Maritime thoughts

Like the Ventnor Downs which look down superciliously on the town below, the sea is a character in our lives; and just like us it's a moody, unpredictable and temperamental companion, each day exhibiting an array of different attributes and peculiarities. We've enjoyed its fury and arguments with the winter wind and rain: in the last few days Storm Pia and Storm Gerrit have made their stentorian way across the island, and the noise and froth of the sea have been exhilarating to witness.  

However, I've also noticed something more subtle; in a poem titled "How clear, how lovely bright", my favourite poet, A. E. Housman, wrote about the sun's descent at the end of the day: "Ensanguining the skies, how heavily it dies, into the west away". 

Ensanguining is a great word, indicating blood, and describes the sun and the burning colours it creates as it pops its pyjamas on and disappears for the night. We can all picture that kind of crimson sunset. However, round here in the winter there's a particular, dull yellow hue that can be seen in stripes across the sea, reflected from the sun in the late afternoon. Normally we associate yellow with being bright, but this yellow is muted and muddy, not heavy enough for gold or deep enough for amber. I've never seen it anywhere else and not yet been able to capture it on film, but it's another example of something only seen at this time of the year. 

It's a kind of pre-sunset sunset, seen at the moment between 3pm and 4pm. I've done a fair amount of cycling in the last few days and have especially enjoyed this experience on the road between Whitwell and Ventnor; as you approach Ventnor you get a fabulous view of the sea on your right, and the dull yellow stripes and spots - let's call it mellow yellow - were especially prominent this afternoon.

We've agreed that the sea is 'moody and temperamental'; so are humans. We've loved life in Ventnor so far and I've written with unfailing positivity about the community and character in this quirky, hipster town. The other day, however, we had a reminder that there are idiots around. Mrs. G parked the car in a space outside our house. We can't always get a space and from time to time have to park in a car park a hundred yards away. Now whilst Mrs. G might never be selected for Great Britain and Northern Ireland for the parking team (category: cars) at the forthcoming Paris Olympics, she is seasoned and experienced at this pastime (although does admittedly leave the car a couple of feet from the kerb from time to time). On this occasion Mrs. Griffiths parked in an entirely sensible way and no doubt looked back contentedly and even a little smugly at her handiwork. The next day, however, we discovered a note on the car windscreen, pictured above: 

"USE YOUR BRAIN AND ALL THE SPACE. BACK IT UP TO THE LINE." 

In the time between parking the car and the note being left, the configuration of the cars parked on the street had changed, creating what looked like an annoying space behind which no one could park - but this had not occurred to the brain box behind this missive. We've all been stressed by the move, upheaval and change of jobs and additionally my lovely, long-suffering spouse has had to deal with a bereavement. It seems such an unkind thing to do. The note was capitalised, either suggesting that the writer was angry, or maybe elderly, or perhaps angry and elderly. It exasperated us because of its stupidity and mean-spiritedness.

After a few days, however, I came to look upon this note as kind of having done us a service. I've taken to referring to the Isle of Wight as 'Paradise' when I message family and friends. So my siblings might receive a Whatsapp declaring that I'm 'Back in Paradise'. But if we're to be realistic about our move here we need to acknowledge that there'll be many things about life we'll still rail against. Just because we love it on the Island doesn't mean we won't be on hold for ages when ringing the Doctors' surgery, or we won't moan about parking prices. It doesn't mean everyone in Ventnor is terrific, and that the whole population of the town goes round holding doors open for each other. So the note on our car windscreen is perhaps a gentle reminder that there are dipsticks about and some people will behave poorly. It's amazing here, but it's not Utopia!

Yesterday we travelled to Bristol for a funeral. Because Bristol is kind of west, we decided to enjoy the empty Military Road out towards Freshwater and sail from Yarmouth instead of Fishbourne. To clarify, we didn’t actually do any sailing; in fact my part in proceedings was merely to drive on to the ferry, get out of the car and sit on a comfortable chair drinking a double espresso. I've no idea what a 'jib' is (I've heard the word somewhere) but I certainly didn't hoist one; nor did Mrs. G climb up to the Crow's Nest and, on sighting Lymington, shout 'land ahoy' in her beautiful North London accent. No; our roles were altogether more sedate, being confined to sipping hot drinks and perusing our social media; I suspect Christopher Columbus and his colleagues were more hands on - I doubt he checked Facebook or TikTok during any of his sojourns (with the possible exception of his trip to India when he was so distracted he ended up accidentally discovering the West Indies instead - a SatNav failing to rival any of Mrs. G's mishaps!).

Perhaps living on an Island and being surrounded by all things nautical has led to my mind being infiltrated with sailing thoughts; I've mentioned getting a boat to the family and am entertained by the thought of sailing Ewan over to Brighton when he starts at the University of Sussex - or zooming over in a speedboat called 'The Grifter'. Ewan wasn't overly keen on this idea, internally rolling his eyes as he does and suggesting more mundane forms of getting there.

It has always struck me as amusing that seafaring folk use different terminology for everyday things. So we say 'left', sailors say 'port'. We say 'kitchen', they say 'galley', we say 'bedroom', they say 'cabin'. And so on and so forth. Maritime people get annoyed if you don't do this; my friend Ethan and I once decided to do some research on exactly how annoyed, and started chatting to a friend who captained a sewage vessel to find out. We spent a few minutes asking him where the kitchen and bedroom were on the left or right of his ship, and whether he enjoyed driving it. Rightly, he ignored us. I also want to discover how irritated astronomers and astrologers get if you mix them up, but so far have struggled to meet anyone in the former profession.

All of which suggests that there are other ways of being a dipstick than leaving an unpleasant note on someone's car.