Life Aboard BY MARIANNe BARTRAM
MARIANNE LIVES ABOARD THE MV TRESHNISH ON THE RIVER DART WITH HER HUSBAND NIGEL
I
’ve just been discharged from hospital following a heart attack and internal bleeding. Whilst it was all rather annoying it has at least scuppered Hub’s ambitious plans for me to paint the whole interior of the boat. This (tee hee) is precisely the sort of endless, pointless activity that my cardiac surgeon most earnestly deprecates. No. Someone else must do it whilst I employ myself with the gentle art of chinese watercolours or a little needlepoint. It was interesting to discover after three weeks ashore what it’s like not to smell like I’ve rolled in a two week old dead badger (as my Labrador did once – we had to haul her out of the bush and try to clean her up with grass – our eyes watered for a week). Apparently, there are three things
you don’t want on a boat, namely a woman, a pram or a Naval Officer. Oh, I don’t know, I’d go for the third option if he was up for it! I’ve discovered a fourth though called “it”. Hub seems very familiar with the thing. Examples: “It” flew out of my hand, fell in half, went overboard, didn’t work, turned out to be the wrong size, completely disappeared, got wet, rusted out, flaked off, cost too much, fell through a gap, etc. Funnily enough, before being scooped up by an ambulance, I felt as though I was flaking off and decided to take a break. We try not to impose on friends but a bath was becoming imperative. Without much hope of a vacancy, I called what has to be the best B&B on this planet – the Eight Bells, run by the delightful Helyers. I was in luck and immersed myself in a bath until I shrivelled. Uttter bliss. Later, sitting in their tranquil parlour overlooking the Dart with the sun streaming in, a seal meandering along, a clock gently chiming, books, musical instruments
and a perfect breakfast, I practically lapsed into a coma and soon felt ready to face life aboard again – which isn’t the doddle you might think. In fact, I was whinging to my sister-
in-law but she was unsympathetic, pointing out that at least I haven’t been mounted by a goat once (only the once?) in North West Wales and still has the scars on her person to prove it. One thing I find particularly pleasing is the thriving bartering system on the Dart, as in: ‘I’ll bung you two lobsters and a crab if you hand over that marlin spike.’ Or ‘have this oar, just buy me a few pints and we’re quits, nice sailing jacket – swap you for these boots?’ ‘Need a crab pot? No problem, but I’ll have that anchor in exchange if it’s all the same to you.’
One thing I find
particularly pleasing is the thriving bartering system on the Dart
Luckily, I was an antiques dealer once
and know that if marooned on a desert island with several others and one old chair between us, we would all make a decent living. You can be bought at the prow and sold by the stern on the Dart. It’s brilliant. Caution is necessary though – tempted though you may be by the tank battery somebody has going for a song in their garage – is this a wise choice? Dare you risk a charge of handling just because vast quantities of the exact shade of yellow paint is available at mates’ rates but can only normally be found by the purveyors of the very same colour the council use for double yellow lines? I dodged another bullet recently. I just
happened to be in the right place at the right time on the boat to prevent a fire. It was a real wake up call – check, check and check again before you go ashore. Smoke was curling out of our lap-top charger which was hot enough to begin melting through a leather covered seat. We’d been trying out a new generator with no way of gauging its output and it sent far too much current and blew up all our chargers. We’ve now bought a new one, which is perfect, so no harm done. I usually try to maintain a calm exterior but ended up shouting “fire” so loudly that I nearly gave myself a nosebleed. Hub came strolling in with all the time in the world, poked and sniffed at it and asked aloud what “it” thought it was playing at. He further added insult to injury by saying he had come up especially from the engine room to see what or who was making such an infernal racket and that he had never heard such a din in his life. I do wish I hadn’t swapped that marlinspike – and I only got a de-humidifier for it, which didn’t work and a packet of crisps. Ah, yes, that would be where my negotiating skills foundered – we were bartering in the pub. Big Mistake. With my birthday coming up I
remember that I usually have to buy my own card and hand it to Hub to sign, which he does with grumbling reluctance, asking me, “What do you want me to put?” Yes, you can take the man out of Dorset but you can’t take Dorset out of the man. So imagine how frightened I was when he handed me a beautifully worded card and a present which wasn’t wrapped in newspaper. I honestly thought it was proof of my imminent demise. But it seems the Good Lord has spared me and the Tresh and I are still afloat in our own creaking and swaying fashion…
If you’ve missed any of Marianne’s columns in this magazine, they are all available on our website -
www.bythedart.co.uk/topics/life_aboard
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