Stoats and senility and social media….

It’s so beautiful down here at the moment. I mean, ridiculously so. There’s that special Spring thing going on, which we as a temperate nation appreciate more than most. We’ve emerged from yet another bleak mid-winter and are now officially frolicking in the sunshine. If I was a lamb I would almost certainly be gambolling, and if this was pagan times there would be all manner of fertility rituals going on. This has been replaced in modern society by seven pints of Stellar and a kebab eating competition, but the theme is still the same. Anyway, I like Spring. A lot.

As I was feeling young and fecund, I strolled across the park to join the nearby lifeboat station as a volunteer. I know everyone says they do this out of a sense of duty – which is true – but there is also the not inconsiderable motivation of the possibility of rescuing the (all female) crew of a yacht that has stranded on a sand bank and urgently need lots of lotion applying. The thought of hoving into view to be greeted by the words “Thank god you’re here. We’re the Hooters display team on a motivational outing and there will be genuine bikini chafing issues unless you can do something RIGHT NOW”. 

Well, let’s just say it added a certain spring to my step as I approached the lifeboat shed.

I duly chatted to Rob, the boss, who is a very nice man, but told me that I was too old. Crikey. I’m forty five, and the maximum age for a D Class boat is….forty five. The crew were all very welcoming indeed, and – seeing my crestfallen expression as the vision of helping out in a helicopter lift by attaching a hook to a leopard skin thong duly faded – Rob said that I could help out on shore. I am therefore being trained as stand-by tractor driver to get the boat in and out of the water. My feelings on the RNLI are well known as I do try to write about them whenever I can – they represent the very best of what we can be I think, volunteering to put themselves in harms way to save others. I’m happy and honoured to help out, and for now have put away my tub of coconut smelling factor 30 and bikini release shears. But I’m ready at a moments notice.

We went up river in the RIB to explore the Dart. It’s a strange sensation to motor away from the genteel, manicured seafront in Dartmouth, and within minutes be puttering through what appears to be the Amazonian basin. The trees come right down to the edge of the water, and the valley echos and crackles with life. I was fully expecting some parakeets to fly overhead or a tapir to emerge from the margins. Although that didn’t happen, what did was probably – in fact definitely from Reuben’s perspective – just as exciting.

As we motored through one of the larger turns in the river – which are in effect huge, sweeping lagoons as the Dart slows in it’s leisurely amble to the sea – I saw something in the water. We were probably three hundred metres from the bank, right in mid-stream, and a long way from anything.

The first I saw was a very small head motoring very determinedly along, whiskers bristling, whilst a very short distance behind there was a fluffy tail being used as a makeshift rudder. As we got closer we realised – after considerable debate in the boat - that it was a stoat. Plainly there was something highly compelling on the opposite bank that had made it plunge in to swim a very, very long way indeed. We drew alongside and I could make out it’s little legs whirring away, eyes fixed on it’s destination, a demented David Walliams on a mission to the promised land.

There was a great deal of ‘ahhh’ing” and “come on little fella’ ing” from all of us in the boat, which drew the attention of the – until this point rather bored – dog.

Up to this juncture Reuben had been occupied with his crewman’s duties which consist mainly of a) barking at the water, b) sitting on my feet to keep them warm, and c) barking at the water again. Having performed these duties with some aplomb, he was by this stage pretty unimpressed with the trip. Imagine then his considerable delight as he hoisted himself to his feet to be met with the sight of what appeared to be a swimming squirrel right under his twitching nose. This was the equivalent of every single one of his Christmas’s and Birthdays arriving simultaneously.

At this point a certain level of bedlam broke out on the boat. Reubs was very, very, very keen to retrieve said squirrel for – as the Japanese whaling fleet might put it – scientific purposes. We were equally keen that he didn’t. Kerin – Tam’s brother – basically had to assume a similar position to a water skier as he held Reub’s collar and skidded across the deck. Reinforcements became involved, and Reubs was taken into custody before being manacled to the deck. He found this disappointing. He started barking, the baby started crying, it started to rain, and the stoat engaged the after-burners and accelerated to about one mile an hour. It seemed as good a time as any for us to leave the scene.

Anyway, what an amazing thing. It turns out that stoats are very good swimmers – we did a bit of research when we got back – and found out that they can swim out to offshore islands as far as a mile out. Unless pursued by Reubs of course, in which case I bet they’d swim much further (and faster). He sulked all the way home by the way, and is still slightly huffy about it.

The shop looks great, and will really come on in the next week or so. The big opening is Friday 6^th April – hooray indeed. We’re doing a course about how to use social media soon, so we can keep everyone posted about what animals we’re seeing via twitter and all that. The shop, although small, will have an electronic signature akin to the USS Nimitz shelling a beach prior to an invasion.

Isla's very well, although she’s now the size of Miranda. Reubs loves her, and keeps a close eye on proceedings. 

We’ll keep you posted as ever – can’t believe that soon we’ll be flipping the sign from Closed to Open!

Best, Monty

The sad demise of HMS Nelanor......

It’s all happening. Right now. At enormous speed.

Having said rather glibly for a while now that I’ve got aaaaaages to get the shop together, it suddenly appears that I’ve got two weeks until the first customers will walk through the door. These will be real people, wanting stuff, and attempting to give me money. With this distinctly alarming prospect in mind, the last few days have been moderately intense. There has also been, I must say, more than a smattering of fun though.

The main fun element was taking the RIB out for an impromptu photo shoot. I did this in the company of three old muckers from the Royal Marines. The optimum word in that sentence is probably the “old” bit, as we’re all in our mid forties now. Although we’ve still got it. Oh yes. Mind you, that does make the assumption that we had “it” in the first place. Whatever "it" is (never quite figured that one out....) 

The boys have done well since leaving the Marines. We’ve got Doug – now an airline pilot. Paul, a polar explorer of note and an expert in leadership training. And Si – a ludicrously talented man who has done amazing work in Nepal, Sierra Leone and Kosovo, as well as writing brilliant children’s books and recording some genuinely excellent albums. What a collection of life experience. What talent. What could possibly go wrong? 

The answer to the latter question is relatively simple. Also in the boat was my good mate Becks – in her own right a hugely talented jazz musician. She’s a legend is Becks, a smiley, very bright, enthusiast who gets on with anyone and is destined for great things. So, to recap, we have four Royal Marines all at various stages of their mid-life crisis, twenty four feet of fast boat driven by two hundred and thirty snorting horses on the stern, and a good looking girl on board. Oh dear.

It was Simon who succumbed first really. Having taken over for a quick drive, he politely asked me where the throttles were located, then pushed them smartly forward until they were up against the stops. The engine noise went from a mutter to a full throated roar to a bestial howl. We went so fast that my sideburns blew off, Paul was blinded by his own luxuriant moustache, and Doug blacked out due to the intense G forces. I glanced across at Si as he was driving, and noted that he had by now sprouted horns and had testosterone dribbling out of his ears.

It is actually written into Naval law that should your skipper go insane, you are allowed to forcefully relieve him of command. As such there was a brief mutiny, and Si was summarily sacked. The rest of the trip passed at a more sedate pace, giving us the chance to get very close to a bruiser of a grey seal, and watch two harbour porpoises roll and twist through the surface, their flanks gilded in the dusk.

We’ve also done the rowing boat thing - called Nelanor for some reason no-one can quite figure out. I picked her up last week. It turns out that quite a small rowing boat in a large garden in Cornwall, is actually a rather large rowing boat in a small shop in Devon, and it dawned on me it was going to be a bit of a squeeze to get her in the shop. Nonetheless myself and Simon the carpenter hacked and sawed away under the aghast gaze of the good people of Dartmouth (who know a thing or two about boats). 

It was very shortly after we stood back in triumph, with one large rowing boat having just become two smaller ones, that our friend Hayden idly remarked that (prior to dismembering it) I could have repaired it and done it up for about £400 quid. Add this to the £400 I paid for it, and that would have come to £800. A lot less than the £3000 Hayden said we could have got had I then sold the repaired boat. And so my first big business gesture had been to vigorously saw in half my main investment of the month. Great work. 

But it is quite simply the greatest counter a shop has ever had. We’re just going to have to sell A LOT of coffee to make up the money we could have got for it in the first place.

Anyway, aside from offending the entire town, nearly making the RIB engines explode, and enthusiastically sawing up two grand, the business is going splendidly. The boat really does look very good indeed in the shop, and Simon has done an amazing job. We’ve also got the sofa in there now, which means I can now sit on it and bark instructions at him which he seems to enjoy very much.

It’s a gamble being down here and setting this up. But the other evening, as we flew like a comet ahead of the twisting tail of our spreading wake, with the cliffs of South Devon glowing in the sun, and my muckers in the boat around me, you realise that after all is said and done, some gambles are worth taking.

Two weeks until opening! I’ll keep you posted…

Best, Monty

PS. Thanks so much for your kind comments about the fishing series. So important we support our fishermen.....

The ego has landed.....

.....in other words - we're in! Through the door of debt and into the new premises. Obviously only a fool would set up a business in the current economic climate, particularly one based entirely around a rowing boat that has been sawed in half, an old sofa (more of that in a moment), coffee, and tall stories of questionable accuracy. But it appears that's precisely what we're doing.

I walked through the doors for the first time last week. Actually, that should be "we" walked through the doors last week, as Isla was strapped to my chest at the time. I used her as a sort of fleshy buffer to ease the door open, and so our entry into the shop for the first time was punctuated by an exclamation of delight from me, and a howl of protest from her.

Anyway, it's great to be in. The people of Dartmouth have been more than welcoming, one of whom is Josh, who introduced me to Jim, who told me about Simon, who recommended me to Steve, who said I really should chat to (confusingly) Simon (a different one), who said I'd be mad to proceed without talking to (even more confusingly) Jim (a different one). So, me, Tam, Isla, Jim, Jim, Simon, Simon, and Steve are now getting stuck in.

One of the first things Simon did was rip up the carpet, to reveal a set of tiles covered in an adhesive that appeared to be made of jam, combined with snot, combined with something very, very sticky. Seldom has an adhesive been so adhesive. We've spent a great deal of this afternoon scraping it off. Reuben has assisted us in this process by bringing me his ball every fifteen seconds so I can throw it three feet away (it's only a small shop), for him to chase, then bring back, drop at my feet, and look at me like this is simply the most impossibly exciting game ever invented. This went on for two hours, and would still be going on now if he had his way, the utter buffoon.

  Now, the sofa. This is no ordinary shop, so this will be no ordinary sofa. I've found one in a place called "Commerce" in Dartmouth (go there, it's full of wacky furniture and eccentric, absolutely beautiful odds and bobs that have a whiff of intrigue and adventure about them). It's worn and battered, and the cushions are made from a faded red ensign that fluttered off the back of a commercial vessel that has circumnavigated the globe. Sit on it and your generously supported rump will be nestled into the warm winds of Madagascar, the psychotic fury of a hurricane off Alaska, and the cold fog of the Grand Banks. This sofa alone is reason enough to visit the shop I'd say. We're going to charge at least a tenner to sit in it, and a fiver to sniff it.

The wooden flooring arrives tomorrow, and then I'm off to get the rowing boat from Nige down in Cadgwith. And on that note, hope you're enjoying the new series by the way. If you happen to enjoy the sight of a grown man being turned into a great big vomity organ of evacuation, then the next episode is definitely the one for you.

Walked Reubs home at the end of a knackering day, pausing only briefly by the river so he could be assaulted by two swans. If you look at the picture, you might see elegance and serenity, but actually you're looking at Vinnie Jones and Ray Winstone with feathers. Shortly after this photo it got a tad feisty. I know hurting a swan is tantamount to shooting the Queen, but touch my big hairy boy (not a euphemism) again and I'll do something unpleasant to you with some sage and onion stuffing that would make Bill Oddie go quite ashen.

Anyway, off to Cadgwith to get the rowing boat. Which we'll then saw in half. Oh yes.

All the best, Mont

Absolutely the best thing that's ever happened in the history of everything anywhere.......

........was taking baby Isla for her first swimming lesson today. I was definitely being a rather good, very hands on dad throughout. But before we recount this historic event, we need to back track to yesterday, when I was a bad dad. Oh yes, a very poor effort indeed.

Basically Tam had left me in charge of the little one for an hour. Giddy with responsibility, I took her to the local baby clinic where we had her weighed (she's an absolute chubber - she's about the same size as George Doors from Shooting Stars), and I had a surreal conversation with another mum about the difficulties in breast feeding (which is something I've REALLY struggled with if I'm honest). We then left the clinic, drove home, I changed Isla's nappy, and we chatted away merrily for ten minutes. All was very much under control. I was daddy daycare. It was splendid.

Such was the pink fluffiness of the moment that I decided to take her back into her nursery for some toys. This I did at a brisk walk, neglecting to notice as I carried her that the doorway (narrow) was somewhat smaller than Isla (not narrow). The resultant clunk of me using her head as a mallet on the door frame was not a popular move. It was even less popular when Tam came back, and I spent the rest of the day on the metaphorical naughty step, being glared at by the women in the house, one of whom was sporting a lump the size of a pea on the side of her newly formed bonce.

Redemption came in the form a swimming lesson today. I just can't tell you how much fun this was. This was particularly apt as everyone else present was either a) a baby, or b) a lady who had just had a baby. This made me feel slightly like a slightly seedy uncle with wandering hands and a lazy eye, but all was swiftly forgotten as the class commenced. The culmination was singing "The Wheels of the Bus Go Round and Round" whilst running in a circle with your baby and splashing a lot, which was THE BEST THING EVER. Isla looked faintly bewildered throughout, particularly when it came to the dunking under the water bit - a key part of the first lesson I hasten to add. Having dunked her, she came up looking absolutely livid. It was very much a "First you concuss me, then you hold me under water. What are you thinking man?" I subsequently found out she had poo'd herself during the session, but - let's face it - we've all poo'd in a swimming pool at some point haven't we? Haven't we?

Right, the shop. Got the keys today! Off in a moment to measure it up and get cracking. Have decided that the rowing boat counter is still a good idea, but now we're going to use the rest of the rowing boat as shelves. Genius. Essentially the shop layout at the  moment is a smashed up rowing boat - wonder what Mary Porter would make of it?

I'll post some pictures at the weekend.

Nice.

Monty

A travelling circus.....

Sorry for not blogging for a while. We've been on the road!

No-one tells you that when you have a kid you need to buy a larger car or - even better - a lorry. Dutiful newbies that we were to the parenting scene, we toured a Mothercare warehouse several weeks before before Isla appeared. We stared wide-eyed at the bewildering array of things that are apparently required to keep a small, brand new, dribbling person contented and safe for any length of time. The snag in all this is that you feel like you're being criminally negligent if you don't buy the computerised car seat or the helmet mounted feeding bottle with infra red sensor. It became a competition - we shouldered aside other couples to be the first to buy a pram that (evidently) had been designed and built by elves, came in a range of materials (platinum, titanium, or simple gold), and was powered by swans.

Anyway, we bought everything we were advised to, and then set off on a bit of a road trip last week. I had talks to do in various places, which are always good fun, but in this case required pretty much a lap of southern England over four days. We loaded the car, which proved to be too small (as it was only a massive Land Rover), so we took Tam's car as well. Everest expeditions in the 1920's needed less kit than we did it seemed, and by the time we were done the cars were filled to the gunwales. This left a space for the dog. Well, a dog. A very small dog, one of those novelty toy breeds that are carried round on a velvet cushion by histrionic ladies who write romantic fiction. Not something the size of a well nourished polar bear (i.e. Reuben). Nonetheless he was crammed in, and off we went, with any drivers who happened to follow us being treated to the sight of what gave every impression of being a travelling circus.

Of course when you get anywhere you have to unload everything. Then feed everything. Then pick up poo. The latter is one of the real pleasures of dog ownership of course (Reuben is a big dog, that's all I'm going to say on the matter, aside from the words "bin-liner"), but now we have the added joy of dealing with Isla's as well. I don't mind her doing it of course - she is, after all, only eleven weeks old - it's just that she looks so delighted every time she does one, cackling in glee and waving her plump little fists at me as I change her. You wait, I think, in forty years or so the roles will be reversed and let's see if you're quite so chirpy then. Aha.

Anyway, we made it, having done a talk in Bristol, in London (at the RGS - well done Bazza, you stole the show....), and in Falmouth. We also went back to lovely Cadgwith - what a place, and took Reubs on a cliff walk. Wonderful. And now we're back home.

The shop is - at last - being finalised and we take it over on Monday. There were three solicitors involved, and although I always think you can obviously never have too many solicitors involved in anything, it has dragged on a tad. BUT we're there now.

"There" being a shop that will be a base camp for diving the south coast of Devon, for wildlife filming courses, for shore walks, and - we hope - a haven for divers and wildlife enthusiasts who just want to chill out in a place with lots of good coffee and plenty of like-minded folk.

And so we begin! I'll post at least once a week from now on, and show you the images as the project progresses. I've just had an idea for an old rowing boat as a shop counter, so I'm off to look for one of those right now! As you do.

Take care all.

Monty, Tam, Isla and Reubs  

      

Things I wish I was good at.....

....but I know I'm definitely not.

One of the joys of unpacking is the memories it unleashes. Open a box that has been sealed for several years, and the first whiff you get is of nostalgia. The second is of fetid decay of course ("So that's where that burger went" you think to yourself.....).

Anyway, whilst unpacking as we settle in to Dartmouth, I have unearthed three clear cut aspirations from my distant past. I really, really wanted to be good at 1. Boxing, 2. Playing the guitar, and 3. Talking to girls. To explain.....

In one box I found an old photo of me in the Marines. Fresh faced, pert buttocked, and raring to go. It was a photo of me in the gym, in some embarrassingly tight shorts as were de rigeur in 1988. Anyway, what I really wanted to excel in at this time was boxing. I wanted to be known as a granite-chinned, beast of a man with a pile driver of a right hand. We finally got a chance to box during our training, when you do a thing called milling which is essentially flailing like a maniac for three rounds of three minutes. I danced out from my corner in the approved manner, having watched lots of boxing matches but never actually thrown a punch in my life. At this point, as I bobbed and weaved and did clever little skippy steps like I'd seen Barry McGuigan do on the tele, my opponent punched me very hard in the face. I know this is the idea, but it really, really hurt. This immediately made my eyes water a lot, so I stopped dancing around and slitted my eyelids to see where he was, waggling my right hand in front of me optimistically as I did so. Whilst I stood in this bovine manner, peering myopically through streaming eyes, he punched me very hard in the face again. At this point I suddenly lost interest in boxing. And it's not like he was any good either. We were less Ali and Foreman, more French and Saunders. So that was boxing.

Next in the unpacking saga was my guitar. I've been playing the guitar for years, and I'm still rubbish. My friends have all stopped being polite about this, and every time I get it out they just immediately tell me to put it away again. Or - and this really annoys me - someone will say "Oh, I play a little. Do you mind if I have a go?" They will then play complicated flamenco for three hours, ending the evening with a giggling girl on their knee and everyone else holding up lighters and swaying. I HATE it when this happens, which is difficult as it seems to happen a lot. I played a tune to baby Isla Grace the other day to help her sleep. She immediately woke up, screamed, and then wee'd herself. I've seen grown ups do this too when I take the guitar out of it's case. So that's playing the guitar.

Chatting up girls. This is of course irrelevant now, but everyone likes to think they were good at it once. I've found a few pictures of old relationships, and it amazes me I ever got together with anyone. I had a rare gift of killing a conversation stone dead, clubbing it into unconsciousness with a single sentence. Two examples spring to mind. Ten years ago I was at a wedding with my best friend when a lovely girl came up to speak to us. "What do you do?" she said to me. I said, and I still tremble as I write these words "Ah, well, I'm a bit of a Renaissance man." Unbeknownst to me at the time, this is just a complicated way of saying "Ah well, I'm a bit of a dick." Anyway (long story and all that) she married my best friend, they now have two gorgeous children, and she still takes the mickey out of me for the worst first line in history. This line is only beaten by a comment to a very pretty girl in a pub in Exeter when I was a young man. She had a lot of make-up on, some of it not too well applied. I said "Do you put your make-up on the bedroom wall first then run into it with your face?". This was, apparently, not funny. So that's talking to girls.

The shop! We literally take it over at the end of next week (hopefully). We'll try and get something on a website soon so everyone has an idea of what we're up to in terms of courses etc. That's as soon as we figure it out ourselves of course.

Attached is a piccie of Reubs and the little one. Reubs is unequivocally the big brother, and if anyone messes with Isla they would have to deal with seven stone of annoyed timber wolf. Which is rather reassuring.....

Back to unpacking!

Ta, Mont    

The food chain......

....and my alarming tumble down it.

We've recently moved into our new place down here in Dartmouth, and the house looks like a grenade has gone off in a charity shop. It's bedlam. We sit on packing crates, forage for food like huge racoons, and essentially have gone feral whilst we try to sort our lives out.

One of the most alarming aspects of this for me is a dramatic tumble down the hierarchy of the household. I used to be the boss. Tam would turn to me for manly advice and to lift heavy things. Reubs would trail round after me rapt in complete adoration, drooling and whimpering with devotion. Occasionally the two of them would swap those roles, but the general theme was that I was the baboon with the biggest, bluest bottom.

Since baby Isla has turned up, I've gone from first to second, and then (disturbingly) to third in the Halls household rank structure. That means I'm only just senior to Reubs, and even he's waiting for an opportunity to take a pop at the champ. This was perfectly illustrated the other night.

Tam and Isla took the best bed. A more accurate description might be achieved by substituting the word "only" for the word "best" in that last sentence, that's how dire things have become in the chaos of the move. Anyway, this left me to wander the house blearily in my pants, until the obvious solution presented itself in that Reubs had a nice big cushion to sleep on. It's his bed, he's slept on it for ages. We got it from Pets At Home six months ago. It's covered in spit and unidentified crusty things that seem precious to him.  He was duly booted off, and I slept blissfully on it, snuffling and twitching and dreaming about chasing squirrels. Reubs went off and - presumably - booted a rat out of it's bed in the cellar and slept there. The rat I imagine nudged a beetle from it's home etc etc, and so the circle of life continued.

It's probably very important that I point out that Tam slept on Reubs bed the next night as I did Isla duty, and so the scene has been set. Happily we've recently got another bed, so the natural order of things has been restored. Reubs still eyes me with that "you'll die mad and alone and by the time they find us I'll have eaten your feet" look. The attached photo is of the two of us playing with a rugby ball in Ireland. Which is another way of saying he just bursts the rugby ball and I get furious and chase him round the garden (which as far as he's concerned is simply the finest game ever invented).

Anyway, just completing the legal handover of the shop, at which point we'll start turning it into a divers / wildlife / filming haven. Whatever one of those looks like.

Cheers, Monty