The view from our living room is an active panorama: to the right, the grassy promontory of Mount Wise, at the base of which is a boatyard and the skeleton of a stone building with eight tall, slender arches founded below the tideline and, beyond that, a waterfront lido; to the left is a marina full of bobbing boats, beyond which is the Tamar estuary, highway to the Royal Naval docks at Devonport. It’s enough to entertain you even on the dullest of days.
But, having become
accustomed to the scene, last year I found my eye constantly being drawn
instead to the foreground, i.e. the state of our outdoor terrace. It’s a good
space but the previous owners had given it an ugly, badly executed makeover,
covering it in porcelain tiles the colour of pale-yellow puke, with a rippled
surface, glazed, so they were slippery when wet. Earlier this year, I
determined to do something about it and, after making a start myself, found and
contracted a tradesman to finish the job properly.
Now that the
terrace is professionally laid with non-slip tiles in a tasteful, pale shade of
terracotta, my eye is still drawn to it, but for a different reason: I am
mesmerised by the transformation. Just this morning, I watched with deep satisfaction
as the rainwater ran towards the gutter and the residue soaked away into the
semi-porous surface. I’ll be seeing a lot more of that now that the long, dry
summer is coming to an end.
The August
Bank Holiday was a watershed – literally. Our residents’ annual BBQ, held in
the communal garden with a combination of doggedness and borrowed
gazebos, was at the same time a celebration of summer and an acknowledgement of
its demise. The singer we hired was unfazed by the gusty conditions – a true
professional – and finished her set, by request, with a Dolly Parton tribute.
More signs
of autumn came with the return of my Other Half from a brief stay in the
countryside – a bagful of windfall apples and a wasp sting on a fingertip that
was swelling ominously. It was Sunday afternoon before she decided to seek direct
medical advice and, with the following day being a holiday, the only resources
available outside of A&E were via telephone. Although no emergency was
declared, the swelling expanded to the point where it triggered acute anxiety
in the patient, testing my limits as a nurse and, incidentally, obliging me to deal
with the peeling, coring and stewing of the apples.
After a
couple of days, the swelling receded – as was predicted – and I grabbed some
time for R&R. I sauntered into town and had coffee at a smart new Kurdish
café, where you can get simit (a saucer-sized ring of
sesame-seed-encrusted bread) to dunk – or not – and pretend to be abroad for a
while.
Suitably
fortified, I then went to the Box, Plymouth’s prize-winning* museum/gallery/archive,
to put some sunshine back into life by soaking up the colourful paintings of
Gillian Ayres. Although the place was thronging with families filling the last
few days before school with indoor activities, the painting galleries had only
a few, solitary visitors and I was able to bask in the colours and contemplate
the life artistic.
I finished
off by browsing the books in the local history room, where I like to pick up obscure
facts with which to impress visitors to our patch. Flicking through a book of photos,
a page fell open at a view I recognised. It was as if taken from our terrace,
but in 1898, long before our building existed. Plainly visible were the eight
stone arches, capped by a roof and with small boats and sailors busy all around.
The caption read “The Admiral’s Boathouse”.
The
Admiral’s residence still sits atop Mount Wise, though it has been converted to
apartments. Could his redundant boathouse one day be recommissioned and used by
one of the several rowing clubs around here? I could do with a bit more
activity to distract me from gazing at the tiling.
*The Art Fund ‘Museum of the Year’ 2026.
