Home Thoughts From A Broad

“Oh my America, my Newfoundland!” panted John Donne, taking his bliss with his mistress. Which puts me in mind of the fact that some of the metaphysical poets were actually more physical and less meta. JD stands out, literally, but there’s also Marvell’s persuasive little poem to his coy mistresse. Write these things to me, guys, and success is assured!

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Newfoundland and Labrador are bunched together, and here in St John’s is a statuesque tribute to their best inhabitants. At the top of the wharf where we are docked are two bronzes of dogs, one for each place. You just have to love somewhere that honours its dogs. I miss my labrador, Finny.

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More impressions of St Johns – on the approach. Elderly crumbling defences at the entrance to the Narrows. Cabot’s Tower on Signal hill on the opposite high hill. Painted wooden houses tumbling down the cliff sides. St J’s is famous for its painted houses – and reminds me of Valparaiso, but in better nick, wood rather than corrugated iron. Apart from Tobermory in, or rather, off, Scotland, we in the UK are very timid about colouring our houses, and we end up looking a bit beige.

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The taxi driver who brings me and the groceries back to the boat spent 20 years at sea, until his wife died, leaving him with four kids in school.

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Our French neighbours on their aluminium boat are leaving this afternoon, heading for Greenland. Wish I could be in more than one place at a time …. The more French I speak to them, the more like Ted Heath I sound: “Excewsay-mwah.”

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New neighbours from the US arrive on a very expensive boat from the the Great Lakes via New York, heading over to Ireland. Boat – a Mason 43.

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J is extremely neat and tidy and runs Fortune in the same way. He is remarkably forebearing about his crew, who has turned his forepeak into The Burrow, kicking out clothes behind her like a groundhawg.

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