My favourite chore – just as well, because it’s at least a daily one eight months of the year – is the fire.
From the time I got back to England in early January, until just a few days ago, the stove has been going almost continuously. Once a fortnight, or so, Dusty rings his bell, ties his boat up to mine and tosses 25 kg bags of coal onto my roof, before filling my tank with diesel and, if I need it, replacing my propane. If I am not home he slips a bill through my stern doors before he moves on to the next boat.
In between his visits I drag the coal bags one by one from the roof and onto my covered front deck, and twice a day I fill my coal scuttle using a small black shovel. I’m a little bit glad when the bag is empty enough that instead of shovelling I can lift it and pour the last nuggets, but then I’m a little bit sad too, because I know in just one more scuttlefull I’ll have to heave another 25 kg bag from the roof.
On a really bad day I realise at about 9 o’clock at night that the scuttle needs refilling and the bag is empty. I don’t like doing the roof manoeuvre ever, but especially not in the cold and dark. So then I suffer from duelling aphorisms: never put off until tomorrow what you can do today, competing with: sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof.
At bedtime I bank up the coal and close down the dampers, and with luck, in the morning I only need to open all the draughts and the fire will wake up with me. There’s a “Mr Tippy” steel box by the stove for emptying hot ashes and I proudly keep count – nine days, ten days, a fortnight and the fire has never gone out. Coal is heavy and dirty, but it burns for a long time and a fire set just right can be left alone for many hours.
But the wind conspires with the stove to make my fire temperamental and capricious. On still nights if I turn the draught too low the fire will die, and when it is windy, if I give the stove too much air, the coal will be burnt to ashes before dawn.
On those mornings I kneel cold and tea-less in front of the stove, trying to coax it into life: fire first, kettle next.
But all is changed, now that spring has finally arrived: the trees are in blossom, the hedge has leaves and the flowers in the towpath gardens no longer look windswept and tentative. Yesterday the temperature reached the heady heights 21 C (that’s around 70 in “old money” – the Brit expression for all measurements imperial).
Dusty was the only unhappy boater on the canal as the days began to warm. He grumbled that he hoped it would be a short summer. I still had 3 bags on the roof and didn’t order more, though his text message announcing his visit read: “You think spring has sprung, but I had ice on my boat yesterday. Plant your coal bulbs now!”
Dusty is right, of course. We still need our fires, and I still light mine most evenings; as soon as the sun goes down, it’s cold. But I don’t need to keep the fire going through the night, and if I throw in a shovelful of coal in the morning I am sitting in a tee shirt with the doors open by 10 am.
These days, wood, and not coal, is my friend. Small logs burn fast, and can be scrounged here and there. I’ve watched my neighbours drag fallen branches from along the river below the lock and cut them up on makeshift sawhorses. Until September we just need a quick, fire fix. Poor Dusty.
Ah yes … coal. I don’t miss it one bit, since I came to Canada. At the time I left Ireland, they still had not introduced smokeless coal, so I usually spent every winter coughing up a lung in the smog from coal fires that hung over Dublin. And I certainly don’t miss the dirt and general all-round muckiness of having a scuttle full of coal in the living room. Here, TFH buys a face-cord of wood every winter, which is stacked outside the house, and he lugs a basketful in whenever we light a fire. Which is usually only for the ambience, not for the survival that my fire in Dublin (and yours on Pangolin) ensured.
Pity about Dusty … but he’s probably already got his annual summer holiday plans in place. Or maybe he’ll be hawking ice-cream and cold drinks along the canal?
Comment by Tessa — April 28, 2010 @ 11:02 am
Just love reading about your life on the boat. You make lugging coal sound so poetic. 🙂
Comment by Smart Mouth Broad — April 28, 2010 @ 7:07 pm
Ah, North America, Land of the Free and Home of the Central Air and Heat.
Except when your furnace, hot water heater and AC unit all conspire to die at the same time, and you have to replace them. Then a coal bin looks damn attractive.
Comment by Jan — April 29, 2010 @ 11:22 am
I’ve spoken much too soon. It’s gone cold and rainy and the scuttle is full again. It would gladden Dusty’s heart!
Tessa – In our superiour way in the UK we think for at least the last millenium we have been more advanced than Ireland. I am regularly amused that your experience so often resonates with mine (I haven’t forgotten the gasmen…)
SMB – Thank you! It isn’t poetic, but I don’t forget that it seems strangely old fashioned.
Comment by Duchess — April 29, 2010 @ 11:27 am
hm, yes, doing the fire.
I no longer have one. We lived in a 17th century cottage before we came here and the large open hearth was our main means of keeping warm in the draughty, wattle and daub, ill fitting window-ed and warped door-ed cottage. Very picturesque, charming, delightful, sweet, and a heck of a lot of hard work.
Now I set the thermostat.
I prefer things in new money.
Comment by friko — April 30, 2010 @ 2:21 pm
Thanks for stopping by XtremeEnglish, ma’am….(or do they call you “lady”….????) You’re the Duchess of Everything! Wow. I’m the Pope (in my house). What a charming life you lead! I was going to live on a sailboat when I retired, but I chickened out, mainly because I retired when the weather was turning nasty, and I had no experience keeping a sailboat warm…just dry.
Anyway, keeping the home fires burning is great fun. And very cozy. My kids used to complain “Mom, it’s 90 degrees in here!!” when they were in the parlor where we had the woodburning store….but it kept the whole house liveable, and I loved it.
Happy spring!!
Alas, I never met any of my grandparents. They were all dead by the time I arrived save for my grandpa of the billfold–since my childhood coincided with WWII, there was no travelling. He sent me a $2 bill every year for my birthday, though (which my effing brother would rumple up and throw in the corner).
Comment by m.e. — April 30, 2010 @ 2:40 pm
The simple life is a peaceful life, isn’t it? That was lovely to read. Sorry it has turned chilly again, but never mind, inevitably the sun will shine. It’s raining here. The silver lining is that the house is less likely to burn down this summer in the fire season.
Comment by Old Woman — May 1, 2010 @ 12:55 pm
I love and miss a fire. A fireplace is rare indeed over here.
Comment by Pseudo — May 1, 2010 @ 1:40 pm
Got here from XtremeEnglish’s blog. We have a fireplace in our new place but for decoration purposes. At my father’s house he usually have a lower consumption of electricity since he has a fireplace and an abundance of logs to burn.
Comment by Charles Bjørnsen Ravndal — May 2, 2010 @ 4:19 am
Your posts always spark some memory of mine. This time it’s of the first spring I spent in England. Back home in PA, I could count on the reliability of the weather–March winds, April showers, May flowers–and the accompanying temperatures–50-60s, 60-70s, 70-80s. So that first year in London, I counted the days till March would go out like a lamb. I think the weathers was still lion-like in July! I had never understood why in Austen and Bronte the heroines were always wearing long sleeves in the summer heat. Heat! Ha!
Comment by Jane Gassner — May 6, 2010 @ 12:35 pm