Growing up on a houseboat.
The little community has gone
At the end of Crableck Lane where it met the Hamble there was a jetty where a group of boats were moored. Our house boat Miscellany was nearby and was my family home from 1952-1962.
The boats by the jetty were the homes of people who had come before and during the war to escape the bombing raids. Nevil Shute’s 1938 novel What Happened to the Corbetts shows that even threat of war brought a ‘fear’ that city life would be obliterated and those remaining would be at risk not just of bombs but of disease and starvation. Although this didn’t happen, Southampton was badly hit and many homes destroyed. So those with boats used them; there were moorings along the river and the ‘boat-yards,’ such as Deacons,Elephant and Faulkes became populated because there was a water supply and links to the local towns and schools. Most people moved back to their homes immediately after the war but few remained; either attached to this ‘un-named’ out back or simply had nowhere else to go.
My parents came to the area in 1948; my father worked as a boat builder and my mother a teacher for while in a school in Old Burseldon. They lived on other smaller boats until myself my siblings came along and we needed a more stable environment and they converted their last acquisition – a redundant landing craft.
It was on a particularly high tide in spring 1953 that my dad was able to float Miscellany across the marsh and moor her against the bank of the river where she was our happy home for a while.
Although Crableck didn’t have any of the amenities afforded by the other boatyards it was a little more sheltered from the winds and tides and comfortable for a growing family. Also, it was within 2 miles of the local school and shops and near a good bus route. We had milk, bread and mail delivered to a box at the end of the lane. In his spare time my father converted a ship’s life-boat into a sailing yacht which we sailed during the summer weekends to creeks and rivers of the Solent.
This idyllic life style ended in 1962 when we had to move into a house to be near the local senior school. Meanwhile, the other inhabitants on the jetty had re-housed and the boats left to rot or if lucky taken away and restored.
Any other evidence of the little community was washed away with the tide.
When is it shopping?
Living in a provincial town my rather alternative shopping needs are not always met! So I find I have to make choices.
They can range from searches in skips to the www. I say searching, a term I use loosely especially when in a skip ; because I am a lady and discretion is the game … the desired item is viewed from afar and removed with minimal fuss. Recently, while looking for an unusual planter for my garden I spied a galvanised water tank and was it removed with the aid of a passing neighbour in moments. It was filled with winter pansies before the day is out!! So while this is an exciting way of fulfilling my needs it is rather random and my shopping list is not always completed.
I also use the www; – where else for instance would I get Tibetan Pink salt: I use it regularly in the kitchen and bathroom and it is not readily available locally, so I had to find another source for this beautiful alternative to rock salt.
I enjoy a trip to London; whilst I may not always get what I need I am rarely disappointed; but there are always added costs and what begins as a shopping trip becomes gastronomic extravaganza paralleling the cost of a package holiday in Spain!
The alternative is internet shopping. This is not without excitement and sense of achievement. As a would-be aromatherapist I love to ‘shop around’ for essential oils, compare prices for a soon-to-acquired laptop or other digital delights and of course books!
While web shopping is time consuming, and the only added cost is the packaging and postage it can be done in unsocial times leaving me time to do other sort of shopping not yet discussed that can only be done on Saturday or Sunday morning in real shops in Jericho, Summer town, and dare I say Reading for flowers, bric-a-brac and coffee!
‘I’ve got a Little List’ (W S Gilbert)
In 1959, when I was almost 10 years old my mother had my baby brother – I already had two little sisters and as the oldest I became mother’s ‘helper.’
One of my tasks was doing the weekly shop.
First, I had to go to my father’s workplace and pick up five pounds from his pay packet (he got nine pounds a week) at 12 noon when he got paid. Then, I walked along a foot-path on the side of the river Hamble for about one and a half miles to the nearest shop, I had two bags, carefully crafted by my father from a sail that was no longer usable – for a little girl they were heavy enough even when empty.
With those and a shopping list carefully written by my mother, I hurried to the shop that would shut at 1pm on the dot for the weekend.
If asked I am sure I could recite the list verbatim: 6lbs potatoes, 2lb sugar, 1lb beef sausages, a can of condensed milk, ¼lb of tea, a can of processed peas, ½ lb margarine, a large can of luncheon meat , and ½ oz of Digger Shag, packet of green papers and a box of matches.
The shop-keeper always kept me waiting until all the adults had been served but I was fascinated by the way she transcribed my mother’s list into a blue duplicate booklet and marked the prices in the column at the side, which was so worth waiting for.
I was always watchful as the lady carefully packed my bags, as my mother was exceedingly explicit in her choice of goods. Always Fussell’s condensed milk not Nestles. Not for any ethical reason, it was the cost, only a few pence but not inconsiderable in those days. Streaky rashers, thinly sliced on the bacon slicer as instructed. That, with beef sausages -cheaper than pork – and mushrooms for my father, were an economical treat for Saturday lunch.
Luncheon meat for Sunday – not the expensive Spam for us – the cheaper Unox was mother’s choice. This was served with processed peas not garden peas, and boiled potatoes with a knob of margarine. Echo – was the choice – much cheaper than butter and a little cheaper than the new soft style margarine like Stork or Blue Band which with its new modern packaging was very tempting.
PG Tips, rather than Typhoo, was the desired tipple not for its delicate fragrance or smooth after taste, but for its value for money.
I was careful not to overspend and to enrage my mother, but I was allowed to spend a few pennies on a Fry’s Five Boys chocolate bar or a Milky Way as a reward to eat on the way home.
This was not a journey of delight it was an expedition of need, my family depended on my return. I was a child of the river and like a child of the city or jungle I was instinctively aware of the dangers – the tides and the A27. More of this later.
Francis Frith (2011). “The bridge c1955 Burseldon “.
Along the edge of the river; before early closing and the turn of the tide
This was a convenient way to ‘somewhere’ and back again. Every week, at 10 years old, I did the family shop at a grocery store at Lower Swanwick. I was to take this journey along the Hamble, from our houseboat at Crableck until we moved into a house 2 years later.
The Hamble flows from the Southampton water and is subject to a double tide; first the tide flows from English Channel into the Solent between the mainland and the Needles then it flows from the east around the opposite end of the island up the Solent from Portsmouth. While, this has a positive value to the Southampton Docks and the ships coming and going, the constant flux on the shoreline was trying for the vulnerable users
There was no clear path, any foot prints were washed away with the tide and covered with debris depending on the season and the wind direction. There were little bridges to thwart the creeks and gulleys that interrupted the route. They were made by other users over the years from drift wood and were rebuilt when buffeted by the tide as it ebbed and flowed. If the bridge was washed away I would have to leap across to the other side as I had no time or the ability for such a construction.
While, oblivious of the little interloper as she hurried on her way; a shy otter darted from view, a mullet; a stripped grey fish found in muddy shallows was watched by a cormorant poised on a nearby mooring. They tried to grab an existence in mud and sedge among the pockets of ‘civilization’ between Crableck yard and the A27.
For a journey not noted for its beauty there were some legendary nuggets that I will share sometime. For now there was farm along the way, with a painted cow shed that flanked the path, where yellow roses rambled gracefully – out of place and too handsome for a little girl to sully, by her gaze or touch, so she hurried by breathing in the perfume in huge gulps!
I later learned that this rather elegant converted ‘cowshed was the home of Mrs de Selincourt the mother of the novelist Aubrey de Selincourt.
Before reaching the final frontier – the A27 I had to go through Moody’s Boat Yard – the home of the fibreglass yachts and modernity. My father, who built wooden boats referred to these shapeless products as bubble gum boats. All this was not my concern; the most ferocious of creatures was yet to be conquered – the A27. There was no fear of strangers then, safety was the aim – the little girl would screw up her last bit of courage to ask someone to see her across the road.
From now it was plain sailing the job was almost done; now I just had to get the shopping and make it back before the tide turned.
Beast for tea
This title has been carefully chosen, for my taste for teas, pots and caddies is like that of a beast in search of prey. The only stipulation is that the tea should not be in a bag unless I put it there.
I used to roam greedily and indiscriminately from Fortnum and Mason, to the Algerian Coffee Shop and obscure market stalls. However, the beast has come – of – age and the search has become slower and more refined.
It was not until I realised that I was intolerant to dairy that I began to drink tea without milk, then discovered how refreshing ‘black’ tea is. At first I stayed with familiar blends like afternoon or breakfast; then I found a taste for the more delicate greens. Now, no leaf remains unturned, I enjoy, green, black and white. I have no preference between Indian and Chinese, and am not averse to teas from South America. My daughter sent me a little mate tea gourd and some tea that cheers me when Brazil and she seems so far away!
Mate is a traditional South American drink made with yerba mate leaves infused in hot water. It is served in a hollow calabasha gourd and sucked through a metal straw called a bombilla
I have found a taste for chamomile tea. I am able to get the beautiful dried flowers quite easily from my local herbalist and those steeped in boiling water make a lovely night-time drink. I also find a jasmine flower tea-ball particularly pleasing ; the ball is made with green tea leaves tied round a jasmine flower , this can reused until the flavour has gone, even then it retains its healthy benefits and perfume . Studies have shown that people who drink the beverage live longer, have fewer heart attacks and strokes and significantly lessen their chances of contracting cancer.
My partner and I go to a tapas bar in Oxford where they serve very nice mint tea that is made with Gunpowder which is a green tea with a little caffeine, so it has a nice kick that prompts an immediate sense of well being!
But this is not a search for sophistication and enlightenment; it is more an expedition of passion and growth. Also a hope that one day I will enjoy a cuppa in Brazil, the foothills of the Himalayas and maybe China.
I would like to learn about the art of tea making and at what time of day ‘they’ should be enjoyed and which food they best accompany. I hope you will remain watchful as the beast once more ventures into unknown territory.
The Bag Lady
I have a secret! I am a bag lady. Like a snail who carries her home on her back I am prepared for every eventuality.
I am always playing the game to find the one bag to fit every purpose. The stakes are high the payout can be disappointing. Like the man in the bar who silently feeds coins into the one armed bandit divorced from the busy Spanish bar; his hopes are high, but he shuffles away with empty pockets hoping next time his luck will change. Such is my desire to find the perfect bag!
Also, unless the bag meets my stringent requirements there will be tears. A recent acquisition fell from my shoulder onto the front wheel of my bike and was ripped almost beyond repair; a cobbler was able work miracles because it was made of leather. So it should be robust or reparable.
Also it should not be too small or worse too big I am 5’2’’ and the bag should not be bigger than me unless I am going to sleep in it!
I am not alone in this quest for a perfect bag; I discuss this dilemma with most people I meet, my current shopper is the child of such a conversation. A couple from London came into our local bar last year. The woman rushed the ladies while her partner clutched a ‘work of art’ to his chest – a beautiful red leather creation although a ‘shopper’ it doubles has as shoulder bag. I wasted no time in discovering its cost and supplier.
I tracked it down and it proved to be a perfect accessory when having tea with the Queen last year (invited as my mother guest when she was nominated by the High Commissioner of High Wycombe for services to the community) .
It was a typical English day in July, raining heavily. There was little shelter in the garden of Buckingham Palace for the commoners. So … one’s bag contained everything needed for a rainy day in London and tea on the lawn. A back-pack would have been more practical, leaving one’s hands free for the ‘afternoon tea’ but these I believe were considered a security risk and removed at the gate. I, not wishing to part with my presently perfect bag, was smug; seeing ‘ladies teetering on heels to die for, with drooping fascinators, dampened pashminas and clutch bags that had the all the staying power of a wet paper bag, on a soggy lawn very nice for three hours, when I found a kagool and a pair of red ‘flatties’ that matched (another vital ingredient) at the bottom of my bag.
My bags are not a fashion accessory they represent my life and home, not only containing implements of communication (manual and electronic), instruments of beauty but the kitchen ‘just in case’ – they are a security blanket but are beautiful nonetheless.
http://www.conranshop.co.uk/222853/LEATHER_BUCKET_BAG/Product
Mills and Boon
I have never read the ‘sophisticated’ passionate romance novels of Mills and Boon. But recently I came across a set of 15 hard back copies without dust jackets in the collection of Professor F J Cole who was a Professor of Zoology here in the University of Reading from 1907 to 1939.
The professor collected books all his life ending up with about 8,000 books about the history of early medicine, zoology, comparative anatomy and reproductive physiology. Amongst these there are 1,700 or more pre-1851 works, including many continental books. So why are this tales of ripped bodices and happy endings on the shelves of such an eminent collector of books
It turns out that the collection was written by Sophie Cole (1862-1947), the professor’s sister. As an adolescent, Miss Cole suffered from a long illness, and to pass the time she wrote a romance novel, Arrows from the dark which became, in 1909, the first ever Mills and Boon book. The book was well-received, and by 1914, 1,394 women had bought a copy. During her lifetime she wrote 65 books, and earned her living from them for many years. Miss Cole knew London very well, and wrote a non-fiction book on literary London, which is held in the collection. She lived in Brighton, but in her later years came to live with Professor Cole and his wife at Eldon Road in Reading.
In the sometimes perceived dullness of academia this little oasis of refreshment and light is a joy and a torch to us would be creative writers whatever our style and aim.
It should be noted also that the Special Collections is to become the custodians of the Mills and Boon archive and all their publications later this year. I may not be a huge fan but perhaps I will enjoy researching some of the other early writers and how they struggled to get their voices heard.
Let me tell you a secret …
I am not your stereotypical 60 year old lady: I cycle to the gym every morning and workout before going to work. Not so much a guilty pleasure, more my best kept secret – not a secret garden but a secret place –where my identity is removed along with my day clothes where I can ‘do’ gym! I am a member of a club. In a place where I can sweat, strain, show my body and be proud that even after all these years I can still row 1000 metres in under 6 minutes , cycle 10 miles on the ‘ rocky mountains of Utah’ – even if they are virtual? The calories I burn are real! And then I walk the Sunset strip.
Some days I do yoga when I take on another persona –that of a goddess, enjoying the bliss, emptiness and Namaste … who am I kidding; actually it depends on the teacher after 45 minutes of twisting, leaning and pulling at 7.30 am my body can feel as if it has been ‘pulled through a hedge backwards’. So, while the teacher leaves the room cool and serene me and my fellow would – be yogis may be left hoping for enlightenment the next day.
But instead, it’s time for ‘spinning’ – a word which in my opinion should be added to the dictionary meaning sitting or standing on a static bike cycling up and down rolling hills and mountains to the beat of rock music for 40 minutes with a break at the end of each ‘song’ for a quick slug of water and then to slid off the bike in a pool of sweat! How can I share that experience with my friends without sounding like a complete glutton for punishment?
There is a regular core of participants who gather at the gym between 7am and 8.30am. Unaware of status or even name; we acknowledge each other with ‘knowing’ nods. We are not friends, we care little as regards what they are wearing or doing. We are like ships that pass in the night.
So why do I return?
The gym is managed by band of professionals who hold this motley crew together, by greeting us by name, take our bookings, monitor our progress and assess our ability. It is a place where reality is suspended and I can become superwoman for an hour or so.
Coat Hanger Doll's House 