Post by thesentientpasty on Jun 24, 2018 10:51:12 GMT
I am as brown as I get. Which is a sort of peely-red. NO amount of factor 50 and my ludicrously awesome leather gardening hat (wide brim, needs a charoot and Leone-esque close-ups) has kept me safe from the UV.
For I am gardening. Extreme gardening.
In the farthest corner of Bezovec Acres I am daily mattocking myself terraces worthy of Babylon. Mixing, by hand, wheelbarrows of mortar. Laying, by hand, a tonne+ of rocks.
I woke a bit stiff this morning, and then realised that the stiffness is muscles. Things I never had. For the last week I've been putting in ten/twelve hour shifts FOR MYSELF and it's great.
Plants have been bought. Pots acquired. And slowly the plan is coming together. The end? A couple of weeks away, but I can smell it. Along with the lavender.
All is good.
Two weeks ago, on Saturday night, my Petrol chums took me out for a farewell feast. It was fab. And I've not stopped since. Boat? Bought in Aberdeen a week ago, now sat on lawn. Daily deliveries of life jackets and the like are the only things interfering with The Gardening.
Except, I should add, for Trips To The Dump. I am on first-name terms with all the guys there, as I make my daily pilgrimage to dump old stuff, leaving room for new.
Work? I don't miss it. I miss the people, but then FB and WhatsApp covers that.
Photos will follow, once the 'summer house' (read 'hippie hut') is built.
I'm loving this. Imagine: I have no The Man to give the finger to.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jun 27, 2018 17:38:30 GMT
Still gardening. Walls and steps a-go-go. If I time things right, I can do the east bit in the mornings and the west bit in the evenings, staying (more or less) in shade at all times. But, crikey, it's hot. Air temperature said "29°C" today .... I can probably add 5 to that given the heating effect of the stonework already placed.
Boiled, but happy... (my brick-laying skills are becoming 'passable' now, too.)
Post by thesentientpasty on Jun 28, 2018 23:54:58 GMT
Less of the 'young', young confused. For I am the grey wise man of Jewsons, ordering (as if I knew what I was on about) a gross of engineering bricks and two tonnes of ballast. (Points pipe in vague directions, expecting items to be dumped on the lawn within a day or so).
Meanwhile, plan One ('cos the weather's lovely, and I'm sick of gardening right now) is to:
1. PICK UP OUTBOARD TOMORROW (I know, I said I wouldn't, but it's just a back-up) AND FINAL SAILY-BITS. 2. DIG OUT CAMPING GEAR FROM ATTIC. 3. STEAL GRANDSON. 4. SPEND WEEKEND ON AND ABOUT LOCH LOMOND, SAILING HITHER AND THITHER, WHILST TEACHING THE SCURVY CREW HOW TO SAIL. And get more sunburnt. And barbeque stuff.
Drink and campfires will be involved. Photos available afterwards.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 5, 2018 20:34:57 GMT
Inchmoan island, Loch Lomond. A mere ten-mile 'try out' for me, used - as I am - to slightly smaller boats.
Thing is, she's super-stable and can be read like a book: there's an inherent capability about her, and a security in her handling, which is beginning to make me realise that we can go further, and do more. Risk just that bit extra, y'know?
But first: just bought a winch for getting the 300kg onto the trailer. By hand? Too tough! ...especially when launching ramps are too short in the hot weather we've had (Loch level lower than normal).
Second? I'm drawing up a boat tent. Plenty of sleeping room for two, and a tent turns it from a daysailer into a cruising dinghy.
Third? I just got invited to Windermere in early August. I really ought go! Barbeques, camping and sailing. Beer, too. What's not to love?!
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 15, 2018 15:39:46 GMT
Today? I am idle. For it rains in the garden, and I'm not getting wet. So I'm sat on me bum drinking tea and eating the scraggy ends of daughter's yesterday-birthday cake. Whilst surfing, and contemplating what wine to have tonight.
Not Working is so ace. I should have taken this upyears ago.
If there's a downside? No structured weekends means I've gardened for 22 days in a row, with three days camping and sailing chucked in. This is my first day of aimless abandon.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 25, 2018 21:26:04 GMT
Gloop, dear reader, is bitumen paint. More like bitchumen, actually. It stinks, it's liquid tar, a foul disgusting Devil's brew concocted in the arse-end of Hell itself, and - as one online reviewer had it - "it gets everywhere".
This might be why grandson got a haircut this evening, as he was covered in it, and handn't even been near the scene of the crime.
However, the odious task is done, and I'm only lightly tarred. It's baked onto the roof and is now dry, so fear #1 ("the cats WILL walk on it") hasn't materialised.
While gloop is full of probably illegal VOCs, thinners, chemicals and Satanic diarrhoea, all no doubt banned under EU law, the shed roof is now good until 2028, according to the can's promises. We shall see.
In other news? I think I finish mortar-mixing tomorrow. Which is good, 'cos I'm running out of sand and cement.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 27, 2018 23:34:44 GMT
Everyone is welcome to stay in the hippie-hut! The mandala curtain and beanbags arrive tomorrow. A great waft of, ahem, 'incense' will spout from the roof, and there will be many bells and Hillage emitted forthwith. And candles.
For verily the garden is all but finished - and I can return to sailing with a vengeance. Incidentally, my bro' saw I'd bought a boat, and last weekend, in Missouri, he did the same. We're clearly heading for the 'disgraceful black sheep' method of (so-called) middle age.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 30, 2018 13:06:26 GMT
Thanks LD. I spent the windy wet weekend putting on hippie-hut guttering: fabulous, highly recommended. I squeaked like a child at Christmas as the first few drops of rain, almost floating to avoid the gloop-roof, fell into the gutter, made their way around to the down-pipe, and disappeared over the fence to who cares where.
Today? I'm inside it, with mastic and mucho aluminium-backed insulation. I suspect, by evening, it'll be like the insides of a roast thing-in-the-oven. And then I'll lay the laminate.
Post by thesentientpasty on Jul 31, 2018 8:43:00 GMT
MY own space will be next: my boatbuilding emporium. I'm thinking 14' by 5' (sadly it can't be wider, but I think I can work in what will effectively be a corridor) with the world's most awesome workbench. There will be a radio, permanently tuned to Planet Rock, and optics providing the finest whiskys money can buy. A smell of wood-shavings and glues will suffuse the place. And I shall create!
Post by thesentientpasty on Aug 9, 2018 20:25:15 GMT
Not Working is the best.
However, whilst not working, last weekend, I sent son #1 into Bowness on Windermere on Sunday to buy drinks, having both of us moored up at a pier on a hot sunny day.
He returned to tell me he 'couldn't get out'.
Curious, I said I'd have a go. And, indeed, it was true. We were in some kind of fenced-in compound extending maybe 200m on an edge.
Returning to the boat, drinkless and despirited, a blazer-and-tie wearing gentleman stopped me.
"Are you a member?" he enquired.
My first thought, naturally, was to ask him to go feck himself.
But I asked "Of what?", said a bit sarcastically, with a punk edge, due to my age.
"The Royal Windermere Yacht Club" he replied, proudly.
"Fuck no. No way."
"Then perhaps you'd better leave."
I left. Cursing the class system and all arseholes in blazers.
My bro, I later learned, who often had to go to a Yacht Club in Essex, 'cos he was crewing for a bloke there, used to punt himself through the front door and say "I'm with Binky", or ""Is the Major about?" and just swan in. No questions asked.
Fuck me. The class system in Englandshire is so fecked up.
You can keep it. Enjoy your Brexit. I'm outta there.
Back when my cousin still had his cabin cruiser I had some limited exposure to the sort of twonks you find in yacht clubs and the like. My experience was that they were bigger nobheads than even golf club types - you do well to avoid them!
Post by thesentientpasty on Aug 12, 2018 22:44:40 GMT
I shall be back down that way in a month. I've met a bunch of pirates based on Windermere who believe things should be just that little bit different. It's an anarcho-communistic sailing club, who do neither blazers nor ties, and baulk at the idea of a committee; but do do beer, laughs and burnt burgers. I fit right in.
For those, incidentally, who might think boats are £££s, and tory membership is but moments away, my boat was cheaper than a crap car, and it gives me freed0m to roam the seas, lochs and lakes of these fair lands, while tweaking the noses of those who give themselves positions of authority.
I've met a bunch of pirates based on Windermere who believe things should be just that little bit different. It's an anarcho-communistic sailing club, who do neither blazers nor ties, and baulk at the idea of a committee; but do do beer, laughs and burnt burgers. I fit right in.