Our old boat

Wild Cat, aka Lewarne

We had a wonderful weekend with Ben and Kaz, completed by Edwin and Andre visiting to bring a couple of board games. An email had come unexpectedly from the new owner of our old boat, Lewarne. We had sold her in 2016 when she was renamed Wild Cat by her new owner, a great fan of Arthur Ransome. She is now berthed in Cardiff. The new owner, Jim Reeves, is a cheerful nineteen-year-old who has lived among boats all his life, and now his own Marine Service company. He mailed me a link to a video tour of our boat (Video of Wild Cat aka Lewarne), which brought back many wonderful days with friends and family cruising the Orwell and East Coast rivers. Such memories are so precious and made me revisit the old pictures we had of those days. 

Jim has added features like an electric toilet and a large screen projector TV, as well as building a double berth in the after cabin to replace the two narrow single berths, and sails her single-handed, intending to go to the Scilly Isles this summer. Lewarne is now almost 50 years old, still with most of her original woodwork; I wonder how well modern yachts will look in 50 years, even without the constant need to varnish and polish timbers. Designed for the Baltic fishing trade, she has a reassuringly thick hull with a wonderful shear that seemed to brush the most fearsome waves aside without fuss. Altogether a beautiful boat, though showing her age a little now.

We were last in Cardiff many years ago, to see an exhibition inspired by where they had filmed some of the Dr Who episodes. Jim invited us to visit and see the boat if we are ever in Cardiff, but I can't see us returning there, good though it would be to see the old boat again. I note she still has the funny patch in her foresail where it suddenly ripped while running in a good blow on the Stour; I never understood why the sail makers fitted a yellow patch! Perhaps it was their surreptitious protest because we didn't order a new sail from them.

The torment of a growing tumour

My swollen wound

Two weeks after removal of the secondary in my chest wall, it is healing well still a little swollen and sore. Next week I face a long session of R/T (radiotherapy), where they attempt to blast to bits the beast on the lung. Facing imminent death is discomforting. Though some may escape taxes, we all know we are born to die, but manage to live most of our lives as though it is of no relevance to us directly; we walk the path of existence with so many distractions we give no thought to the final destination. Now, although I enjoy many distractions still, it looms in my sight and is present in the painful twinges, my weakening limbs, increasing breathlessness, and deteriorating mind as I struggle to remember names or even words that hitherto flooded effortlessly into my brain.

Today, the oncologist at Addenbrooke's phoned again to give the results of the tissue they removed, confirming the tumour was present in the margins of the wound, and therefore still very active. They hope to try more localised beam therapy, with protons or electrons to reduce it, which sounds more like using experimental apparatus in the physics lab than standard hospital care; but Addenbrooke's is a major cancer research centre, so perhaps these treatments have just come out of the lab.

Happier Days in London

As always, it is poor Annie who suffers the raw impact and the burden of my disease, suffering all my moods but without our old distractions of visiting new places, or even going out to anyone more distant than Haverhill or Bury St Edmunds. Edwin cooked a wonderful meal last night, but other than this, we hardly go to a restaurant now, whereas we used regularly to go several times a week and always for Sunday lunch. Now, Annie prepares all our meals, ensuring I get a balanced diet designed to give maximum power to the immune system.  

Gone too are our relaxing weekends away, being pampered in hotels or even visits to the cinema or theatre, although we did enjoy one night away in London to see The Devil Wears Prada, an unexpected Christmas gift from Ed and Andre. We live in hope we may resume some activities once all the treatments are over, but at the moment it is a hope that seems to recede as quickly as the days are advancing.