hebden Bridge on Saturday. This was as part of an outing loosely organised by the Sheffield and South Yorkshire vegans. The only part of it that was actually organised was the meal in the evening, but most people decided it would be nice to spend a day in Hebden Bridge first.

In truth, there wasn't really enough to fill a whole day. I was a trifle disappointed. Not only because the streets weren't after all thronged with living Liberal Democrat Focus leaflet artwork from the early nineties (when I was a councillor, the Association of Liberal Democrat Councillors was based in Hebden Bridge, so that was where we got our artwork from, on paper, ready to be photocopied, cut out, and pasted onto layout sheets with Cow gum. I wonder if young people these days realise that cut and paste was once a literal activity...) Furthermore, I was expecting it to be a lot more visibly 'trendy' and right-on. It's supposed to be the lesbian capital of Britain, for goodness sake, but this wasn't readily apparent. Nor was there a noticeable contingent of people wearing yak wool jumpers who knitted their own yogurt ((c) Alexei Sayle). Maybe Lewes just sets the bar too high.

Nonetheless, it was a pleasant enough little town, but not sufficiently special to deserve its reputation as a tourist destination. There was sufficiently good charity shopping to completely defenestrate my resolution to buy no clothes this year - I came home with a dress (East; my favoured successor to Monsoon), a skirt, a blouse, a jacket, a bracelet and a brooch. I didn't fancy eating here, vegan or not.

The town centre's possibilities exhausted, I took a stroll along the towpath, pausing to remonstrate gently with a hire boater doing useless and pointless things with ropes in the lock (Shire Cruisers, you don't really tell them to do that do you?) as far as Mytholmroyd, the birth place of Ted Hughes, squatting sullenly under a suitably leaden sky, before turning back.

In many places the towpath was collapsing into the water, taking the coping stones with it - presumably as a result of all the recent rain.

The evening's meal was taking place not in Hebden Bridge, but its neighbour Sowerby Bridge (I was very pleased when the woman in the Hebden tourist information centre confirmed, by her example, my pronunciation of this as 'Sore-bee'). Dandelion and Burdock is an entirely vegan restaurant, and the meal I had there was very nice. The starter of a garlicky spinach 'cream cheese' dip was very good; the main course South Indian Curry was fairly run of the mill (even though the guy sitting opposite me kept saying, 'I really enjoyed that okra'), and the dessert, ice cream sandwiched between oat, raisin and choc chip cookies was a bit special, and you would never have guessed it was vegan. Sadly, most of the assembled company at my end of the table had only one topic of conversation, which was 'being vegan', leavened with anecdotes about how hard it was to be vegan whilst on their foreign holidays.

Prior to dinner, while it was still light, I went to take a photo of Tuel Lane lock This is the deepest lock in the country, having replaced two former locks for which there was no longer space when the canal was restored in the 1990s.

The lock was all locked up for the night so I circumvented the sign prohibiting climbing over the railings by squeezing between them, to get a not very impressive photo - it was half full so the full depth of 19'8" was not readily apparent from the inside.

I've not boated on the Rochdale canal; must get round to it one day.

Dig deep, fundraisers

Have you got it yet?

Hilly!

I'm not sure whet happened to the sun...

Mystery destination

Tomorrow I visit a town that was for many years the centre of my little universe; my Mecca, my Shangri-La. It's on a canal, but I've never visited by boat, nor by any other means, even when I lived in the same county.

I know what to expect though. A smiling sun will preside over the scene. The streets will be thronged with harassed looking alarm clocks, dashing to appointments on stubby little legs. Looking benignly on, despite the discomfort they must be suffering, are herds of elephants with knots in their trunks. There will be a race course, but only a small one, as every race is a two horse race.

Gosh. I hope it lives up to my expectations.

Location:Mystery destination

Walkies

If you're a keen walker (which I've been known to be), and you live in Sheffield, then how can you not go walking in the Peak District? Well, in my case, by having no one to walk with, and definitely not being brave enough to set out on my own. But the other week I had an epiphany of the blindingly obvious.

As I got up at 5.30 am in order to get the train to Lapworth for the HNBC AGM, I caught a bit of Ramblings on Radio 4, a bit in which Clare Balding revisited groups of people she'd walked with ten years previously when the programme started. And I stood there open mouthed (and half dressed) and thought: I'll join a walking group!

A quick consultation of the internet revealed that such groups abound in Sheffield. Surfing the wave of enthusiasm, I'd joined the Ramblers before leaving to catch my train.

Thus it was that on Sunday I found myself locating (with far less difficulty than I had anticipated) a car park on the Chatsworth estate for the start of a ten mile walk entitled 'Around the Carlton Pastures'. I'm afraid this didn't mean much to me; I know we took in the village of Edensor and passed Bakewell station (deceased; the railway line is now a walking route) and ended up where we started in Carlton Lees car park, seeing fields, sheep, sparkling water, dry stone walls, and in the distance, Chatsworth House. The walk was graded B1, meaning (B) that it was between 8-12 miles, and (1) that it wasn't difficult; no steep or sustained climbs. I managed it easily in my trusty Boating Boots, which was a relief. The weather of course could not have been better.

En route I chatted with a few new people, all of whom seemed very nice. After we finished, we found our way to the Rutland Arms at Baslow for a well earned drink, soaking up the last of the sun on the terrace overlooking the river Derwent.

Next Sunday I am bestowing my favours on a different group, The Sheffield Wanderers, who are doing the Sheffield Canal and Five Weirs - down the canal to Meadowhall (or Meadowhell, if you're local) and back via the River Don, with a buffet on the way! And I have an outing planned for Saturday as well. Hope we get more than one weekend of nice weather!

Incredible claim

Not really a book review, but it was the HNBC AGM on Saturday, and I was one of two members to take advantage of the meeting's new Lapworth venue, chosen for it's railway station, to travel by train. On arrival I had nearly finished the book I'd brought with me, so had to choose something from the second hand book stall to occupy me on the way home. I settled on Iris Bryce's trilogy of memoirs of travelling the system in the 1970s and early 80s, Canals are my Home, Canals are my World, and Canals are my Life.

These proved to be a pleasant enough and undemanding read, containing nothing earth shattering - apart that is, from the shocking claim made on page 97 of the final volume, viz: 'We enjoyed Worksop very much.'

Sorry, I forgot...

Belated happy birthday Chertsey...

Amy and James celebrated Willow's birthday at the weekend, yesterday being the 79th anniversary of its first health registration.

Chertsey is a couple of years younger, celebrating its 77th birthday on January 29th. This is the date given in Alan Faulkner's book which I have always assumed to be when the boat was handed over by Harland and Wolff to GUCCCo, although I realise I don't actually know exactly what it signifies.

Sunday sunrise

Impossible to capture of course, especially with just a quick snap of the iPad (2). In reality as I sit having my breakfast looking out of the kitchen window it looks completely monochrome, bands of grey and the trees stark black against the glare of the new sun, which twenty minutes ago I watched creeping over the horizon. Sheer luck, but I'm so glad my flat faces east. Every morning now, the first thing I do on getting up is stand and have a long look out of the window.

Resolution update

OK, how have I got on with my new year's resolutions so far? Let's have a blow by blow update on all five of them. The results may be surprising.

1. Not buying any clothes
So far, so good. I have not bought any clothes all month. I have seen maybe one thing that I would have bought, had it not been for the resolution, but mostly I am avoiding temptation by trying not to look.

2. Being vegan
The big success story, this, because it looks the hardest, but I haven't strayed once and am loving it. I will definitely aim to keep it up for another month now, and fully expect to do so for longer.

3. Not drinking beer in January
There was one glitch in this one, as we all went out mid month to celebrate a colleague's promotion at the Bath Hotel. However, I have drunk only two pints of beer (Brother Rabbit, IIRC) this month. I have to report that I have not experienced any beneficial effects from this abstemiousness, other than in my wallet and my recycling bin.

4. Reading classy books and not trashy detective novels
Better make this a month rather than year long one. I have read no detective novels in January, and have read quite a few Good Books, of which more later. But I miss those simple comforts, even though the more literary offerings can be rewarding.

5. Doing the cryptic crossword
This is looking like the big fail. After a couple of weeks I found that it just wasn't grabbing me any more and I have stopped attempting it. Some days I would get no clues, others up to a dozen, but all that struggling just wasn't interesting enough. I think I'm not really much of a one for puzzles full stop, much the same as I don't care for Airfix kits. They just don't seem productive ways of expending effort. I found it boring. Sorry.

Wonder where they got that idea....

Diamond Geezer features a brilliant spoof today...

I thought it had a kind of familiar ring....

Another Willow, another Duck

Inspired by Amy's post, I dug out these photos from May 2012...

Very restrained.

A note on quantities

As no one has remarked, my recipe the other day was unashamedly couched in pounds and ounces. This is not because I am a frothing Europhobe; no indeed.

I am one of that fortunate, brief, generation to be bilingual in imperial and metric. The former was spoken at home, while I learnt the latter from my earliest days at school. I am therefore in the envious position of being to switch between systems and use whichever is best suited to the task in hand.

For linear measurement, this is nearly always millimetres. Except, CRT, when talking about the lengths of boats (or for that matter the diameter of records). If something was built according to one system, little good, and much confusion, arises from attempting to express it in terms of the other.

When calculating the weight of my water ballast, I find it much easier to work with litres and tonnes. In fact, I mentally convert gallons to litres and then equate tonnes with tons to get a rough approximation without too much brow furrowing.

But where I refuse to accept that metric can ever be superior is in the weights and measures of recipes. Nothing can be simpler - especially for scaling up and down - than a sixteen-based system, based as it effectively is on halving and doubling. I only have to look at a metric recipe, with quantities ending in '5', to glaze over. When did we discover the need to be accurate to within 5 grammes (that's somewhere between a fifth and a sixth of an ounce) when making a victoria sponge? The only reason we get presented with these absurd figures is because the damn recipe has been converted from an imperial one in the first place.

Cashpoint swamp

Lost in the New Year hangovers, on January 1st the Guardian reported that:

More than 300,000 of Britain's poorest people live at least 1km from a free-to-use cash machine, raising questions about whether the most disadvantaged can obtain cash without paying a fee, the government's adviser on poverty has said. Figures obtained by the Guardian from the Link network, the body responsible for running Britain's ATMs, show there are 269 low-income areas lacking a free machine within a 1km radius. These "cash machine deserts" mean people face a fee ranging from 75p to £10 to retrieve their money via an ATM.

In contrast, in one eight minute section of my walk to work, I pass no fewer than eleven free-to-use cash machines. Eleven. When I arrived here last year, there were eight, all except one attached to banks, but since then a new Sainsbury's Local and a Tesco Express have opened, each complete with cash machine, and just in case there still weren't enough, the Post Office added one to their front window.

Why? What's in it for them? Am I more likely to shop in Sainsbury's if I can get my cash from right outside the door rather than a few steps down the road? Does the Post Office have a policy of installing machines regardless of existing provision in the area?

Come to think of it, what does it say about an area that it has five bank branches within a five minute walk, in what is no more than a small suburb? Perhaps the dreaded Wikipedia points towards the answer - apparently my lovely little part of town was 'identified in 2003 as the highest ranking area outside London for overall wealth'.

I had no idea, honest.

How to be a fat vegan no. 2

Ginger treacle toffee flapjack

Over a low heat, gently melt together:
3 oz treacle
4 oz dark brown or muscovado sugar
4 fluid ounces of sunflower oil
Quarter teaspoon of salt
3 teaspoons ground ginger

When melted and combined stir in:
8 oz oats

Mix well and press into a tin about 8"/20cm square, well greased and preferably non-stick
Bake at Mark 4/150 for about 20 minutes. When slightly cool, mark out into portions; don't try to remove from the tin until cold because it will fall apart.

This is the first version of a new experimental flapjack recipe - suggestions for improvement welcome. It might be easier with marg. (in which case you'd want 4 oz by weight) but I'm still avoiding artificially hardened facts despite having foresworn butter, lard etc.

Silent Sunday

Disconcerting cruet

After the last HNBC meeting and 'social' back in November, an ever increasing number of us repaired to the Folly at Napton for supper. Jim and I had a most enjoyable meal, seated at a table with Amy and James of Willow. My meal was haunted somewhat by the ostensibly delightful, but actually rather disturbing cruet.

The bone shaped pepper pot was fine, but it did feel rather peculiar to invert the small terrier and see streams of salt pour from its blank eyes onto my chips.

Apologies for neglecting to get an action shot, but it was every bit as weird as you might imagine.

Christmas kitties

This Christmas I gave one feline:

And received a pair:

Bagpuss was rescued from the Save the Children shop (for £2!) and successfully rehomed with my friend Dean, while the wonderfully grumpy felt slippers were from No. 2 Son.

History underfoot (1)

I do find manhole covers rather fascinating - a bit of industrial history beneath our feet, usually made at a local foundry and proudly proclaiming its name. This one is a bit different, as it rather proudly bears the name of its commissioner instead ...

.... unless the Sheffield Corporation had its own foundry of course, which I wouldn't put past them, although I can't find any record.

Hopefully the first of an occasional series as they catch my eye.

(and apologies for it insisting on coming out sideways.)

Speed dating

Of course, the dialogue should be the other way round...

(Posted by Chris Bennett on Facebook - I very much doubt it's anyone's copyright. but do let me know if it's yours...)

Top tip

Or what we are now apparently supposed to call a 'life hack'.

Got a really tasty sounding veggieburger recipe, but can't face all that sticky shaping and messy frying (during which it all falls apart anyway)?

Simply spread the mixture out and press down in an oiled baking tin, and bake in a hot oven for about twenty minutes, then cut into sections and remove with a fish slice. All the flavour and nutrition, with none of the hassle!

Apologies for the rather dark photo.

How to be a fat vegan no. 1

Vegetarian breakfast at the Truckers Rest, on the A5 near Cannock.

Trousers

Last night I watched some vintage Top of the Pops performances from 1979. It was, by and large, not a great year for popular music, but my goodness, how superior the trousers - and the wearing of them - was to today. Whether unbelievably tight drainpipes or flares, high waisted pleat-tronted or flat fronted suit trousers, every pair fitted its wearer to perfection. Ska, reggae, punk, soul; even the Nolan Sisters... not a single person was displaying any underwear, no waistband circled mid-buttock; no crotch hung at knee level and no hems trailed on the ground.

Whereas today, whilst enjoying a late breakfast at the A5 truckstop, a young herbert got up from the table he was sharing with two young ladies displaying not merely the usual unsavoury underpants, but a good seventy percent of his bare bum. It's lucky I was having the vegetarian breakfast or it might have quite put me off.

Recipe time!

Apologies for not thinking of taking a photo before it got eaten.

Vegan month began with our traditional New Year's dinner, a McSween's veggie haggis (they're fabulous, do try one if you can, even if you don't like/can't face real haggis) with mashed potatoes (with olive oil) and, in the absence of any swede in the Co-op, carrots.

Tonight I had to turn to my imagination to fashion something out of what we need to use up, so I proudly present ...

Slow cooked roasted vegetable pasta sauce

One tin of tomatoes, chopped (or one tin chopped tomatoes)
One tin tomato puree (those little ones)
Half a teaspoon salt
One teaspoon sugar
Six fresh tomatoes, roughly chopped

Two red onions
Half a bulb of garlic
Olive oil

Fresh basil

Put all of the first group of ingredients in a slow cooker and set to medium.
Peel the onions and slice vertically into segments. Peel the garlic cloves and cut into 10mm chunks (very approx). Toss with olive oil on a baking tray and roast for 30 - 45 minutes at 200c/mark 7. When they're just starting to look a bit charred around the extremities, take them out of the oven. Crush some of the lumps of garlic, then add the lot, with its oil, to the pot. Stir, but leave some onion sticking out of the liquid. Leave to cook for about four hours or until you're ready. Just before serving, tear up the basil and stir it in.

Tonight, in the spirit of using up the stuff that's still left, it's lentils with onion (red and white!), garlic and ginger. Bland (No. 2 son has rclaimed his chilli flakes) but comforting enough for the weather.

Easy start

Well, having solved more than half of the Guardian cryptic crossword on Monday, I managed two and a half clues on Tuesday, and absolutely none yesterday. It's only lucky l started when I did, or I might have given up already.

Never having paid the thing any attention before, I don't know whether the difficulty is randomly distributed, or if there's a deliberate escalation through the week. If so I dread to think what Saturday's is like - although they do at least offer a prize for that one, part of which is their 'Secrets of the Setters' book, which you would think would be splendidly redundant to anyone who had got that far.

Books I read over Christmas

If I am going to start reading more proper and improving books, I can report on them again without shame.

I arrived in Newhaven on December 20th with a good stock of charity shop books to keep me entertained over the festive period. In addition I received one very big one as a Christmas present. So here is what I have been reading.

David Lodge, The British Museum is Falling Down
Dated and rather unamusing early novel, interesting really only as a period piece.

Salley Vickers, Instances of the Number Three
I enjoyed her Dancing Backwards, but was never sure how seriously this one was meant to be taken. The plot stretched credulity a bit, but some of the emotion was quite good.

Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
The magnum opus which took her nearly a decade to wrote weighs in at 771 pages and was a Christmas present which kept me going for two and a half solid days. It's had rave reviews in the press, but I honestly thought it could have been twice as good at half the length. A heavy (in more ways than one) saga, laden with meaning but in which few of the characters shine.

Catherine O'Flynn, What Was Lost
I had never heard of the author, or the Costa-award winning (and multiply nominated) book before I picked it up in Age UK, but this has to be one of my best books of 2013. The prose is almost poetic in its economy, but without poetry's pretensions. Everything is clear, but nothing is laboured. If The Goldfinch is a detailed Heironymous Bosch nightmare, What Was Lost is the purest sketch, conveying everything in a few perfect lines. Parts of it are laugh out loud funny (as where O'Flynn describes, without comment, a security guard making his tea with microwaved 7-Up and sterilised milk) but the whole is possibly the saddest book you will read in years, but it wears it so lightly you won't notice until you put it down, the terrible echoes of things unsaid.

Philip Hensher, The Northern Clemency
Another worthy book, and Booker shortlisted; another saga of unloveable and largely unengaging characters with no clearly defined ending or, indeed, waypoints, and largely unenlivened by beautiful prose. Its main redeeming feature was its detailed Sheffield - and even better, Broomhill - locations. Although I am sure (pace page 89) that if you were heading towards the Broomhill shops, the Hallam Towers would be on your right and the blind school on the left, rather than vice versa.

And that's that for Christmas. I'll report on the next batch at the end of January.

Determined concerning having found a solution (8)

I have in the past been reluctant to make - or at least, to publicly announce - new year's resolutions. However, this year I find that some ideas have come to me at around the right time to embark hopefully upon certain causes of self improvement. Resolutions fall into two categories - positive action, and self-denial. I have one in the first category, one and a bit in the sceond, and a bit of each.

1. I will not buy any clothes in 2014. This will probably be the hardest to keep. It began as a pledge to stop browsing and impulsively buying in charity shops, but really, there can't be anything I'll need in the next twelve months that can't wait. I half expect this one to falter, but let's see how long it will last.

2. I will go vegan (diet wise, that is; I'm not chucking out perfectly good clothes and shoes, although of course I won't be buying any either) for January at least. To commit to a whole year might seem too big a step (although I have done it before, for eighteen months, and it was surprisingly easy). The hard part will come when we are boating and have to (!) eat in pubs.

3. In conjunction with 2, I will not drink beer in January (yes, I know most beer isn't vegan anyway, but that along with wine was the one exception I used to allow myself). The idea is that 2 and 3 combined will lead me to becoming svelte, although I don't know why as I managed previously to be the world's only fat vegan. I hesitate to admit to giving up beer, and this one is definitely only temporary, but I have had rather a lot lately. There's no teaching in January, and little socialising forecast, so that shouldn't be too hard.

4. I will read fewer trashy detective novels (mainly because I've run out of authors) and more grown up books with matt finish covers.

5. And - the big positive one - I am resolved that 2014 will be the year I get to grips with the cryptic crossword, and enjoy all its entertaining and brain-rejuvenating benefits. This has been directly inspired by Diamond Geezer's centenary crossword, but is an ambition I can trace back to sixth form, when one of the teachers started a crossword club, and promised to initiate us into the mysteries of the cryptic clue. I don't know why I stopped going after one week - perhaps it all just seemed too hard - but ever since then I've had an awareness that solving these clues is a skill that can be learnt, and that it's something I ought to be good at. So I had a go at the Guardian one yesterday. I got off to a heartening start by identifying and then solving all the anagrams, and surprised myself by completing more than half of it over the next twenty four hours. When I got the answers this morning, I could understand how most of them worked. I have also ordered a couple of books which I hope will be helpful. Today's Guardian one (set by Shed) seems a lot harder and I've not made any progress yet, so thanks to Rufus for getting me off to a good start.

I will provide progress reports of the success or failure of all these ventures.

Meanwhile, it only remains to wish you your heart's desire in 2014.

Return to Newhaven

Little has changed since I was last here. Tellingly, the nail bar has become a food bank. I suspect that this is an even worse sign, economically, than a charity shop becoming a church outreach centre. It has rained non stop (apart from the hail) since I arrived on Friday.

I have, as of the present moment, spent slightly more than half my life in Newhaven. I intend to remedy this as soon as possible by spending the best part of the rest of it somewhere else. It seems quite likely, however, that I will never again spend twenty five years living in one place.

It has taken me far too long to realise how much more there is to this country than the expensive, crowded, ironically dirty, smug south east.

Oh dear, that's not a very cheery note for Christmas is it... Of course it is lovely to be back in the company of Sons 1 & 2 and their partners and in the case of No. 1 Son, offspring, and at least all the time it's raining it's not cold, and my goodness, that counts for a great deal.

So a very happy yuletide to everyone.

Christmas tradition number 1: cheese and biscuits

Back in Newhaven for Christmas and chaotic as ever, although thankfully warmer than the last two years, as we settle beck into the garden shed and negotiate the return of cutlery (and flatware!) from Number 2 Son. Shopping as usual is unplanned and ad hoc, until the final making of a list today (milk, cheese, biscuits, pickled onions, food). I was going to have a sandwich for my tea but Jim couldn't get a breadcake, so I broke out the cheese and biscuits instead.



These may be considered a quotidien postprandial treat for many, but for me they are very much a Yuletide indulgence. Especially TUC crackers, for which I have long had an inordinate fondness. As a child, I wondered why Len Murray and his ilk warranted a particularly tasty and crumbly biscuit being produced in their honour (yes, I was that kind of child) and to this day I am a trifle mystified by their name. But never mind. They are still crumbly and indulgent and delicious and somehow greasy.

Cheese and biscuits entails firstly selecting the biscuits. You can butter them, but they have a frustrating tendency to shatter, especially in the winter, so I trust to gravity and balance to keep the topping in place. Next, cut up some cheese into nibble sized pieces, and finally cut some pickled onions - the spiciest you can get - into eighths. The purpose of all this advance preparation is that you can now retire to the sofa and assemble a tasty snack with your right hand whilst holding a book in your left. Each mouthful must consist of a piece of cheese, a portion of onion, and a bite of biscuit. It is this last component which can be unpredictable and thus introduces a slight ait of adventure. The trick is to finish the biscuits, cheese and onions all together with no remainders - and of course, without having counted them out beforehand. If there is cheese left, you need more biscuits, and possibly more onions. After the cheese is gone, you may find yourself left with an excess of onion pieces, requiring the adfition of ,ore cheese. In this way, a light teatime snack can go on for a very long time. Being an old hand, ended with a neat two bits each of cheese and onion, requiring just one further TUC biscuit to finish them off in two neat bites. Merry Christmas!

Wardrobe mistress

After... Goodness, it looks just like in the books.

It's no secret that I have a bit of a charity shop habit, and this manifests itself mainly in buying clothes. Wherever I am, I take at least a weekly stroll through the local philanthropic emporia, usually coming away with at least one impulse purchase, and frequently more. Despite rising prices and increasing charitable rapaciousness, most items cost only four or five pounds. For years I've convinced myself that I'm a thrifty shopper, spending less on my high class wardrobe than others do on their supermarket sweatshop one.

I'm starting to wonder, however, in the light of the sheer volume of my purchases, whether I'm deluding myself. It all adds up after all... not only in pennies but in the space it consumes. My flat came with two wardrobes, a modest pine one, and a massive classic G-Plan teak one. Of course they were both soon packed so tight that there was hardly any point in ironing anything, and deciding what to wear each day had me frozen like Buridan's ass to the power of seven.

Every six months or so I announce, to assembled groans, that I am going to 'sort out my wardrobe'. This generally entailed getting everything out, looking at it, and putting it back. So many things I'd not yet got round to wearing, but still, they deserved a chance, so back they went. Things I felt duty bound to keep, for sentimental reasons, or because they'd been expensive, even if I didn't really (whisper it) like them very much. A few bits would get recycled back to the charity shop, and more often or not, I'd miss them. I have on at least one occasion bought something back after wondering how I could have been so stupid as to get rid of it.

The internet is full of helpful women, mostly American, telling you how to master your wardrobe. They usually start with sorting everything out by season, and packing away your unseasonal clothes somewhere inaccessible. Well, I don't have anywhere inaccessible, and most of my clothes aren't seasonal. Thick jumpers and thermal vests maybe don't get much of an outing in June, but almost anything else, in the right combination with other things, can be worn all year round. Then they say, sort out all your co-ordinated work outfits. My what? They talk about sorting out things that need washing, or mending, or dry cleaning... Nothing would ever go back in my wardrobe if it needed washing or mending (it would sit in the mending basket for a year instead) and as for dry cleaning... Whatever the label says, if it won't wash, I don't want it, so I stick it in the machine on a woollen cycle and let it take its chances. I've not lost anything yet.

Clearly the conventional approach was not going to work for me - but neither was my old method. So I applied myself to devising a new, effective, system for becoming mistress of one's wardrobe, and I proudly introduce it to you.

I decided that each item would be given a rating from 1 - 5, and allocated a place to stack up the stuff for each category. They were:

1. I hate it. Throw it out (no matter how much it cost or who gave it to me)

2. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but admit it, it doesn't work. Doesn't suit me or is the wrong size, or something I never have the occasion to wear.

3. Boring but useful.

4. It's very useful or I like it - something I wear a lot.

5. I love it and will never part with it.

I took each item out of the wardrobe, had a good look at it, a good think, maybe tried it on, then allocated it to one of these piles. Once the wardrobe was empty I turned my attention to them. Everything rated 4 or 5 went straight back in. Everything rated 1 and very nearly everything rated 2 (one exception, a sparkly blouse that's a bit tight but looks good undone over a vest) got thrown out. I went through the 3's checking for things that duplicated each other. There weren't any, but I could have thrown them out if there had been. This was the hardest category; I had to be strict about things that 'might be useful one day' but hadn't actually been so far. They went. Mostly.


I ended up, after doing both wardrobes, with four bags full for recycling, and then went on to apply the same system to my shoes, which now fit into the available space again. That's a bag shoes at the front.

So, next time you need to have a good sort out, there's yet another new system to try. And my new year's resolution is to stop buying stuff except when I have identified in advance something that I actually need. It will be hard, thinking of the treasures I might be missing, but at least the clothes I've got will have room to breathe.