A pungent gift conjures up strong
Metre boat memories
ILLUSTRATION CLAUDIA MYATT
HARD ON THE NOSE
TOM CUNLIFFE
W
e all know human memory can
store a staggering amount of
data. The interesting part is that
it doesn’t just hold onto
word-based features from our past. It can tuck
away input from the rest of our senses too. Images
are obvious, while sounds and significant melodies
stand out as keys for unlocking ancient reminiscences
complete with emotions which either soothed our souls or toppled
us into chaos. The sense of smell would come pretty low on most
inventories of recollection-generating forces, yet a whiff of some
obscure odour can still carry us off to an earlier life.
Last week, a chum came round for dinner, bringing a cheese
he’d acquired in a recent smash-and-grab shopping binge before
boarding the ferry in Calais. As an adventurous alternative to the
honest English Cheddar, it was greeted with pleasure, until the port
began to circulate and we cracked open the waxed paper.
Some folks like smelly cheese. Nobody could call me a fussy
man, but this was too much even for my sea-hardened tastes.
Sitting on its plate under the oil lamp, it hummed so vigorously
you could almost hear it, while the air above danced and flickered
as though it were giving off heat. A bouquet of old socks with an
unmistakable hint of ammonia filled my dining room. Not even the
donor could fancy it, so, by common consent, it was re-wrapped,
and consigned to the depths of my wheelie bin. What the council’s
men made of it remains unrecorded, but its pong had taken me
straight back to a Baltic adventure 30 years ago.
We had traversed the Kiel Canal in the 1911 pilot cutter
Hirta, bound for points northeast via Germany, Denmark and
Sweden. The first day saw us reaching eastwards in lovely
weather to berth in the aptly named Heiligenhafen
shortly before the victualling shops put up the
shutters. It was here, in an unlikely looking
emporium a block back from the front that I
made my big mistake. We needed cheese and we
wanted it strong. On the counter sat a huge wagon
wheel of a cheese. I should have been suspicious
about its being wrapped up, but I was young and foolish.
The proprietor assured me that it was sehr stark and added that
it was on offer. Always one for a bargain, I stumped up and
tottered back to the ship with my prize.
The following morning saw a change in the weather. Gone were
the fluffy clouds and Force 4 breezes. Instead, a fine rain came in
with a powerful southerly wind. We hove down a couple of reefs in
the big canvas main, set the small jib and full staysail and shaped a
course towards Klintholm on the Danish island of Møn.
This involved negotiating a busy corner of Denmark and as we
thundered away in that general direction, the rain thickened into a
solid mist. Visibility was soon down to 100 yards. Back in 1989 we
had no electronic aids, but dead reckoning was the sailor’s meat
and drink, so we read the trailing log and noted that we were
making an easy 7 knots on our 45ft waterline. Next, we consulted
the deviation card for the recently swung steering compass and felt
reasonably confident as we plotted our position.
Suddenly, out of the murk to leeward a remarkable sight
materialised. A classic yacht under deep-reefed main was hacking
up closehauled on port tack, closing fast on a clear collision
heading. As she firmed up out of the fog, we could see that she
was long-ended, low-slung, distinctly scruffy, of substantial
tonnage and flying a German ensign, stiff with wind. Boats built