cockle bread

Halcyon days, now wars are ending
You shall find where'er you sail
Tritons all the while attending
With a kind and gentle Kale.

A bit of Purcell there, from the Tempest, lightly adapted to suit the leaf of Cavolo Nero that went by in the morning. I always found the idea of a kind and gentl gale amusing, especially when listening to this tune as we butted through just such a gale in the Western Approaches or indeed Biscay.

Over on the canal facebook group there was alarm and consternation from one poster who saw some cauliflower leaves float by. Fair play, who likes cauliflower at the best of times?

Down here on the West End we get a better class of vegetable in the rich Minestrone of the canal. It turned out that a neighbour was shaking a slug off this particular stalk and inadvertently dropped the whole thing into the canal.

Breadmaking is of course de rigeur in these lockdown days, and today I divided the dough into two and added mixed fruit into one half. I dusted them with rice flour to stop them sticking too much. The result was really rather good, even if it did look a bit like an arse.

Out and about with the volunteers, delivering food parcels and stuff. 

Observe Blake's Proverb of Hell on the side of the boat there. 

Later, a quick dash to the Wharf to bandage up someone's nasty gash (they slipped on the side of the boat). 

I put my Marigold gloves on, and my Darth Vader respirator. "There's no need for that", said the patient; "I've not got the bug".

"It's to protect you from me" I said; "You don't know where I've been"

Emerging back onto the towpath I see two friends sitting outside their boat enjoying an evening beer. Mr and Mrs Thornproof have paused in their walk to stand looking angry and outraged at this flagrant display of Fun. Unfortunately, the display was only observed by me. Hopefully they will have gone home to spend an agreeable evening write angry letters to the Daily Mail, and best of luck with that.

a jammed propellor

Sharon and Mark's water tank was running low so they set off for the water point, first turning at the winding hole. They'd got the bow into the inlet, when the engine faltered and suddenly stopped. I wandered up to see what was going on.

Something had jammed the prop. Unfortunately, unlike on a narrowboat where there's a weed hatch above the prop to allow you to reach down and examine the prop, this boat, a Broads cruiser, has no hatch and a prop recessed under the hull too far in to reach without diving.

Marc resignedly scrambled down in borrowed waders which had a hole in them, though the hole didnt really matter because the water came over the top anyway. Jim prepared a harpoon in case a great white whale should appear.

The narrative arc ground to a halt at this point, because prodding and probing was to no avail. Jim volunteered to dive down and clear it in exchange for a week's supply of sherry. Sharon did some rapid mental calculations and looked startled.

But they tried easing it into gear a few times and eventually whatever it was down there cleared, and they were on their way victorious.

From George's camp came the melodious bonging of one of those steel drum things.

lockdown on the canal

The canal, or at least its resident population, is on lockdown, one of the terms that's entered our vocabulary over the last couple of weeks, like 'social distancing', that curious free-form version of country dancing that we practice without music.

So I minimise my trips out, other than the patrols I do as part of a team of volunteers, to keep an eye on vulnerable boaters.

But yesterday I cycled up to Claverton to drop off books, badges and cards, and to do a bit of bicycle fettling. And to say hello to friends along the way.

Simplicity

With the canal in sort-of-lockdown, the towpath is pretty quiet. The Canal and River Trust has issued a notice asking people not to use it unless absolutely necessary. This request has been unnoticed or ignored by lots of folk, and some local boaters have erected additional signage to draw folk's attention to the official notice. And this in turn has created hostility with some folk from the local town, Bradford on Avon, who resent our apparent freedom and what they see as a careless outdoor life - I see a commentator on a local press article criticises us for 'having barbecues' when the only outdoor cooking that I've seen has been by Sherry Jim, who's run out of gas and hasn't got a proper cooker, so is cooking on a fire at the side of his boat... but there we go, 'the worst are filled with a passionate intensity'. A neighbour reports that a local runner has taken to spitting at her boat as he passes. And on the other hand, some boaters have shouted at passers-by, boaters and non-boater alike. It has created upset.

On a more positive note, welfare systems are being set up in both formal and informal ways. The canal chaplains are busy distributing food and fuel. Julian House's boater outreach workers (who are themselves boaters) have been organising, with the canal divided into zones and coordinators for each of them, and local volunteers doing the footwork. Boats have been provided with coloured cards to put in the window. Green card, everything OK; amber card, please call; red card, assistance needed. 

My new map was done just in time to be useful!

Before the arctic winds blew up, having us run for shelter, we sat outside at a safe distance apart and duetted on our flutes. Helen Jenner is the good one, on the alto flute. My bum notes are due to the cider.

la vraie liberté c’est le vagabondage

This is my latest painting. It's a view from the boatman's cabin of a narrowboat, looking out to the Vale of Pewsey. You can get a copy of it here in my Etsy shop.

It's inspired by a poster that a friend had on her wall about 40 years ago, with a view of the Pyrenees through a window. I put the poster in the painting, there on the bulkhead on the left. Here it is, look; you can still get a copy from Editions Fricker

...and here's the picture evolving, from the first inking onwards

a blackbird's song before the storm

The evening before the big storm hit us, the canal was placid, and we heard the first evening blackbird song of the year. Like finally breathing out, after the long-held breath of winter. Reminds me of coming home after a voyage this time.

The waypoints of the journey to summer are passing in increasing numbers; the woods are full of snowdrops now, and there was a single solitary celandine by the path as I cycled down to the river.


Last week I spent a few days moored at the top lock of the Widcombe Flight in Bath, a fine spot with a view across the city when it isn't misty. I watched one of the peregrines on the spire of St John the Evangelist, a spire so tall that it earned the disapproval of Nikolaus Pevsner - 'a demonstrative proof of how intensely the Gothicists hated the Georgian of Bath'. But the peregrines like it, and they've got a nesting box way up there.

This was the westernmost point of the last year's travelling; I'm now heading very slowly towards the summer lands up beyond the Vale of Pewsey. Before I set off again, though, I filled my water tank. Had to thaw out the water point with a kettle of boiling water first, though.

My new back garden looks up to Bathampton Down, across a field of sheep.

...but this was the view yesterday, when the storm was raging