A Guided Tour

Some of you dear readers have visited Davenham but for those of you who haven’t yet, I thought you might like a guided tour.

When Best of Brothers Mark and Lovely Sister Sandra first met our Gorgeous Girl, I was beside myself with excitement.  I wanted them to gasp at every turn as I had.  Best of Brothers did, but not , I  think, with wonder. 

"Look!" I cry, "Look!" 

Sister obligingly does and is satisfyingly awed but Brother with his engineer's brain on red alert, immediately assumes the military crawl position with camera to eye and lens scrutinising the rust.

This is what Sandra saw........

Took to the life of a sailor straight away.

Mark's thoughts were more...

This is what he saw….







But I think even he has fallen a little under her spell.

Tour to be continued.






  

 



by Moira

Mr & Mrs Badger sneaked in the back door of No 4, which they discovered was a little ajar and were extremely excited to find themselves on Fleurs latest blog. For some time, they had wondered if they would ever be a little more famous and here they were, admiring Davenham from the safety of the riverbank and sadly realising, she was just a little too large for them. Also, Mrs B. had a preference for her home deep in Powdermill Woods and knew that life on the river was not for her. However, it didn't mean that the occasional visit was out of the question, especially when the owners were not on board. A particular visit would always be remembered, an afternoon in early August 2012, watching safely from a distance, as Fleur came down the gangplank with Co-op bags, which could only mean one thing.
Such a feast was had, as a posh lunch had recently taken place, bowls of salads and cold meats, potato salad, a real favourite, delicious dressings and probably best of all, an opened bottle of Red wine. Always a treat to find an open bottle, as claws made this a tricky procedure. Mr B, cautioned Mrs B, knowing that time was of the essence, as she unwrapped more tempting treats from their protecting cloths and cling film. A slice of delicious lemon tart and the remains of the trifle were quickly consumed, whereupon Mr B heard noises approaching and glancing out of a porthole knew it was time to depart. The tide had also risen considerably, something that woodland dwellers had no knowledge of and Mrs B. was very nervous as she made her descent, clinging on tightly to Mr B. Safe on the bank, their only route was across to hide amongst a row of boats which they were puzzled to find on dry land. When the coast became clear and the sky was awash with pink and mauve, they headed for the nearby station, their train home and the safety of the woods.
They arrived home in darkness, Mr B. too tired for his usual night time forays, smoking his pipe while sat on a log pile, in a clearing, deep, deep in the woods. Tonight he fell into a deep slumber with Mrs B, happy and contented from such an exciting day on the river.
                                                           Moira Amey.
                                                                 9th November 2012



The Discovery of Fire

We have fire!




We feel like Paleolithic Persons who have just discovered its wonders.
And there are many: the room glows, the butter softens, feet thaw; soup boils and a cosy aroma of warming bread is followed by the sharp smell of singeing. The ski glove, which we use to open the door of the furnace, melts on the glass when a finger touches it.

Layers of jackets and jumpers are removed.
The breeze from the open porthole becomes a Sirocco before it even reaches us across the room but we keep feeding the flames because we are so appreciative of the luxury of warmth.




Davenham's smart new chimney!
We were hoping for a blue sky
backdrop to our pillows of
woodsmoke but...


It has a ravening appetite this fire; we stoke it and it gobbles the wood.  In the absence of coal we burn Dave and Sue's window frames and their mantlepiece.  The garage door and some furniture are consumed in short order.  Their apple tree provided the kindling.
Dave sends regular text messages: "We are replacing the kitchen - would you like the cupboards?"
Soon, much of their house will have gone up in our conflagration.

The Captain rests some damp planks on the top of the stove.  They hiss and bake away and suddenly there is a plume of smoke.  We rush the wood outside where the bright embers wriggle for ages, even in the wet.
It is staggering, the might of this heat.

Within a few hours the temperature has soared.  We begin to sweat.  It is searingly hot - 75 degrees.  It is unbearable.
We have to go out on deck to cool down.



In the evening it cooks our meal.
Sausages, wrapped in foil, sizzle as soon as they are set in the recess.  I daren't turn my back on the pan of parsnips.

The merits of investing in a Rayburn are thrown into doubt, awestruck as we are by the culinary virtues displayed by our wood-burning stove.
The monetary virtues are rather persuasive too - the heaps we could save on gas and electricity.


We have fire dear Readers and you are guaranteed the warmest of receptions on your next visit.



Cooking dinner.

 Come with unwanted furniture, newspapers, bank statements - the fire's hunger is undiscriminating and insatiable.

Wear T-shirts and shorts.  Bring bathing costumes.
No mankinis please.

Languages



Rope by Kip



I spent last Friday morning speaking Weldish. Today, I am speaking Stovian.  The topic is flue and chimney and draw and draught.  It’s just one of many languages I’m learning.  I’m not fluent in any but I’m acquiring whole, new lexicons and beginning to understand and make myself understood. 

Take Voltagean; Steve, the electrician, is more patient than some and takes the trouble to explain some of the trickier vocabulary – three phase inverter, photovoltaic arrays and suchlike.  But it’s the grammar of languages that I’ve always had such difficulty with.  Constructing a simple sentence is manageable, for example:

“The bulb is in the lamp.”

Nouns in the right place and verb and preposition correct so darkness averted and I glow with pride.

Or even:

“The 100w bulb is in the flourescent lamp.” Not exactly a dazzling piece of conversation I grant you.  But never underestimate an adjective.  You can disguise all manner of ghastly grammatical errors in a beautiful description.

Trying to assemble something comprehensible involving frequency circuits, oscillators, diodes and ....I’m afraid I can’t make those connections at all.

 Many a kilowatt-hour has been spent studying and researching Voltagean.

Although lively, it is a precise and mathematical language and there is no margin for error – the slightest slip-up can put you in a dangerous situation.  I doubt I shall ever grasp it.

 It’s a dynamic language – all that charging and inducting, those currents flowing, pulsing, energies scintillating.  Nothing is still, everything continually alternating, transforming, transmitting. And there is a romance to it, a mystery; it feels as though one must always be decoding abstract concepts; nothing is what it seems. The words have arcane, magical properties; like shape-shifters, one thing can change into another thing; intangibles become sensual, actual. Electricity becomes warmth, light, power.  Amps, volts, sinusoidal waves are un-seeable, untouchable, almost unimaginable nouns.  Invisible but paradoxically, illuminating.



Hawser
by
Kip



Basic Carpentese on the other hand, I can speak passably well.  I have to admit  though, after an exchange of pleasantries and the rudimentary nail, hammer and tongue and groove, I’m starting to bang my head against a panelled wall.  While it does have its creative side, at my level it’s a solid and practical language, chock-a-block with single-syllable words like plank, nut, bolt, screw.  I do enjoy its rhythms, its onomatopoeia. And “plane”, “drill”, “saw” - the tools do what they say on the tin.

The language of metallurgy is riveting.  It takes years to achieve fluency and requires knowledge of the science of things both physical and gaseous.  Weldish has chemistry - the Periodic Table is embedded in virtually every word – and poetry. Its terminology is distinctly industrial with all the vigour one would expect given the force, pressure and stress entailed although, contradictorily, its purpose is tender and gentle; melding, uniting, bonding and fusing.

You might think, given the working environment, that voices would be loud, volatile, the words clanging and clanking with hard edges, brawny and base as the metals they deal in. But those welders I’ve met are composed – serene even -softly spoken and speak of their craft poetically and with reverence.



Holey Steel With Blue Flower Pot And Lichens 
by Kip



Painting has a diversity of dialects depending on where it is being applied.  Upon a canvas, the dialogue would be refined.  Upon the hull and topsides of a little ship, talk is all smooth and colourful and (without intending to be snobbish about this) fine detail – conversing in microns if you please.  Still, I can’t help thinking (and I am happy to be corrected) it ‘s all surface and no substance.

Plumbian is not mellifluous.  It does not trip off the tongue – principally because it is too preoccupied tripping over its plosives. Stops and pops explode deliciously, like sherbet popping against your cheeks. Try them, they’re rather fun:

Bucket, seacock, pipe, pump, bilge, leak, tap, valve…

My Nauticalese, I am pleased to report, is improving.  At work I sound very impressive to my colleagues although I wouldn’t dare speak a word in front of anyone on the marina as I’d be repeating things they’ve told me and in any case it’s quite obvious that I really haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.  But it’s irresistible – I just love the feel of the words “prop shaft” and “eight cylinder Gardner engine” in my mouth.

A considerable number of conversations consist in asking for translations and diagrams. 

I should be able to master it in a decade or two.



Davenham's Anchor Chain
by Kip



Paradise

Everyone is drawn to Davenham.  People say, “There’s something about her...” She has a strong personality. 

I still cannot believe she belongs to us.  I hope I will always not quite believe it.

When she was on the outer mooring and close enough to the pontoon to do it, I stroked her hull every time I passed; the Captain always kissed it when we departed. I talk to Davenham all the time to reassure her that we treasure and will look after her.  He does too.

Boat Husband has a long connection with Davenham; he first went to see her in 1997 when she was up for sale.  We had become land-dwellers again after our time with Thankfulness .  How strange it was, living within straight brick walls, on all sides hooverings and elephant’s feet above and sirens wailing and the un-neighbourly transience of bed-sitting and renting; no seagull cries (they hadn’t encroached inland then, those marine pigeons, menacing swoops of white feathers and sharp beaks who now scavenge and lunge through the urban landscape), no squadrons of Canada Geese flying overhead at dusk.  

For a while there was correspondence between the then owner, a Mr Richard Ferris -who had restored Davenham and tried to set up a preservation trust - and Boat Husband but the timing was wrong, the banks un-giving.   And so we continued dreaming until, last September, the Captain and Davenham were reunited.                                        

I told you it was a love story.



Terrifyingly moody sky.



I walk around the deck every day, hardly able to believe that this is my home and my address so beautiful.  The scene changes almost by the moment, the river enthrallingly and terrifyingly moody, the sky enormous with moods to match.

This is our address:



 The Ensign
by John



Some of our neighbours
by John

Davenham’s girth is prohibitive.

She belonged to us but we were homeless. I had phoned most of the marinas in London but, unable to fit through the locks and too large for most of the marinas anyway, we were limited to the tidal rivers. It seemed as though the commercial docks or ports might be our only option. We imagined the three of us, vagrant on the waters of the world. We needed a safe haven for Davenham, even if it meant we couldn’t all be together.  We would have accepted a berth on the Sea of Tranquillity.

Stefan – who knows every creek and shipyard in Europe – confirmed that finding an abode would be a problem but, while we were having a post survey drink in the pub, he made a phone call:

“There’s a boat – a little ship – can you accommodate her?”

The captain and I drove to the marina, (I wont tell you at what speed) high on that amazing, “Yes”.  

There was a large space and Davenham could inhabit it.  We were elated.  

So, repaired and with hull freshly bitumen-ed, our Little Ship was tugged through the night to the River Medway.  Neither the Captain nor I could sail with her and when we next saw her….



by Kip
(flying the ICI flag)



  ...it was in Paradise.

Coming Home

It’s that time of the year when I leave for work in the dark and return in the dark and daylight is only experienced through windows .  But when I step off the train on Wednesday night after my days in London, I feel in that autumnal darkness, a frisson of magic.   When the platform is a mosaic of russet and ruby, amber and copper and the evening air is fragranced with damp leaves and earth and wood smoke and the walk through the voluptuous dark with its painterly sky and clouds scudding across the vampire moon which is glinting on the water - like a stage set laid out for my delight - and Davenham is waiting, looming and I begin to talk to her, “Hello my beautiful Davenham…”; when all of this, I think that there couldn’t be a more perfect ending to the day.

And I burst into tears.

Same time, same place, every week.

A Little Ship

“You’ve haven’t bought a boat, you’ve bought a little ship!”  Stefan chuckled as we watched Davenham leave the dry dock (which she had sunk and thus not been dry at all) and glide majestically along the creek. 

One of the most exquisite sentences ever uttered to me.

Stefan’s survey had been a relief to say the least, since we had purchased Davenham without one.

Or  without a mooring. 

The two most glitteringly golden rules about buying a boat, broken in the instant we were smitten.

The “For Sale” ad took us to Brentford where Davenham was lying, with an air of dereliction about her, on a leafy mooring opposite Kew Gardens – we could see the glasshouses from the deck. That mooring we assumed, would be transferable to us and imagined heady gusts of fragrance wafting over the river in the summer. As it turned out, neither the mooring nor the heady gusts came to pass.

 In October 2011 Stefan had conducted a “mud walk around inspection”. Davenham was sitting on her mud berth and there was sufficient time between tides for him to examine the hull sides and an “area of the forward bottom”, taking percussion soundings and ultrasound thickness point readings.  The hull surface, he wrote, was, “muddy but only a little marine growth covered the surface.” 

Barnacles I thought, might be gluing her together.

This mud walk was “a Summary of Findings” only and not “a full pre-purchase condition survey report”.   Approximately 100 readings were taken and plotted on an ultrasound chart.

What Stefan did find was some weakness in the integrity of a couple of the plates.

A hole was found “SB at 4MSt.  A corroded rivet head was found PS at8MSt.  There was a “thin patch” at the keel and garboard strake. 

But there was “very little pitting” and “some plate wastage noticeable but of no concern” and I took heart from the happier adjectives - few, adequate, some – while not understanding any of what was then, to me, a technical and arcane language. I’ve since done a great deal of studying with the dictionary and the invaluable,  “A Sea of Words:  A lexicon and companion to the complete seafaring tales of Patrick O’Brien” (a gift from Andrew).

 The Captain, who had mud-walked with Stefan, communicated his optimism - he had, of course, been charmed by Davenham.  The vibes were encouraging. 

But the decision, as I’ve said, had been made long since and, in love and ready for anything, she became ours in the New Year. 

And, since she didn’t sink like a stone during the tow from Brentford to the dry dock for her full medical, we felt we could safely predict that no gaping hole would be found.

In February 2012, Stefan’s examination of her every accessible inch - somewhat hampered by the tides which inconveniently flooded into the dry dock -was concluded. 

Diagnosis:  Davenham’s hull sound except for a few rivets and three plates.

“You’re very lucky.” he said, “You have won the lottery”. 

Somewhere I read that, because Davenham was constructed just after the Second World War, it is possible that the steel may have been of a military grade. This might account for the almost unbelievably good condition of the hull and our almost unbelievable good luck.



Davenham in dry dock in London



Prognosis: Excellent following repairs.

Cure: welded, electrified, plumbed, heated, painted.

With deep and abiding love lavished upon her, complete recovery certain.

Loving our Little Ship is synonymous with breathing.

Something Big

I would like to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Badger. 

They are not of my acquaintance although Moira (the artist) knows them well; being rather reserved, they tend to keep to themselves or their close cete.  It might seem an unusual arrangement for them to visit when we are not about but her friends are my friends and they are most welcome.  They so enjoy being on the river but according to Moira, after much deliberation, Mr and Mrs B – well, to cut a long story short, we came to the aforementioned understanding after they decided that they didn’t want to move from their sett after all.  They really did not need something that big.

Neither did the Captain and I.  But, as I’ve said, Cupid’s Arrow struck and that was that and here we are.

We had three criteria for our floating home:  to be large enough to entertain, have an engine and a sound hull.  The sound hull should have come first I suppose but we had planned so many future parties and seen a fabulous chandelier at around the same time Davenham came into our lives and…

Anyway, speaking of size, let me list Davenham’s vital statistics:

Length 30.70 metres 102ft 9”

Beam 7.93 metres 23ft

Carrying Capacity - variously recorded between 260- 285 tons

Gross Registered Tonnage 216.13

Nett Tonnage 123.33

A welded and riveted steel steam barge commissioned in 1944 for Imperial Chemical Industries Ltd,  Alkali Division  (we have been flying the flag all summer but it is a little frayed around the seams so needs the attention of a needle and thread).

Built in1946 by Yarwood and Sons, Northwich, Cheshire.

Official Number 181031.

Working life spent on the River Weaver in Cheshire, carrying soda ash:



Davenham's sister's, Weaverham (foreground) and (I think) Anderton (in the distance).



The spiral chute used for loading the cargo on the River Weaver.



Engine - Gardner 8 cylinder diesel, rating approx 180 hp,  instsalled in the 1970s.

Original engine - 2 cylinder compound marine steam engine also made by Yarwoods.  Weight 6 ¼ tons.

Now in the Ellesmere Port Boat Museum:

 A Stockless anchor.  According to the certificate from Lloyd’s Register of Shipping: “After the head had been dropped from a clear height of fifteen feet on to an iron slab, it was hammered, whilst suspended, and gave no indication of defects.”

Launched by a Mrs. W.M Inman

Davenham's first captain Alfred Boden – this little plaque in the wheelouse is dedicated to him:

First cargo 16th September 1946.

A typed note of the same date from someone illegible requests:

“Would you please arrange for the “Davenham” to be supplied with 4 towels and 1 tea cloth as soon as possible, as the vessel is leaving tonight.”

It is curious this idea of of ownership. 

Do we own Davenham?  We have the Bill  Of Sale saying we do.  But I think , looking at these photographs, reading through old documents, that in some sense, we are merely custodians; her guardians, her protectors.

And protect her we will.

 

Timing and Tides

Mother Earth is not very maternal.  She is, in fact, an indifferent mother.

So indifferent is she that last week for example, on my return from the library, she left me stranded on the quayside in the cold and drizzle. 

Well of course, Mother Earth will blame The Moon and why not?  She does have a lot to answer for.   Her beauty and shape-shifting and silvery bewitchments cannot be a refuge for all her mischief.   In this case they were both culpable.  And there was an accomplice – another orb needing a beady eye kept upon in matters nautical - The Sun.

When these three are aligned, they create exceptionally strong gravitational forces, which cause extremely high and low tides. They are, I have learned, called Spring Tides although they have nothing to do with the season of Spring and everything to do with the Full Moon and the New Moon during whose appearance they occur.

This high water was a 6.6 metre – the highest yet since being at the quayside.

 As you you see, the day before, I was (very happily) marooned aboard Davenham. 

I sought shelter with our neighbours, Rolf and Genevieve (that's Genevieve on the quayside the day of the marooning), until the water (and the gangplank) was low enough to board again and made a note to self to always check the tide tables before leaving home.

When Best of Brothers Mark and Lovely Sister Sandra met the Captain and I at Brentford Creek – Davenham’s temporary mooring while waiting to go into dry-dock – this, their first visit, was similarly poorly timed.   So excited was I, that it hadn’t crossed my mind that the creek, being on the River Thames, would also be subject to its tide which, contrary to our expectations, was out on our arrival and not due in again for about six hours.   Needless to say, Davenham was not lying quite where we had planned and by the time they arrived, we had already determined that boarding would demand some serious acrobatics.

These were duly performed by the Captain, setting an example once again as a captain should:  a vertiginous descent down a wall on a rope ladder attached to the railings, across a lighter, up an old bit of ladder and a climb up the tyre fenders to the deck.
I spectated at the good example he was setting. 
Then, as Best of Brothers Mark records in the Sappers Log, dated January 15th 2012, I boarded “gracefully and in a fully dignified manner”.

 

In May, Davenham moved from her mooring in the middle of the river to our permanent berth at the quayside.  The appellation “quayside” was, perhaps, rather a premature title to give the mud bank and retaining wall that has since subsided  but that’s another story.    Here, Davenham is almost always dry.  We miss being constantly afloat.   This only happens about once a month and then sometimes for less than an hour.   But when it does, Davenham feels like a dormant creature rousing, her hull reverberating with bubbles and gurglings, creaks and thuds as the water loosens her from the mud to be, for a short while, in her natural state.

During the first few weeks, while she was bedding in, she listed to port; not so obviously that looking at her from the quayside would cause one to gasp in alarm but to knees and backs it was very obvious indeed.   It was with not a little effort that a circuit around the breakfast table was made - half uphill, the other down.  It was disconcerting and exhausting; my visual-spatial awareness was out of kilter.  Genevieve, whose neighbouring barge, Janette, had been at the quayside for months, was waking during the night with knees in howling agony. You can imagine what a reprieve a high tide was. 

The forty-five degree angle of the miniature chandelier was our gauge. 

The Captain and I were convinced that Davenham would never settle - by what laws of physics was she going to right herself? Nostalgic - and physically aching - for the stability of walking on water, we asked to be returned to the outer mooring.

“She will bed in.”  We were reassured,  “Give it time.”

“Hmmm…….” ,  our sceptical eyebrows said to each other.

We have monitored the miniature chandelier closely and indeed it is, to our delight, now hanging straight. 
Time and  Tides are the laws, Time and Tides.