Timbo

Mean's a doctor is on board. Could be fun! I'm of Yorkshire, Jewish, Irish and Scots origins, born in Singapore...which according to some bloke I met in the Brit Club in Bahrain makes me Welsh!

The rules were changed in 2004 and are about to change again. To wear an un-defaced blue ensign on your vessel you do need to be a serving officer in the maritime forces or an active reservist in addition to any award made to your vessel. The fine is currently set at £1K. It's something I had to look into on behalf of my Dad (Uncle Albert) and I had a nice chat with a chap at the Admiralty on the subject. He explained it as 'like wearing a regimental tie if you were never in the forces or getting an SBS tattoo if the closest you ever got was delivering spuds to Hamworthy Barracks'. Apparently it is the right of every British Citizen to fly the Red Ensign and is the flag you are supposed to fly and not the Union Flag. (When working abroad we would always carry a red ensign in case of emergency. We were told British troops apparently treat anyone flying the Union Flag with suspicion.) Fly the union flag and it means the Queen is on board. Fly the Flag of St George means there's an Admiral on board. On board Royal Tudor I have Uncle Albert's collection of flags. He shinned up many a mast to collect them, so there's the masthead from HMS Carrysfort and the pennant from the Commodore's staff car that he swiped. I decided this weekend at the wooden boat show I'm going to make a light box to frame them and put it in 'The Captain's Cabin' on Royal Tudor along with Uncle Albert's cap ribbons and his bosun's whistle.

Something Doug taught me...sharp tools and the right tools for the job. I have two sets of chisels, planes, scrapers, basically anything with a blade in it Pauline. I keep one lot on or around the boat and the other lot is either in my car boot or in my workshop at home. The ones on the boat have a habit of getting chipped and generally abused, so tend to be almost useless. If I need to do some serious work, then the chisels come out of the car boot...BUT I keep a very close eye on them as sharp chisels attract the eye of those who like to chop through nails or open paint or varnish cans with them! When I've finished with them...they go back in the car, which is locked! Sharpening woodworking tools can get to be a hobby all on it's own and generates it's own set of tools!

Nope. The trauma is too much!

My day? My day? No! Just don't!

Are they there yet?

Put away those naughty chemicals and heat guns Pauline! Random Orbital Sander Mouse detail sander Selection of sanding discs and pads A sharp card scraper

Did they collect £200? If they passed Herbert Woods two and a half hours ago they should be just passing Wroxham Broad?

Congratulations guys! Hopefully I'll catch you on your trip up north! I've found the best mooring strategy developed from my natural sleep pattern. As soon as I get on the boat I can't help it, but I'm in bed early and I'm up early. So by the time the slugabeds are just leaving their moorings in a morning I'm mooring up for lunch. By the time they start looking for an evening mooring...I'm already moored. Having said all that...I noticed the other week that it was a lot quieter on the Northern Broads than usual.

Erm...Pauline...it's not the yellow one going backwards is it?

Is it just me, or does it happen to everyone? Is there some diabolical biological process at work? I can distinctly remember going to bed one night in the 1990's, slim, athletic, well dressed...I had a tailor for gawd's sake...John Lobb shoes...and then I wake up in 2019 looking like the result of an experiment which involved feeding a whole pig to a grey haired monkey, shaving the monkey before smearing it in grease and then throwing it through Tesco's clothing department?

A quick tip on purchasing...I bought my heating system direct to the manufacturer, told them I had been recommended by a fellow NBN member, which I had (not that we have any deal with them at all), and they gave me discount. The Boat Show had just finished so they also kindly applied the Boat Show discount. I ended up getting the system for half price.

Someone suggested I put pen to paper a little while ago. I was re-reading the 'much flogged' book Ghosts of The Broads the other week, there's a copy kept on RT, and thought perhaps it's time for a reboot? Recently I've been researching the perfume industry in London between 1700 and 1900, a period in history when they were still defining alchemy from chemistry. So, I started digging into the thought on alchemy prevalent at the time through original and contextual publications. While doing this, I stumbled upon a story I found incredibly interesting, which linked various people through history with places I hold dear and know well, from my Cambridge College, to Thurne Mouth to St Bennet's Abbey. So... And yes, I am looking for guinea pigs and editors to see if I can turn my hand to writing. I can churn out an essay in minutes but trying to write in a way that holds the attention, keeps the story moving at pace and getting the reader to keep reading really is challenging. How am I doing so far?

Fascinating Nigel! Lincoln Grammar School was amalgamated with Lincoln Christ's Hospital School. There is a gap in the list of headmaster's of the Lincoln Grammar School between 1875 and 1911 which Frank must fit into? Heads of Lincoln School 1852–1857: Revd George Foster Simpson, previously the first Rector of the High School of Montreal 1857–1875: Revd John Fowler 1911–1929: Reginald Moxon 1929–1937: Charles Edgar Young 1937–1957: George Franklin 1958–1962: Patrick Martin (later headmaster of Warwick School, 1962–77) 1962–1973: John Collins Faull (later headmaster of Tewkesbury School, 1972–?) 1973–1974: Arthur Behenna

Under the heading 'strange but true' comes the information that, contrary to popular belief, there are just as many young people that suffer a stroke as do old people. This was something I found out when it happened to me. One minute I'm as fit as a lop, the next I'm sitting in casualty being spoken 'at', rather than 'to', by a young medic. “I think you've had a str...” the medic had started to say before I keeled over and the lights went out. I could remember a moment of warmth and security as I regained consciousness. Someone was holding me and stroking my brow. “Yuh alright sunshine, nuh worry mi wi protect yuh from harm.” a female voice with a heavy Jamaican accent whispered. I tried to sit up, but my limbs were leaden and unresponsive. I tried to speak but my tongue clove to my dry mouth. “Nuh fuss lie still an nurse Phoebe wi luk afta yuh.” whispered the voice as cool and refreshing as the water I was being given to drink. Over the coming weeks and months, Nurse Phoebe became my rock. A constant in the wreck of my life. She was beautiful, both inside and out. Certainly old fashioned, her attitude much older than the twenty-two years she claimed to be or looked. Her starched white apron over her blue dress and traditional nurses cap made a stark contrast to the drab grey smocks and scrubs of her colleagues. Above all, it was love that made her stand out. To the doctors and other nurses, at best, I was broken and needed to be patched up and sent on my way. At worst, just another backside to wipe. No, Phoebe was different. Who cared if she looked old fashioned. Who cared if she seemed to appear when I needed her? Who cared if she seemed to walk through walls? The bloody 'Trick Cyclist', that's who cared! The psychiatrist grasped my chin, shining a light in my eyes. “Peduncular hallucinosis!” “Bless you!” I said looking to see if Phoebe had appreciated my quip. But instead of her usual infectious grin, tears trickled down her cheeks. “You have damaged the mid-brain resulting in your experiencing hallucinations. It's rare, but it does happen. Patients can see all manner of people, animals, colourful patterns, usually in the evening but they can occur at any time.” “What? So I can add being psycho to the dodgy speech, arm, hand, leg and dribbling when I eat?” I eventually spluttered. “Oh, the hallucinations can be short term, although they could last for years. Some people enjoy them you know! I've prescribed a sedative, for now, we'll soon have you out of here and back to work!” “Wonderful” I mumbled as a nurse in grey scrubs jabbed my arm with a hypodermic. At the end of my bed, Phoebe seemed to shimmer as she clasped a fist over her heart and then pointed at me. My eyes grew heavy and Phoebe faded from view before everything faded to black. 'Out of here and back to work' the 'Trick Cyclist' had said. I was certainly 'out' but 'back to work'? You see, there is not a lot of call for archaeologists and historians that have difficulty stringing a sentence together let alone operating a damned shovel. Can't dig, can't talk and can't teach. “We do have the reputation of being 'the friendly college', but there's not a lot we can do with a fellow having trouble with his 'worms' as you just put it!” the Master had said. It served me right for trying to sneak through the Old Lodge instead of going through the main entrance. He was bound to catch up with me at some point. “And then there's the drinking. It simply won't do!” Again, he was right. It simply wouldn't do. There just wasn't enough of it to make me stop feeling. Ever since the stroke, I felt wrong, on edge. Do you know that feeling when you were a kid and you were really, really in trouble and your brain was working overtime trying to predict your punishment? Or when your Dad was drunk and belligerent and arguing with your Mum and you knew any minute his fists would start landing punches? That sick feeling when you know something is so dreadfully wrong but there's nothing you can do about it? No? So, just me then. But that's what I felt like twenty-four-seven, ever since Phoebe had faded from view. Drinking had helped, proffering a few blessed hours of oblivion but then I'd missed the company of my imaginary friend. You couldn't say it was drink and drugs, because I'd stopped taking the medication in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her. “You need to sort yourself, John, find a purpose, something to do.” “Like what?” I mumbled wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. “I'm glad you asked, Professor Cornelius, says he can make use of you.” “Never heard of him.” “Well, he's heard of you and you are expected.” “Where will I find him?” I asked knowing it was already a done deal. “Norfolk.” “There isn't a Norfolk College.” “The Norfolk Broads, John, The Norfolk Broads!”

Ghost of a Chance The traffic lights on either side of the ancient bridge went through their cycle once more. This time casting a sickly green glow over the pilot's office on the starboard bank of the river. I took another pull on the bottle of Jack, anything to kill the godawful feeling of dislocation and uselessness. In front of the short dyke that housed the day boats a Ripplecraft river cruiser, trussed up for the night, gently swung at her moorings. On the bow sat a young woman swathed in a blanket and nursing a mug. She glanced at me with what I took for disgust before quickly looking back up to the bridge. The lights of the pub flicked off. As the last customers weaved their way to the bridge to get back to their boats the traffic lights changed colour again. Away to my right the sound of galloping horses and the rumble of iron-rimmed wheels meant the night's entertainment was about to begin. A ball of fire burst from behind the pilot's office and headed for the bridge, the holidaymakers oblivious to the hell that was careering towards them. I took another swig of Jack and settled down to watch the fun as rotting horses pulling a blazing coach passed right through the holidaymakers traipsing over the bridge. Dried flesh and sinew framed the gap-toothed grinning maw of the coachman as he whipped the desiccated horses dragging the fire wrapped landau. The dumb-springs of the careering carriage dug into the parapet of the bridge and sent sparks out over the river and onto the Ripplecraft river cruiser moored below illuminating the upturned face of the woman on the bow. Undead footmen, limbs flailing, screamed and cackled into the flaming orange glow of the burning coach as the lead horse hit the wall at the centre of the tiny humped bridge with a sickening crack. The screams of the broken animals were joined by those of the occupants of the carriage, which tipped precariously over the parapet wreathed in flame. The frantic thrashing of the horses rocked the carriage. With an explosion of flame and flailing limbs, the carriage toppled over the edge. Flaming debris thudded into staithe around me as the landau dropped into the river which erupted in a flume of spray and mud. “You saw that!” demanded the yachtswoman who had leapt ashore and was now shaking me. This was new. I was not used to people sharing my hallucinations. “You've taken a hurt, what made you sit so close you feeble-pated loon?” demanded the woman. I looked down at my leg from which a twisted piece of metal jutted. This was also new. I'd never been hurt by one of my hallucinations!

I'm sorry but...my good friend MM on the CB radio having 'random chats' keeps bringing thoughts of Karl Pilkington to my mind! What's your 20, how many candles are you burning?

Paragraph 12 of Schedule 5 of the Norfolk and Suffolk Broads Act 1988 gives the Broads Authority powers to deal with abandoned vessels. These powers were exercised earlier in June to remove a boat. https://www.greatyarmouthmercury.co.uk/news/abandoned-boat-at-yarmouth-yacht-station-used-for-drugs-1-6102491 I would imagine the biggest constraints would be geographic and financial, although thinking about it the Public Health Act 1935 would also come into play with regard to notice and execution. However, the only document on policy I could find is dated way, way back in 2010 and is only a draft and I have no idea if it was adopted as official policy.

Welcome aboard Clive!

As we are getting closer to the beginning of Gracie's next voyage, I suppose I had better finish off this one. “as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.” ― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows Feeding the ducks. I am not a supporter of the 'do not feed the ducks bread brigade'. Let's say I've been sceptical ever since this Facebook driven marketing campaign by pet food manufacturers reared its head. It takes a matter of seconds to track the money changing hands, and a little perseverance to wade through the pseudo-science. Calls related to malnourished water fowl have increased ten fold these last few years here in Lincolnshire. On my beloved Broads, the wildlife populations have changed drastically. The Broads are stuffed with harriers, heron, otter, buzzards, hawks, cormorant, and owl. I often wonder what all these predators are eating and was wondering exactly this point watching eight barn owls hunting the meadow behind the pilot office at Potter Heigham Bridge, when a common buzzard grabbed one of the owls. The answer being, each other! Populations of grey lag geese currently seem to stand out on The Broads. The uniformity of the flock making the lack of duck and coot more prominent. Duck and coot seem to have vanished. My favourite bird the Great Crested Grebe are still here but not in any number. A centre cockpit boat above the reeds exposes the myth the missing birds are in flood dykes. So, you will see me feeding the 'ducks' or in the case of Gracie that morning, feeding the black headed gulls who stood in for the missing ducks on this occasion and they will be dining on bread and scraps. I could feel the 'Norfolk Coffee' I had with Maurice Mynah that morning 'doing me good' as I dropped RT's cockpit roof and made ready to leave Potter Heigham. I waved farewell to Maurice Mynah as he left his mooring, and started the engine. "Wait, wait, I'm not ready!" called a little voice from the galley as Gracie finished her toast and rushed up to the cockpit in a swirl of summer dress and long blonde hair. Leaving the mooring and turning in front of the bridge we headed back down stream with the smell of cooking bacon and eggs wafting deliciously from the galley. Within seconds Grandma arrived bearing a plate of bacon and egg sandwiches and a pot of fresh coffee. Gracie and Grandma then climbed onto RT's roof from the cockpit to take in the sights of Tin Town. Thurne will always have a special place in my heart. It's been the site of so many family holidays from the early 70s onward. In 1972 we were cruising upriver to Potter on board Captain XII. Uncle Albert was at the helm and usually he gave fisherman plenty of room. Cruising up to Thurne Dyke he was paying very close attention to two fishermen hidden in the reeds between the old landing craft turned houseboat and the dyke. The boat in front had cut close to the fishermen hitting the fishing rod of one of them and received 'a good cussin' . Turning Captain XII at the dyke he headed back down stream before turning again and heading upstream. This time he hugged the bank tightly which would mean the irate fisherman would be even more irate having a boat park in front of his peg. "What kind of daft pill...oh aye up ah kid!" the fisherman had started to shout angrily before a gleeful smile crossed his face and he swarmed into the cockpit mud dripping from his waders as he hugged my mum. The two fishermen were father and son in law, renowned for their pranks and practical jokes. The son in law was married to my Mum's school friend and Mum had spent the majority of her childhood as a part of their family, although we had not seen them for almost seven years as we had been abroad wherever Dad was stationed. For the next ten years or so we would join the families camping in the field behind the farm and fishing the Thurne. I relived my childhood memories sharing them with Gracie as Thurne slipped by in a golden haze of sunshine. Out through Thurne mouth and we passed St. Benets. "When I come back we are going there for a picnic!" Gracie announced. Grandma was making a list of places Gracie wanted to visit 'the next time' as I basked in Gracie's enthusiasm. My preoccupation with Royal Tudor, all the hard work of my friends was at last seeing dividends. Under Ludham Bridge and the air horn gave the most pathetic of raspberries as Gracie pressed the button. I've heard the beagles break wind louder than that! Air horn for RT has been added to my Christmas wish list! As we twisted and turned along the River Ant, Grandma went to make sandwiches for lunch and Gracie joined me at the helm. By Irstead we came across the wherry Hathor under sail. In no rush, we pottered along behind her and I kept an eye on river traffic behind us when a shout made me jump. "Oi pillock give us a clue?" I looked down at Gracie stood on her step ladder at the helm, blonde hair flying, straw summer hat and sunglasses. "That's what you are supposed to say isn't it Timbo?" asked Gracie. "Erm...yeah...but not when Grandma can hear you!" I replied glancing nervously into the galley to see if Grandma had heard. The young chappy at the helm of the wherry had not been looking behind him. He was looking now, and looking a bit shocked, but he waved us through with a grin. Across Barton and about to make the turn for Stalham and I heard a thing I thought I would never hear. "Is there somewhere else we can go? It's such a shame to go back now!" said grandma Ellie. "Huh? What, what what what what?" "Shut up and drive!" "Yes Maam!" So we pootled on to Wayford before finally making our way back to Stalham. RT back in her berth, Grandma started her cleaning and I began packing luggage in the rear well ready to load in the car. Cleaning done we had a trip to Sea Palling to attend to before the drive home. At the beach, Gracie and Grandma made sand castles while I took the beagles for a good long walk along the beach. Fish and chips for tea and it was time to say goodbye to Royal Tudor and head for home. "We are coming back?" Gracie asked as I closed the stern canopy. "Yes we are coming back!" said Grandma. "See you very soon!" said Gracie patting RT. Soon we will be back on board RT with Gracie. Since her voyage on RT Gracie has named her new pet fish Royal Tudor. A new picnic basket has been purchased for that picnic at St Benet's. Gracie has compiled a long list of things she wants to see on the Broads...and Grandma has been down to Royal Tudor and started the interior restoration in earnest with a thorough, thorough scrub. RT gleams! Doug has sealed leaks and made new window hoppers, and our friend Trev has fitted new galley taps and sorted a plumbing leak in the shower and under the Captain's Cabin. So...new adventures await Gracie, this time on the Southern Broads!

While I was teaching in the States in the 1990's I came across a monograph by Professor Cippola of UC Berkeley entitled 'The Basic Laws of Human Stupidity'. His monograph detailed five basic laws. Always and inevitably each of us underestimates the number of stupid individuals in circulation. The probability that a given person is stupid is independent of any other characteristic possessed by that person. A person is stupid if they cause damage to another person or group of people without experiencing personal gain, or even worse causing damage to themselves in the process. Non-stupid people always underestimate the harmful potential of stupid people; they constantly forget that at any time anywhere, and in any circumstance, dealing with or associating themselves with stupid individuals invariably constitutes a costly error. A stupid person is the most dangerous type of person there is. For anyone interested in researching this phenomena further here is a link to the complete essay.

Uncle Albert was very much into knotting, hitching, splicing and pioneering (building structures out of logs and rope such as towers, bridges, death slides). In his last year when he was at the day centre it was a comical sight to see him sat in the 'knitting circle' with the old ladies. While they were busy knitting, dropping and pearling, Uncle Albert was sat splicing rope with his huge, murderous looking rope knife. One of his favourite pastimes while mooring up was tying the boat up with a variety of different lockable slip knots. My favourite of his mooring knots was the 'finger trapper'. He reserved this knot for mooring in places where people tend to play with the mooring warps of boats when they've had a few shandies. Anyone undoing a 'finger trapper' without knowing how to undo it, would get a very painful rap across their fingers from a hidden counterweight up the line and the boat would remain safely secured. I have to admit I don't have any of Uncle Albert's skill with rope but he did teach me rope work and pioneering, much of which I used on a daily basis out in the field and adapted to my career in archaeology. Consequently many of the knots I use will not be instantly recognisable. My round turn and two half hitches confuses the Rangers as I double the rope back on itself before making the knot. I often use a locking highwayman's hitch which really throws some people. My hitches may not be those recommended by the experts but they work for me. They are strong, easily tied and easily undone when needed.

So if we sketch out the 'ole in that there bridge... then sketch out a design of a boat to go through that there 'ole...adding a deck to walk round it... we should get the best design fpr a Broads boat... ...the common all garden, I can't believe it's not plastic, generic Broads Design Boat! I know I'm missing something here!

He already has those!

DfT seeks evidence on Air Pollutant Emissions from Domestic Vessels and Inland Waterways https://www.rya.org.uk/newsevents/news/Pages/dft-call-for-evidence.aspx The Department for Transport has published a Call for Evidence to explore emissions from all engines on vessels operating domestically within the UK, including inland waterways. The Government’s Clean Air Strategy sets out the need to reduce emissions from all sources to improve air quality, including emissions from vessels. As part of this vitally important area of work, the DfT is seeking to collect a body of evidence that will allow Government to understand more clearly the extent of emissions from vessels that do not currently fall within the scope of environmental regulations; and establish if it can do more to address emission issues. The RYA has been involved, along with other stakeholders, in working with the DfT official managing the Call for Evidence on Domestic Shipping Air Pollution. The Department would especially like to hear from: Vessel owners Vessel operators Ports Marinas Boatyards and boat storage companies Interested bodies such as harbour and navigation authorities As well as submitting its own response, the RYA is encouraging its 112,000 members to respond to the Call for Evidence, as an important opportunity to influence future policy development by helping Government to gather the specialist knowledge and information held within the recreational boating sector. How to respond The consultation closes at 11:45pm on 11 January 2020. Respondents are required to complete a response form and either: Email your response to: domesticshipping@dft.gov.uk Write to: Domestic Shipping - Call for Evidence Maritime Environment and Financial Incentives Zone 2/31 Department for Transport Great Minster House SW1P 4DR In setting a six-month window for this call for evidence the Department has sought to recognise that the summer season is particularly busy for many small craft operators who form a key group of respondents. A summary of responses, will be published within three months of the close of the Call for Evidence. Paper copies will be available on request. The Call for Evidence is being conducted in line with the Government’s key consultation principles. If you have any comments about the Call for Evidence process please contact the Consultation Co-ordinator at consultation@dft.gov.uk. Please do not send the Call for Evidence responses to this address.