Stranded

           With an easing of lockdown imminent and a return to socialising on the horizon, I cycled out one sunny morn to scope out a few likely-looking hostelries, all of which have been closed for most of the time we have lived here in Plymouth and, therefore, remain untested against our rigorous standards. As in many an English fishing port, the restaurants around here offer mostly traditional fish and chips, but one positive outcome of Brexit is the sudden availability of a variety of locally caught seafood that is neither battered nor fried. It may catch on. Down by the harbour, where fishing boats still have priority over leisure vessels (despite being heavily outnumbered) a new fishmonger has opened up. It is called The Old Fishmongers after the premises it occupies and is run by a couple of enthusiastic young chaps with bushy beards and an approach to fishmongering akin to that of artisanal coffee baristas. They sell locally sourced wet fish plus takeaway seafood snacks concocted in-house.

          It was here that I met the stranded sailor. He was sitting at a tiny table on the pavement, supping a pint of Guinness, having just finished a plate of oysters. He was looking quite pleased with himself. “That’s what I call imaginative fishmongering,” I said, “I didn’t know they had an alcohol licence.” “They don’t,” he replied, “but I’ve been coming here for five days now, so they get me a pint from the pub across the road. I can’t eat oysters without Guinness.” It was a breakfast too hearty for my constitution, but I admired his. He told me that he was en route from Portsmouth to Istanbul but that a combination of family crises and covid-related travel restrictions had left him – and his son, the skipper – stranded here for the time being. He went on to tell me that circumstances, involving a bereavement, an inheritance and a mid-life adjustment, had precipitated the sailing jaunt and its temporary halt. “Well, you seem pretty relaxed about it,” I said eying his T-shirt, which sported a marijuana leaf above the words Breaking Habits. He saw me looking and explained: “It’s an advertisement for the film of the same name, which is based on the experiences of a friend of mine.”

          An encounter such as this, two years ago, might have stretched into a gregarious round or two of drinks but the effects of ‘social distancing’ are measured in more than mere metres. A few days later, some sanctions were eased and we were allowed to welcome our first houseguest since the start of the pandemic. We opened Champagne though, to be honest, we had got used to doing so on a Monday anyway, not knowing when it’s all going to end. That evening, we went to a restaurant, as in days of yore. I had forgotten how noisy they can be, but it is possible that some extra decibels were generated by the excitement of the diners at being allowed indoors at last. Two days later, I was able to book a table for two in a pub – not for a meal, but for a pint! My pal and I had been looking forward to the occasion (our last pint together had left us windblown and frostbitten) and, though we relished being inside a decent pub, a pub with social distancing feels, well, socially distant. Not that I am complaining: I will return, nevertheless.

          Somehow, we will adjust to our altered circumstances, holding on to what we can of that which we value from before and letting go of that which was simply habit or outmoded convention – like shaking hands, for example. Meanwhile, I picture the stranded sailor, making the best of the situation, while looking forward, still, to his final destination.