I am wearing gloves while typing this. The clocks were turned back on Saturday night and this odd reversal of time seems to have activated a
sudden change in season too.
It is Arctic . I watch my breath shudder through the refrigerated air and am entranced by the curlicues of steam from the kettle over which I huddle.
Until you are without something you cannot truly appreciate its importance. The acquiring of it then becomes a milestone.
On Davenham we are without several basic amenities.
We have electricity via a cable from an electricity post on the quayside connected to a complex spaghetti of flexes, extension leads and four-gangs. This network, which runs through almost the entire length of the ship, provides our light, our cups of tea and our toast. And, when we finally switched the fridge on, we felt life was complete. Shopping didn’t need to be done every day or food sniffed on opening to assess it’s toxicity. I am appalled to confess that a number of sausage strings and at least two whole chickens met a watery end due to suspicious smells and I could swear that a selection of cheeses and a couple of pots of hummus gave up and flung themselves overboard voluntarily. Inexplicably, the fridge had been squatting in the hold with all the other appliances and furniture for months before it occurred to us to plug it in.
This is our kitchen.
You see - we have everything we need.
The thing we don’t have is running water so it must be fetched from the well (one of the standpipes) on the pontoons.
Sans plumbing, we therefore have no loo.
On Thankfulness the worst of these concerned the macerator and worse still, was only related to my use thereof. I would wait, alert for that particular pitch in its grindings which declared it had blocked. This loathsome apparatus terrorised me for four years and stretched the bonds of friendship beyond the call of duty. Luckily for me their elasticity was infinite and the Captain baled me out time and again (I was usually too mortified/furious/distressed or late for work to do so) as he will attest in forensic detail if you ask although I’d rather you didn’t.
We inherited a chemical toilet with Davenham, which was useful, but malodorous and aslosh with lethal substances. I couldn’t wait to be rid of it. So when I accidentally (…?) dropped the cap of the outlet pipe down the waste disposal drain, no tears were shed and I had my excuse to dispose of it tout de suite.
Actually, it’s not strictly true to say we have no loo.
Davenham has a robust porcelain sea toilet housed discretely on the starboard deck.
When we first visited, before Davenham became ours, we opened its wooden door and lifted the lid and quickly slammed it down and the door shut.
WARNING!!
If you are of a sensitive disposition, you may wish to skip this bit.
Davenham had been broken into a couple of times and it was likely that the burglers (who had stolen the compass and a set of flags) had been caught short. Someone had meanwhile smothered the offending smell with earth. The captain had also noted some maggoty wriggles. Maggots, earth and whatever lay beneath were now our maggots, earth and whatever lay beneath.
For months, neither of us could quite straighten our backbone enough to open the door and deal with what was within, but during the summer, we decided we must be resolute and confront our dread.
The Captain went in first (after all, a captain must set an example). On his knees, armed with a tablespoon and a gardening fork, he zealously dug and scooped. I spectated at the good example he was setting. Then, there was a squelch followed by his pale and “I’m about to gag!” expression. It was my turn. I will leave further description to the imagination. Suffice it to say that a miasma of most unsanitary stench hung about the quayside that afternoon as bowl and pipe were Brillowed and sluiced and walls and floor hosed and Dettoled. It was with unalloyed pride that we looked upon the result of our labour at the end of that day.
The Flushing Ceremony did not disappoint.
It was Niagric.
So, we do have a Necessary but, as it flushes directly and untreated into the river or onto the mud, we seldom use it except in dire emergencies when we cant make it to the facilities on the marina.
It is all organic (no paper goes down) but still…It will be simply heavenly when by dint of a pivot everything will disappear hygienically into the holding tank.
Until then we have a range of receptacles – including a chamber pot and a Pink Bucket – which have performed a sterling service.
This is the best £1.50 I have ever spent.
And it NEVER blocks.
As I have indicated, neither is there any heating. Most homes operate on a binary system known as indoors/outdoors. On Davenham, due to this lack of heat, these categories are rather blurred. Sometimes, for example, it is warmer outside than in.
In addition, we are residing in what is, effectively, a construction site. All the cold, hard, sharp, steel, wood, concrete guts, usually hidden behind walls and soft furnishings, are exposed. This raw and undifferentiated quality to daily living was noticeable when Tintin was with us. Used as he is to absolute distinctions, this more elemental quality to the air confused even his acute sense of smell and his - now fossilised - pooh parcels are still turning up in all kinds of unexpected places.
The elements are very much part of our life on board, particularly as I have to go out on deck to reach my cabin - a short but nevertheless action-packed trip in wild winds or icy rain. They are a constant reminder that for all our technology and instant gratifications there are still forces greater than the impatient and greedy “I”.
Collecting my post from the marina office some time ago, I met a man (a complete stranger, who instructed me to “Get in, get in!!” to his 4x4 because it was “..preposterous, ridiculous, ridiculous!!” to be walking through such foul, drenching conditions cradling a parcel) who told me he’d been to a meteorological conference at which the speaker said he couldn’t understand why people watched the television when all they had to do for entertainment was go to the window and look at the weather.
Given that we live in a largely un-insulated metal container, I suppose it’s unsurprising that the climate on board fluctuates so dramatically. Mercury in the thermometer does not fall; it plummets. It is a profound, weighty, unrelievable cold; the chill of a cave. When the temperature soars, the butter liquefies; the hull radiates heat; metal surfaces are hot to the touch; the sun penetrates the thick, steel doors and conducts heat along the metal shelves in the galley where tins of mackerel and Spam bake slowly; eggs could be fried on deck.
The other thing that land dwellers also wonder about it the damp. People always connect living on boats with wetness – which has some logic to it - but honestly, Davenham is a dry as a cork. Apart from the leaky skylights. It is only the rotten, wooden frames and they will be repaired once all the renovations are underway. Recently the Captain and I re-covered them with tarpaulin and the drips have stopped.
And the wheelhouse – whose roof is sagging badly - is now shrouded with pond-lining so its pretty interior is protected from deluges. In turn, this means I no longer have to sleep under a bright blue tarp and line the bulkhead of my cabin with plastic sheeting.
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| Wheelhouse in Candlelight by Moira |
But I have digressed.
I began in the Arctic and will conclude in the Tropics.
When I threw smoke pellets experimentally into the wood-burning stove a few months ago, smoke billowed into the room. The chimney was not tall enough, it was explained to me, so the smoke wouldn’t draw and if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction …well it was all very scientific.
So, November 9th will be one of those milestones that I mentioned, for that is the date on which the stove will roar into life! What a conflagration that will be!! We shall have warmth and never take it for granted again! The smoke will go exactly where it is supposed to – up the new, double insulated flue and out of the chimney. If it is anything like our little stove on Thankfulness, we shall have to open all the portholes to cool down. Bliss.
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| Davenham's Anchor by Kip |
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