Authors Electric

Ann Davison arriving in New York Our holiday in America began in New York. I knew that the place I most wanted to see was the Hudson River. I’d read and re-read the last chapters of My Ship is So Small, Ann Davison’s funny and moving account of her arrival in Felicity Ann and the end of their record-setting voyage together. Desperate to find somewhere, anywhere, to tie up for the night, Ann accepts a tow from a fisherman, runs aground on a sunken barge and spends the night in a mysterious boat cemetery.  The following morning she sets out to sail the last few miles to 79th Street yacht basin. But it’s closed. Everyone tells her this is the only place for yachts. Where else can she go? Darkness is falling once again when a crew of Engineers take pity on her. ‘Why don’t you tie up with us at our place?’ ‘Why don’t I indeed, where are you?’ ‘Pier 75, the fireboat pier.’     So away they go together, moor for the night and settle down to some serious celebrating. T...

It’s raining in Montana so I’ve not been able to ride the Sacred Trails. We’re staying in Glacier Park Lodge - alias Big Tree Lodge. It’s constructed on a framework of enormous trees, Douglas Firs, estimated to be 500-800 years old when they were felled, more than one hundred years ago. Big Tree Lodge is built on land purchased from the Blackfeet Nation by James J. Hill, ‘the Empire Builder’, boss of the Great Northern Railway. He had to go to Congress for permission to buy the land but the anxious 21st century reader can’t help wondering, and worrying, how much say the Blackfeet leaders will have had in this arrangement? The railway was already running through their territory, it had brought in miners and homesteaders, now Hill planned this lodge for holiday-makers, visitors from the cities to explore the beautiful landscape. The concept of the National Parks was still new, Glacier Park, the tenth to be established, was signed into law by President Taft in 1910. People could buy a per...

 I didn’t stay to chat. I didn’t join the group which was heading for the pub. I left the meeting as quickly as I could and hurried down the beach. This year’s Peter Duck holiday had begun. There was already a game of cards in progress on the cabin table but I didn’t join in. Merely pushed my meeting notes somewhere far out of sight, ate my share of the supper and settled into my bunk. Nine nights of sleeping on board and waking early every morning to walk along river walls or beaches with the dogs instead of our familiar fields (lovely though they are). The saltings above Waldringfield Gwen, my oldest granddaughter joined the following day. I was impressed by her initial questions: did we have flares? where were they kept? Was there a VHF set and who was qualified to use it? You might think this implied some lack of faith in our ability to negotiate our very modest river to river passages but I thought they were good questions to ask on arrival on any new boat on which you we...

  'Sula' in Scotland ‘There’s little point keeping old boats alive if their stories are forgotten,’ said Robert Armstrong, when I apologised for my eagerness in inviting myself to visit him. Robert is a boatbuilder working on the west coast of Scotland. His home is Sula , a 24’ 5-ton Bermudan sloop, built in 1939 by David Hillyard in Littlehampton, Sussex (as Mistrale ). She’s his home, his mobile workshop and his transport.  When I invited Francis and I to visit them, Robert was immediately welcoming though he couldn’t be specific as to where they might be: ‘Everything I do is weather and tide dependant so planning beyond a few days never works out for me […] but wherever Sula is moored you're welcome.’ For me, Sula is Barnacle Goose, ‘Barney’, the yacht my parents owned 1951-1957, in the first years of their marriage.   They’d bought her in Rye, fitted her out in a mud berth, then sailed her home to the River Deben in Suffolk. My father was building up his business ...

'Sula' in Scotland  ‘There’s little point keeping old boats alive if their stories are forgotten,’ said Robert Armstrong, when I apologised for my eagerness inviting myself to visit him. Robert is a boatbuilder working on the west coast of Scotland. His home is  Sula , a 24’ 5-ton Bermudan sloop, built in 1939 by David Hillyard in Littlehampton, Sussex (as  Mistrale ). She’s also his mobile workshop and his transport.  When I invited Francis and I to visit them, Robert was immediately welcoming though he couldn’t be specific as to where they might be: ‘Everything I do is weather and tide dependant so planning beyond a few days never works out for me […] but wherever  Sula  is moored you're welcome.’ For me,  Sula  is  Barnacle Goose,  ‘Barney’, the yacht my parents owned 1951-1957, in the first years of their marriage.  They’d bought her in Rye, fitted her out in a mud berth, then sailed her home to the River Deben ...

Jon Snow (Wikipedia) Now defined by his dementia diagnosis?   Last Saturday I was tidying up PD’s cabin, preparing to row up the river in the rain, when I got a call from LBC. Would I go on a programme at 1330 to talk about Jon Snow’s Alzheimer diagnosis? I did a quick calculation: yes, I could be home in time. But what was this all about? ‘Jon Snow the broadcaster has written a book about his Alzheimer’s,' said the programme assistant.  Sorry, no. I haven’t read it. I can't help you.’ That was a relief. No need to worry about hold ups on the A12 or about poor internet quality for the call. I did feel worried, however, that there was some major new book about dementia that I hadn’t even heard of.  When I had got home and changed out of my wet clothes, I had a look on Amazon. No book listed. I googled ‘Jon Snow Alzheimer’s.' Ah! Channel 4 are showing a documentary  Jon Snow: the last big story on Saturday June 20 th .  It’s not all about his Alzheimer’s diagno...

  Margery Allingham was a May baby, born into this gorgeous month of fresh grass and leaves, when the air is scented by honeysuckle or wild garlic; peonies, giant poppies and alliums are bursting balls of colour; the annual miracles of lilac and wisteria cascade in elegant fragrancies. As a lonely child, moving from suburban London to Layer Breton, Essex, she learned to love the unkempt garden of a decaying country rectory for its wildness and sense of possibility.  As a successful adult, living in Essex once again, she and her husband gave parties in their garden, employed a full-time gardener and exhibited prize roses in the local horticultural shows. That was never the heart of its meaning. Margery’s garden remained a sanctuary, a place where she could achieve ‘ a momentary clarity of mind, which will give me a definite lead at least to the next step in whatever I may be about .’ (Oaken Heart p115). When she experienced breakdown in mid-April 1955 she was seen wandering t...