I hate to swank, but I’m now a qualified day skipper. Go me, though it was by the skin of my teeth I will admit. My inability to identify vessels by their light configurations at night nearly scuppered me, but luckily Sophie was a bit more au fait in that aspect and at various critical moments was able to mouth to me, behind the teacher’s back, just enough correct answers to lend some credibility to my dubious claims I had covered all the necessary theory work before getting down to the practical. I was also helped by the fact the other guy on the course knew even less than me and annoyed the instructor by repeatedly heading below in his dripping wet trunks.
Actually that was the least of his problems. In the space of just twenty minutes when I handed the helm to him, whilst I was desperately trying to identify which lighthouse was which during our night sail, he managed to steer so far off the extremely conservative course I had set that when I came up from the chart table it was pointed out to me that we were heading straight into a cape that we should have been miles clear of. Fair to say I was kind of implicated in this too, but I redeemed myself “demonstrating great presence of mind and seamanship” (my words) the following night when we were “sheltering” in Port Mahon Marina from the worst storm to hit Menorca in years. With the boat heeling dramatically from one side to another the 55 MPH winds unzipped the sail cover and when I happened to get up in the middle of the night for a pee, I noticed the mainsail had billowed out of the lazyjacks all over the deck. I was a sorry sight indeed as I grappled frantically to restore the situation at 2.30am in the driving rain wearing nothing other than a scratchy pair of boxer shorts which the wind was doing its best to further shred. Nice thought eh?
Changing the subject, the other evening who was I sitting next to at dinner, but the founder and CEO of Hotel Chocolat. As I often tell you it is life styles of the rich and famous up in Newmarket. Incidentally, an eagle eyed client sent me a letter published in the FT today which sums it up very well I think.
An idyllic diversion
From Geoffrey Francis, Auckland, New Zealand
Sir, Over in England from New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup (October 5), for the first time in 20 years, I ventured to Newmarket for a day at the bloodstock auction sales.
People with immaculate manners, tweed caps, purposeful calm, the freedom to smoke, no officials telling anyone where not to go, bonhomie at bars a plenty, not an unshaven face, tattoo, drip-dry white shirt and cheap suit in sight. why isn’t the rest of your country still like this?
Geoffrey Francis
Geoffrey obviously hasn’t driven down Newmarket High Street on a Saturday night. He’d be back to Auckland like a shot with no regret. Anyway this Chocolat man was a nice guy and the following morning as I wandered round to the stable to see how Lottie, who was meant to be tacking her horse up to go for a ride, was getting on, I thought to myself actually he was probably the best father in the world. A Dad with his own chain of chocolate shops? Can it get any better than that?! I know you would all have enjoyed that same little frisson of pride as I did however, when venturing this opinion to my 14 year old daughter, she replied, “Nope….you’re the best Daddy in the world”. I modestly demurred. But she insisted. “Oh, no, you definitely are, because, Daddy, you’re going to go back round to the house and get my saddle. Off you go now.”
And talking of hobnobbing it and disrespectful children I went to an art exhibition on Wednesday. The snap I took below was the cheapest work on offer and one of very few in which the subject had any clothes on. Even though I’d had a few glasses of Prosecco and the artist was giving half the sale proceeds to charity my close shave bidding for four NZ v Namibia RWC tickets meant I had the presence of mind to send a message home to the powers that be for their opinion before splashing out the largesse. I’m not sure the artist would be too pleased with Hen’s response so mums the word.
PS. The weekend before last, just hours after he had arrived home for a leave out weekend, Bob sent me a picture of him with his dog standing proudly in front of three grey squirrels laid out on the field. Intriguingly he told me he had dispatched these nasty vermins using a traditional San tribe hunting technique. If you were the squeamish sort you would have abandoned this email many moons ago, but even so I can’t really bring myself to spell out on paper what precisely was involved. Suffice to say it didn’t involve guns or spears and the dogs role was somewhat peripheral. I defy you to work this thorny conundrum out for yourselves. Never in a month of Sundays.
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