Green Wyvern Yachting Club
In the very early days of the Green Wyvern, Bert and Cecil organised sailing and camping holidays on the Fenland rivers before transferring to the Broads.
Some forty years later a small group of senior Wyverns, Jonathan and Gordon Winterton, Malcolm Cubie, Mike Sarson and Dick Farrar braved the elements of January and returned to the Fens.
The weekend began innocently enough. I met Jonathan one Friday night in January at Oulton Broad North station. We were to meet Gordon and Malcolm Cubie in Norwich thence to Ely for a weekend of adventure on John Anderson’s narrow boat. Tim Munsey, who had managed to fall off the north face of Timber Hill the previous week, was now on crutches and had wisely decided not to join us.
We made contact with Malcolm but as we boarded the train for Ely there was no sign of EGW. Eventually Gordon arrived in some disarray. We were all treated to a series of tours, involving virtually every permutation and combination, of his numerous pockets in a desperate and, as it turned out, futile attempt to prove to the guard that he had in fact purchased a ticket only minutes before. Much to the relief
of the rest of our fellow travellers, the elusive permit emerged from its hiding place,
('I never knew I had a pocket there’) and we were allowed to continue our journey.
At Ely we were greeted by the beaming giant Dick (Farrar that is) who promptly escorted us to our weekend residence. Our time aboard, however, was short-lived for no sooner had we deposited our belongings, than we were whisked off to 'The Cutter' thence on a gentle crawl around Ely. Gordon insisted that we bought our rounds in strict alphabetical rotation to avoid any possible confusion. (These rare moments of optimism are worthy of note!)
His second law, which emerged during the evening, was that only those whose surnames began with a 'W' were to be permitted the luxury of eating! The reasoning behind this latter rule remains obscure but it was to re-appear in a modified form the following evening.
The Skylark was a fine craft and our absentee landlord, a fine and generous soul, had thought fit to leave a bottle of Scotch aboard, the contents of which, together with the carbon monoxide fumes from the splendid coke stove, rendered us insensible until next morning when we were able to say, as Philip Larkin observes in 'Traumerie': 'We have woken again before the word was spelt. But only just!
Saturday morning was bitterly cold and comfortless as, over-nightcapped, we felt our way into the provisioning. It fell to the doctor and I to gather coke for the stove and I was feeling confident that Malcolm’s early childhood experiences of gleaning lumps of coal from the Northumbrian shore would considerably simplify our task. Two minutes later I found myself standing next to a pile of anthracite; the doctor standing on my shoulders was dropping cobs into the bucket balanced on my head! 'This is living off the land', said the Cube as he giggled his way down my back. I wished I had gone to the supermarket with Dick and the 'W’s who shortly returned with the human food. It was time to leave.
Because of the cold weather the competition to be on the helm, rather than down below beside the warm stove eating eggs and bacon etc, became somewhat intense, but since Malcolm was the only 'C' aboard, under Gordon’s third law, he was allowed to dress up in the survival gear, wear the funny hat and steer. Jonathan would occasionally venture up on deck to investigate an unusual noise which puzzled him; it turned out to be the engine.
The plan for lunch was to head for Denver Sluice where, periodically, the Great Ouse is allowed to mingle with its tidal part Washwards, via King’s Lynn. After lunch we had decided to drop back to Southerby for the evening.
But him who was up up up above, now re-christened Dr. Ice Cube, in a post hypothermic fit, had taken a pre-lunchly lurch towards the nearest habitation in order to thaw out. Pre-lunch was taken at Brandon Creek where the Ouses, little and large, mingle and where, recently, large new plantations of willow suck at the otherwise naked fens, prior to their being harvested and woven into vast wooden carpets, for sea defences and river bedding.
The 'Ship' provided a welcome stop, after which helming was undertaken in ten minute shifts. Apart from hypothermia, the greatest threat to the helmsman was death from passively smoking the stove; the craft being constantly head to apparent wind. By late afternoon, after a lunch which included a magnificent smoked ham, provided by E.G. (O.N.) Winterton, and my own lime pickle (now on sale as an analgaesic), we found ourselves at Southeby. Malcolm, with customary thoughtfulness, eased us, one by one, with a selection of his anecdotes, into our separate siestas.
On our awakening at about 6.30 p.m. or so we discovered the Doctor was no longer aboard and so a search party was rapidly assembled. Armed with very few clues but a great deal of experience, we were able to track him down to the nearest hostelry. Sitting with a pint in hand, a self-satisfied grin on his face, he appeared to be completely surrounded by the entire mutant teenage population of Southerby. The reason for the smirk, as he was pleased to point out, was because he had just devoured a fine fish supper and that we were just five minutes too late to enjoy a similar experience. Things were, once again, looking pretty grim on the food front; even for people whose name began with 'W'.
Following a swift 'Ruddle' we decided to chance a visit to the next hostelry, about a mile up the road (according to the mutants). Our long walk was rewarded with a lively pub which appeared to provide good fayre, but our euphoria was short lived as we were informed by the landlord (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ray Watts complete with plimsolls) that unless we had booked he could not accommodate us. 'But I’m a "W”, whimpered Jonathan hopefully. 'That may well be,' said mine host, 'but I still don’t have room!' Well-fed Malcolm’s smile became broader (he may have been gritting his teeth in an attempt to remain conscious). Mercifully it wasn’t long before Ray Watts’ twin brother returned, to announce a cancellation. Treat followed upon treat in the shape of large juicy steaks, good ale and the discovery that double rum and cloves (a single for 72p!) were to be dispensed at £1. Fortunately, at about 12.30, the taxi arrived to take us back to base, but not before Malcolm had attempted to pay for a meal he hadn’t ordered.
Back at the narrow boat we decided to retire. It is at this point that I feel that a little knowledge of the sleeping arrangements might help you to understand the rest of this tale. Aft there were three berths, one to port, where I slept (I use the word quite loosely) and two, one above the other, to starboard. Jonathan was below, Malcolm was above. Got the picture? Dick slept amidships on the floor (Gordon’s fourth law of 'F's) and Gordon resplendent in his new sheik abdulla night-gown, had taken the for’ard double berth.
At approximately 3.00 a.m. Malcolm, who you will recall was up above, came very violently down below. Being an 'S'. I had been chosen to be the breakfall (Sod had actually beaten Gordon to this law). There followed a great deal of fumbling and crashing as the crazed Dr tacked his way for’ard; then silence broken by, 'Oh, Gordon, what am I doing here?'
Now whether Gordon failed to understand the question or whether, as I rather suspect, he was not disposed to engage in existentialist arguments at this time in the morning I am not sure, but suffice to say that 'if happiness be the test of rectitude' then the eudaemonic Commodore was far from rect!
I felt quite wrecked when, at about 3.30, the Cube dropped on me for the second time and my cries of anguish woke Jonathan. There followed a long period of silence after which, through the gloom, we both watched as like the giant Hephaestus.'Up and up he climbed, never pausing though the agony was intense . . . towards the sky which was his home. On Sunday we Oused our way back to Ely without serious incident and a lunchtime with John to offer him our grateful thanks for a relaxing weekend.
Home again I reflected on the weekend and read some Larkin:
'At once, whatever happens starts receding . . .
Curses? The dark? Struggling? Where’s the source
Of these yarns now (except in nightmares of course).'
MS
1991