This is Me, Jack Vance

by Jack Vance

  We towed the houseboat to the beach, raised it up so that we could get at the pontoon, which we repaired. We moved the houseboat back in the water and completed the construction.

  Al Hall became the third partner, taking Frank Herbert’s place. At last the houseboat was ready to be moved to its ultimate destination.

  The Mokelumne River joins the San Joaquin River in the delta, and along the shore are a number of marinas. At one of these marinas we found a convenient berth. One morning we set out from Point Richmond, proceeding across the bay. We were powered by a 25-horsepower outboard engine, which pushed us at about five or six knots. We crossed under the Carquinez Bridge, proceeded up the river, and turned into what was known as the Big Break, near Oakley, where at one time floodwaters had burst through the levees and created a lake. Here we anchored for the night.

  The next day we continued to our berth and moored there, safe and sound, ready to use the houseboat.

  I may say in passing that Erle Stanley Gardner, the great mystery novelist, also had a houseboat, not in our marina but somewhat north near the town of Walnut Grove.

  Every week or so we would drive up on Friday afternoon, board the boat, fill the tank with water, the gas tank with gas, put out from the marina and make our way down to some pleasant spot, perhaps on the Big Break where we could look out over the water, drop anchor, and there—well, the men would sit on the front porch drinking beer, while the ladies whomped up dinner on the inside. We also took friends with us, and once or twice Frank Herbert joined us, looking over the situation.

  A single problem evolved on the houseboat: it was difficult to manage in a strong wind. One afternoon we took the houseboat several miles upriver, and there a ferocious wind came up from the north. We turned back, but found that it was impossible to steer in a straight course. The wind pushed us sideways down the river. Nevertheless, by dint of painstaking seamanship, we managed to get the houseboat back into the marina, in the process of which Al Hall fell overboard. Thus we learned that it was not a good idea to venture out when the wind was blowing.

  On another occasion Norma and I and John went up and anchored for the night, as usual, near the Big Break. In the morning, when we awoke, we found that a dense fog had settled over the area, so we could not see ten feet ahead of us. We wanted to return to the berth, so now some expert navigation was required. As I recall, it was a very eerie experience, navigating through the fog trying to locate landmarks. But eventually we succeeded, returned to our berth, congratulated ourselves, kissed the ground and went home.

  The years passed. Norma and I worked on our house, produced fiction, occasionally visited the houseboat, but not as often as before. Then, about 1968 or ‘69, certain things happened—Poul became ill and was no longer able to join us on the houseboat, and Al Hall was transferred north to Mendocino so that I was alone in possession of the houseboat. Norma and I were once again prosperous and, as in the past whenever this had occurred, we were thinking of far-off places with sweet-sounding names. So I gave the houseboat to Ali Szantho, who was trying to organize a professional soccer league without any particular success. I never found out what happened later, but Ali hinted that he had incurred a misfortune. He had run the houseboat into some rocks along the shore, and the houseboat was no more. So ended the era of the magnificent houseboat.

  Chapter 8

  And in the vats of Luna

  This year, the must shall foam

  Round the feet of laughing girls

  Whose sires have marched to Rome.

  Thomas Babington Macaulay

  Our old wanderlust, which seemed to come upon us every several years, struck again in 1969.

  We put our house in the care of friends and set off to the east coast. We loaded the VW aboard the oceanliner France, and climbed aboard third class. The cuisine on the France fell short of our expectations, and the wine served with our meals was the most fearful swill I have ever imbibed. The French ought to have been ashamed of themselves.

  We disembarked at Southampton and drove west through Devon and down to Land’s End at the southwestern tip of Cornwall. The British use a phrase: “From Land’s End to John o’ Groats”, which describes the longest distance one can travel in Great Britain, over 600 miles from southwest to northeast. John o’ Groats, incidentally, is a town named its named for a Dutchman, Jan de Groot, who in the 15th Century established a ferry plying between Scotland and the Orkney Islands.

  From Land’s End we drove north, through the Lorna Doone country and Waters Meet, through Shropshire, Northamptonshire, Yorkshire and into Scotland. We spent two days in Edinburgh, where we climbed up Edinburgh Rock and explored Edinburgh Castle, a majestic structure which overlooks the city.

  In a local haberdashery we bought two duffel coats, one for Norma and one for John. These were heavy blue garments equipped with hoods which protect the wearer from the high winds and unpredictable weather of Scotland. Later, everywhere we traveled, we collected decorative patches, which we sewed upon John’s duffel coat until it was quite wonderfully bedizened.

  We continued north into Inverness, past Loch Ness, where John, investigating the surface of the lake, declared that he had seen Nessie. Norma and I strained to see her ourselves, but without success.

  Eventually we arrived at John o’ Groats, which wasn’t much of anything but a desolate old inn, where we spent the night. Thus we gratified our need to realize the ancient English proverb. From Land’s End to John o’ Groats—there we were.

  The next day we set off westward, past the peninsula Tongue, which Gordon Tongue claimed to be the home of his ancestors, and toward Cape Wrath, which I had hoped to visit. However, we found that there was a body of water intervening, and the ferries were no longer in operation. So we turned south, driving along the coast, through Sutherland, and the area where theoretically would be situated Lochdubh, the locale of M. C. Beaton’s mystery series detailing the exploits of Hamish Macbeth.

  We passed through Inverness and stopped for the night at an inn, where we heard for the first time the music of Jimmy Shand and his orchestra. I will take this occasion to remark on this music, which at the time was popular in Scotland and Ireland. I am not sure as to the instrumentation of Shand’s band—there certainly were several strings, accordion, drums, piano, bass, perhaps clarinet. The music is hard to describe; it certainly was not what you would call pop music—there were no vocals—but it was evidently based upon traditional Scottish themes or courtly Scottish dances and marches. It had a unique lilt, and I have never come upon anyone who has heard this music and has not been charmed by it.

  A day or two later we ferried across the Minch to the Isle of Skye. We spent the night at an inn in Portree, the island’s largest settlement. The next day we drove around the island, through a dramatically beautiful landscape of hills and mists and shadows. In the evening we arrived at Camasunary on the Strathaird peninsula, and took lodging for the night at a nearby inn*.

  We dined on fish and chips, then went into the lounge. I noticed that the clerk at the registration desk was idly plucking a guitar. In the lounge we were served beer and sat by the fire. Five or ten minutes later, three men came into the lounge. One was carrying an accordion, the other two fiddle cases. From behind the registration desk came the young man who with his guitar. The fiddlers brought forth their instruments; they all tuned up and began to play music in more or less the same style of the Jimmy Shand repertoire.

  While the group was playing, a middle-aged man and his wife entered the lounge. The lady was a comfortable matron, the man short, sandy-haired, and wearing a black suit, which was obviously not his everyday wear. As they entered, one of them cried out, “Angus, you’re here at last! Yonder are the pipes, come join us now for a tune.”

  Angus smiled and shook his head, “No, it would nae be proper. We have just come from the funeral of old Wooter McKenna, and it would nae be seemly to play the pipes.”

  “Not so!” cried the younger musician. “Old Wooter’d
take joy in the music! Come now, let’s have a tune to send old Wooter’s ghost hoppin’ and skippin’ away.”

  Angus turned his head sideways and pursed his lips; he looked at his wife. She shrugged, and Angus said, “Well, I suppose a tune might be reverential. I can play with a reverential soul for the sake of old Wooter. Where are the pipes?”

  The pipes were handed to Angus; the music began, and it was the most beautiful music to be heard anywhere. Angus, however, would only play one reverential tune; then he gave up the pipes and he and his wife settled down beside the fire with pints of ale.

  On the next day we left Skye, drove down the coast and took the ferry to Ireland. We landed in Belfast, and on the next day drove south to Dublin, where we spent two or three days seeing the sights. Leaving Dublin we drove west across Ireland to Cong, and lodged ourselves in Ashford Castle on the shores of Lough Corrib (or Loch Coirib in Irish). In the morning we learned of a cottage which might be rented a few miles to the west beside the lake. Taking ourselves to this cottage we met the owners, the Molloys, examined their cottage, and promptly rented it.

  We subsequently became friendly with the Molloys. Jackie Molloy worked in the forest; Mary Molloy kept house at home. There were three children: Kathleen and Maureen, girls about John’s age, and Sean, a little younger. At a pier on the lake was moored a rowboat, which we were entitled to use. Upshore was the island Inchagoill, where some of the local farmers took their cattle and let them rove free. Another island four or five miles away had been the resort of medieval monks, and the site of an ancient cemetery and a chapel rumored to have been visited by St. Patrick during the Middle Ages.

  Norma and I settled down to work, and occasionally gave John instruction in the schoolwork he was missing. These prolonged absences from school never seemed to cause John any difficulty. On returning home, he always rejoined his classes as if he had never been away.

  In the cottage there were two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen and bathroom. In the living room was a fireplace where we burned turf, which produces a fine fire. The turf is created by a man who carries a spadelike instrument known as a slane. He goes to the bog, digs out long slabs of the wet material which he lays out to dry along the bank. Presently, the wet stuff dries and becomes turf. It burns slowly, giving off a wonderful resinous odor which will bring heartsickness and longing to any Irishman.

  The climate was fickle and changeable. The day would start out with sun, then there would be a spat of rain, then clouds, then maybe a touch of sleet or snow, then more sun, more rain…Mind you, this was winter. Yet the cold never became severe.

  During the summer, the Molloys rented the cottage to fishermen, who caught trout in the lake. Johnny and I often used the boat; I rowed back and forth while Johnny fished. We never got so much as a bite, but nobody had told us that during the winter the fish refused to cooperate with the fisherman. Still, it was fun and good exercise. The lakewater was a peculiar dark brown, almost black, and sometimes reefs of rock would almost reach the surface, and a boat with any draft at all would find itself in trouble. However, we managed to avoid these reefs.

  We bought groceries in Cong, and once a week drove south to Galway for meat and other goods not available in Cong. In olden times, as a traveler entered Galway, he passed under a massive stone arch, into which was chiseled a devout and dire supplication:

  FROM THE SAVAGE DEEDS OF THE O’FLAHERTYS

  MAY THE GOOD LORD PROTECT US!

  We found Galway to be a rather strange city. On one occasion, we went into a bank and to cash a cheque for $1,000. Without comment, and without even asking for identification, the manager handed us the money in Irish pounds. Even in the 1969, such a transaction would have been unthinkable in the United States!

  On another occasion, we stopped to lunch in a restaurant. One of the waitresses approached with pad and pencil to take our order, but at this moment a fat young priest wearing his clerical robes entered the restaurant and seated himself at a nearby table. Instantly, our waitress abandoned us and ran over to attend his needs, as did two or three other waitresses. We waited and waited. Meanwhile, the waitresses brought out a platter upon which rested a beautifully cooked fish, and set this before the priest, together with all the trimmings. The priest smiled benevolently; he uttered no blessings, nor did he make any ecclesiastical gestures, but raising his elbows tucked into the fish. Finally our waitress, with nothing else to do, deigned to take our order.

  Near the cottage lived Reggie McNab, a cousin of the Molloys who, together with his wife, operated a small grocery in Cong. One evening we invited the McNabs and the Molloys to dinner. Norma served a curry of beef with garnishes of chutney and toasted coconut, with apple pie with cheese for dessert. By Norma’s standards it was a pleasant but not notably dramatic meal.

  Several weeks later, Norma visited the McNabs’ shop in Cong but found little to inspire her; eventually she settled on a couple of undersized, wrinkled tomatoes. These she took to the counter, where Mrs. McNab stood at the cash register. Mrs. McNab looked at the tomatoes, then at Norma, and said: “Still eatin’ high, Mrs. Vance?”

  Christmas arrived. Jackie Molloy, who worked as a forester, brought us a small tree, and Norma fashioned a set of ornaments from tin cans, which we hung on the tree. We have these ornaments to this day and they still hang on our tree every Christmas.

  We seldom strayed far from our cottage. One day we drove south to the cliffs of Moher, which are spectacular. They run south along the ocean for miles, rising five hundred feet sheer above the water. Another day we drove north to Donegal, Yeats country. But for the most part we remained in our cottage, working hard, producing fiction, and occasionally rowing on the lake.

  One evening Jackie Molloy and I went into the nearby town of Cornamona and looked up one of Jackie’s friends. He took us into his barn, and there took Jackie aside into an earnest colloquy, the meanwhile glancing at me over their shoulders and making odd signals to one another. When Jackie’s friend was at last assured that I could be trusted, he sold me a bottle of the Irish white lightning, poteen, falsely labeled for whisky. Jackie and I returned to the cottage and there sampled the contents, which indeed had both character and authority.

  One January day Norma, Johnny and I went for a drive in the country. The weather had been cold for Ireland and the roads were slick with ice. Ahead of us a truck was parked in the road. I braked hard, but the tires skidded on the ice and we slid into the back of the truck. The front of the car was damaged but otherwise nothing serious happened. Nevertheless, we were all shaken up. We might have had the damage repaired locally, but I did not trust Irish mechanics, and since we were now ready to depart Ireland, we decided to take the car to a VW agency in Germany and have the repairs done by experts.

  We said goodbye to the Molloys, took off, drove through Ireland to the south coast. Along the way we stopped in Cork and bought several settings of Belleek dinnerware, and at the Waterford Works a crystal chandelier, which to this day hangs in our dining room.

  At Rosslare Harbour at the southeastern corner of Ireland we boarded a steamferry, which took us directly to Cherbourg on the coast of France, bypassing England. From Cherbourg we drove northeast to Aachen, the spa-city on the north Rhine and onetime seat of Charlemagne. We took lodging in a pleasant little hotel at the edge of town, beside a small fountain. Once situated, we took our car to the local VW garage.

  During this stopover in Aachen, Johnny met with a memorable experience. Not far from the hotel lived a crotchety old man who was forever victimized by the naughty boys of the neighborhood. They sassed and taunted him mercilessly, and generally made his life miserable. One day Johnny was innocently sailing his boat in the fountain. The old man happened to be in the vicinity, and must have identified Johnny with his tormentors, for he came up behind Johnny, seized him, and gave him a vigorous spanking. The spanking startled Johnny more than physically hurt him; in any case he was not amused by the incident.

  In due course we re
turned to the garage to pick up our car. The office at the garage was dominated by an enormous computer, primitive and cumbersome by today’s standards, and perhaps even by those of the day. The clerk used this machine to calculate our bill. He inserted card after card into a slot, and the computer whirred and whined, processing the information on the cards, finally compiling our grand total. If the mechanic put so much as a dab of Vaseline on a piece of metal, he wrote out a card saying “Dab of Vaseline” and the computer reckoned this on the bill. When the full reckoning was at last presented to us, we were taken aback. It was staggering. Yet with no other option, we paid the balance and went off with our car, only to discover that the job had been only half-done. The front fenders were still dented, and furthermore patched with gray primer instead of properly painted. I should mention that our car was red. Yet we dared not return and give the computer a second foray into our checkbook, so on we went. In hindsight, my advice to anyone who owns a Volkswagen is: If it needs repairs, do not take it to a German garage.

  We learned that our friends Gordon Tongue, Gwen and Tony were now residing in Torremolinos, on the Costa del Sol on the southern coast of Spain. We decided to join them there.

  Departing Aachen, we drove south through France, stopping at small inns and resorts recommended by the Michelin travel guides. These Michelin guides, incidentally, are invaluable for persons traveling through Great Britain, France, Italy, Germany and perhaps elsewhere. Restaurants and hotels are rated with extreme care and vigilance, and at this time there were perhaps fewer than ten restaurants in France with a three-star rating. The symbol of a small black rockingchair in the guide indicated a desirable place of lodging. When such a place was particularly charming and comfortable, the rockingchair would be red. We found that a red rockingchair usually indicated an inexpensive if high-quality country inn, situated in romantic surroundings, which also took pride in its cuisine. These little inns were favored by thrifty Frenchmen on their holidays, and they also became the same for us. We traveled through France from one red rockingchair to another.