JOURNAL ENTRY

12th March, Wednesday.

“The day winds down.
A last walk along the canal side.
Pebbled rings form in the open water.

A kick of sleet
Drives against my face.
Captivated by the golden sun
Shining through rain mist.
Such unimagined golds.

Behind me
A pale rainbow
Bows and fades to such majesty.”

[MUSIC]

WELCOME

The moon, just past full, is climbing in the east - following the lamp of Venus as she shepherds her across the sky. The air is still and sharp-edged with the chill of night. 

This is the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the quiet darkness of an early spring night to you wherever you are. 

It’s so lovely to see you. I am really glad you could make it. Please excuse the clutter, we’ve been having a bit of a week of it on the Erica over the last couple of weeks. Last weekend Donna found a water leak – we tracked it down to the pump, but this being a boat everything is hidden away in the most inaccessible places. We thought we had sorted it out, when this morning Donna found another, much more serious leak that was filling the bow compartment where the water tank is situated with a lot of water. Hopefully, it has now been sorted, but we’re still trying to dry everything out again and things are piled up everywhere. So, we’re podcast rather in extremis tonight. Nevertheless, the stove is on, the cabin is cosy, the kettle is singing, and the welcome is warm. So why don’t you step inside, and welcome aboard. 

[MUSIC]

NEWS FROM THE MOORINGS  

Spring sunshine – sparrows and blue tits playing leap frog over branches through the alder copse. Warmth carried on the back of a soft breeze. White plum blossom perfumes the evening air with honeyed wine and sun-filled promises. I spot the first dandelion of the season. The large friendly profile of a solitary bee, busily content in his solitude. The sun picking out the high branches of the tallest alder and painting them bronze and silver. 

The scents and sounds of early spring are everywhere – even if, at first glance – winter’s grip on hedge and field is clearly evident. A little way down from us, someone has planted a clutch of dwarf daffodil bulbs that are now glowing yellow and orange warmth just below the parapet of one of the numerous accommodation bridges along this stretch of canal. Accommodation bridges are the (often) small bridges that were built by the canal companies in compensation to farmers whose land was being bisected by the canal and to enable them to continue to move livestock from one field to another.   

Spikes of yellow flag spear the bankside water’s edge, where the oily detritus of winter, human and natural, collect and fester. Their presence may be easily overlooked right now, but even still there is something uncompromisingly resilient in their appearance. They’re like a green forest of Excaliburs held aloft by the hand of white samite clad Spring. This is spring’s ‘fighting talk.’ The great unstoppable green tsunami of Spring is on its way, washing out the last of winter – at 3mph, North-North-West.  Oh, yes! For I have heard the roar of spring and it is fearful!

And all along the towpath, that drumbeat of awakening is heard. Green shoots, unfurling leaves, fresh flushes of glossy, rich greens: Cow parsley, lords and ladies, celandine, coltsfoot, hogweed, nettle, angelica, cleavers, ranunculi, ground ivy, dandelion – looking like rabbits’ ears – plantain, herb Robert, chervil. And above our heads, leaf buds are cracking and bursting. The elder, always one of the first, is already decked in tight clusters of mint-green leaves.

But this is March, and of course the glorious butter-soft warm spring days didn’t last. The lap of winter’s retreating tide is still to be felt. Sleet, some half-hearted snow flurries, sharp morning frosts, and the return of a biting wind has caused many of us here to ask, “Did we really have all that lovely warm weather last week so that we were walking around without the need of sweater or jumper?” But, in truth, it is not surprising. I can hear Dad saying even now, ‘Ah! Blackthorn Winter! It never fails.’ Although, the micro climate here is a little later than elsewhere and the blackthorn blossoms have yet to show. And, as our old friend Miles Hadfield sagely remarks in his An English Almanac, “It has been said (by a scientist) [that March] shows ‘a hasty panorama of seasons.’” Before going on to warn that “[s]ome of the worst blizzards we have suffered were in March.”

And so, we grab the moments when we can, but knowing that winter is wounded and Spring is spoiling for a fight, and the twilight hours ring and swirl with rook and jackdaw dance and call.

And I am sure the ducks feel it too. The push and pull of hormone and light. I catch them, from time to time, singularly or in pairs, sitting in the water, centre stream. Not asleep or even dozing, gently treading water, watching, listening, sensing, being. The young drakes slightly at a loss, often group together in twos and threes. Not yet paired, still to learn to read life as well as they can read the unseen currents of water and air. It can’t be easy for them.

One unattached drake swims up the centre of the canal. Every few seconds he makes a call. Text books and 'fun-factoid' books will tell you that only female ducks can quack. This is not true. Males vocalise as much as females – just a little differently. He swims up to a paired couple who are swimming the other way. I watch, expecting a kerfuffle. The male and female keeping looking at each other. I can sense tension or a sense of unease. I can hear soft clucks and chuckling noises. The drake pushes just a little ahead of the female. Still eye contact and a few quiet vocalisations. The oncoming young male, moves over to the right (even ducks seem to know canal boating etiquette). As he draws level, the pair stop swimming, the single male, slows and as he passes the pair pivot and swim a few strokes alongside, before turning back and swimming off together, their bodies almost touching.

And then, almost immediately, around the corner another unpaired male is swimming. This time, it is easier to see his use of calming signals – those body movements that seem to be universally used and understood across all species to say ‘do not be afraid. I am not a threat. My presence does not mean you harm.’ Conflict avoidance strategies: Signs of de-escalation. Signs which only it seems in humans – or taken by some humans to be signs of weakness.

As he approaches the couple, the lone drake keeps looking away, swimming with his face pointed towards the left bank, slowing down, arcing around to the left. The paired drake swims towards him. The lone male stops, lifts his left wing and starts to preen. Running his beak through his richly coloured pinion feathers. How many times have you seen two dogs approach each other and for one to suddenly stop, sit down and scratch or groom themselves? This is a duck that wants no conflict, that is doing everything in his power to avoid aggressive contact. As he passes the paired male makes a wide circle around – like a sheepdog on the outrun and for a few strokes follows him with neck lowered in warning. The lone drake swims on, strong strokes that makes the water rise up his chest. A little later, he takes to the wing to fly the short distance down the canal to join the first unattached male.

Nicely done, boys. Nicely done.

And in the distance, a woodpecker rattles out a morning tattoo.

[MUSIC]

CABIN CHAT

[MUSIC]

CLOUD HERDER (WON’T YOU SPIN US ONE LAST STORY?)

“Ebbtide
 Thin rain.
 The scent of marsh mud
 And salt spray.

Time stretches & pools,
 eddying around Dad's bed.
 False teeth in a glass
 Catch the dying light.

Hoarse breath
 Dim eyes filled with unseen sight.
 Sitting without thoughts
 Beneath the unticking clock

Thin rain
 Waiting for the sound of geese in flight
 Ebbtide.”

I wrote that last year, almost to the day. That long afternoon and the even longer eternal evening of half-light when Dad died. Not knowing what to think, not knowing what to feel – only that there were no thoughts in my head, and a numbness that sank through my body. Of wanting time to speed up, to get this over with, while at the same time, wanting to hold it back, to stop the clock, to stop the inevitable wave from coming. To never having to miss hearing ‘Hello lad, what were the roads like?’

And now a year has gone by, and last week. I heard news of another death; the death of a good friend I had never met. 

There’s a strange feeling of confluence, here. Of circles being drawn, of the asymmetry of emotions beginning to find a balance, of disparate coloured strands being woven together – can loss, can grief (in whatever odd nature it chooses to expresses itself) end up forming a tapestry of restoration? Perhaps. Maybe.

I ask that, because I had already made the decision not to mark the anniversary of Dad’s death here on this podcast. I personally felt that I had covered it enough and that there is a thin line to be drawn relating to morbidity. I also know that a number of listeners have griefs of their own that they are encountering, and perhaps this is not the place to rehash mine. I did, however, and will continue to do so, think of celebrating the life of Mum and Dad in the next few episodes when I plan to read some extracts from Mum’s book relating to a part of their life which I have a feeling you’ll find interesting and enjoy. 

But news of the death of Clifford has changed my thoughts. You see, both Dad and Clifford were absolutely pivotal in me starting this podcast. Them and one other. Without them, there would be n Nighttime on Still Waters. Without them the inspiration to format it in this way, to find the tone and register, would not have developed. Without them I would not have persevered in the early months – although I never really knew how much Clifford listened – I knew he listened to one or two.

I know I have gone through all this elsewhere, but the idea of recording a short, weekly, audio journal of our new life on the cut aboard the narrowboat Erica originated from the need to keep family and some friends up-to-date with how we were progressing – in other words, because we knew communication was not going to be so straightforward, to reassure them that we had neither sunk nor drowned. Something which, I got the distinct impression for some of them, they were convinced would happen to us! Recording a four or five minutes audio journal seemed to me to be the easiest and least onerous way to keep in touch – to my mind much easier to do than write copious emails. Okay, there I have said it! The origination of the podcast was due entirely to my laziness.

However, as is often the case with my head, ideas grow and the four or five minute chat began to develop into thoughts of creating a podcast. To cut a long and rambling story short, I read that one of the most important things in setting up a podcast is to have an imagined ideal listener. In the early days I had two in mind. One of them was Clifford. Clifford shared my love for old-style radio and we had chatted on and off about it for a while. Having Clifford as my listener helped me select the tone, identify topics I thought would appeal to his huge range of interests, to play along with certain conceits – like the weather log/shipping forecast. In those first episodes, it helped having him sit across from me on the other side of the microphone in my mind’s eye. Following each recording, I would ask myself would Dad and or Clifford have found it interesting? If I thought so, that would mark a good episode.    

And so, I need to mark Dad’s death here because he was so important to this podcast, just as I need to mark Clifford’s.   

Tania made a great point in her comment that I mentioned earlier about – although never having met a person, they can still have a great impact on your life. Clifford was one of those. Hearing of his death is strange. How do you mark the loss of someone you only met across a computer screen? Amanda Caines on Instagram expressed it so well in her description of losing a similar online friend that it is ‘a strange formless grief.’ That is so right. We have no formal way of acknowledging or perhaps even recognising loss like this. By their very nature online relationships can be much deeper than face-to-face ones. Oh, I know you don’t meet the whole person, only what they want to share, but that goes for face-to-face friendships too. And I know that Clifford and I shared deeply personal thoughts and struggles that I would find hard to express face-to-face with my other friends, perhaps with the exception of one or two. It is easy to dismiss online friendships as synthetic, artificial and shallow – but that is not always the case.

I first met Clifford when an eclectic and informal bunch of us began experimenting with words – writing poetry, short prose, sharing them, having fun. Always positive, always supportive. Clifford love of pun and wordplay – only he, for example, would list as his place of work on one of his social media platforms as Nunya Business. He was a poet and a musician. And artist and a thinker. There were times that we chatted for hours by keyboard, our words bridging across the Atlantic. Sometimes funny, touring in our imaginations the bars of his city. We build word pictures of what we'd do and who we'd see. Clifford was a night owl - chronic insomnia and a painful eye condition meant he had become a creature of the night. In our imaginations we'd visit forgotten bars where the jazz was so laid back it would slither across the sawdust floor and the one-eyed barman was called Mo would dispense whiskey shots into chipped egg cups and send them spinning down the greasy bar like they did in the films. And where a flame-haired siren called Wanda with bewitching eyes and the voice of Billie Holiday would  quote Kierkegaard and Bukowski to the broken moon while the mad dogs howled down crumbing alleyways, and I'd say that she would fall in love with Clifford and I could feel him grumble and humph behind the keyboard ('Like that would ever happen!'). And we'd go out and get drunk on the jewelled lights that shone on rain-swept streets as limos with white-walled tyres swished past and neon signs fizzed and flickered above our heads. At other times we'd try to touch the unfathomable. We both, in our ways, felt outsiders, estranged in a land we could not comprehend. We found no solutions, but the talking with another became, sometime, solution enough. In our differences and fractured worlds, we felt almost as brothers.

He had a seemingly limitless range of interest and enthusiasms, including radio, steam trains, and old plate photography, but above all he loved the clouds.

His social media accounts would usually comprise a long scroll of cloud photographs that he had taken. Great turbulent cauldrons of apocalyptic cloud. Candyfloss billows castling into unimaginable blue. Raked grey and white horse-hair manes combed by icy winds at the outer edges of our world. Alongside each, photograph – he hated the use of the word ‘image’ for photograph – alongside each photograph there would be written a short description of everything that Clifford could see in it. Dragon with snorkel. Head of a dog just about to bark. The shaman cloud herders of Tibet can read the clouds, and Clifford could read them too, spinning such characters from them. I could only see grades of grey and abstract shapes, but Clifford could weave such stories from them. For the past couple of years, I’ve not been so frequent on social media, but have noticed that, more recently, he’d just post the photograph, and his friends would write below it what they saw. Perhaps I should have picked up that the cloud gatherer was getting ready to leave; handing on the reins to others.

I miss Clifford and I am sad he is no longer here. I always have imagined Clifford, on a summer’s day, lying on his back among the long grass of a quietly rolling hillside and, looking upwards into the moving sky above, calling out the characters and stories that emerge for him there. And for him, on that one lark-filled day, his eyes do not pain him and he can see clearly again, and his mind is stilled and gentle. And perhaps, perhaps, he would have understood how much he had given to me and how much richer he had made my world.

I am going to give the last few words to one of his closest friends – who was also part of that raggle-taggle group of poets starting out on their journey with words: Meg.

“A good 20 some odd years ago I met a poet online who worked with trains and who loved clouds and the sky as much as I do. Over the years we shared poetry and life musings about psychology, writing, care giving, cats, collections, and music. He became one of my core heart family. He helped me through times of deep sadness and I tried, best I could, to be there for him. These are the first hours those who cared for him are finding out about his passing. I am grateful to the soul who knew how to call in a welfare check, as I wasn't sure how to coordinate that from New Hampshire all the way to Texas. For many years, on the first of every month, Clifford and I have exchanged the words: Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit, for good luck, as well as untold amounts of cloud photos and long-distance medicine hugs. This was the first month I did not receive a reply, so in my own small way I knew. He said last year I would be one of the few who noticed his absence from the living and I did but my hands and heart have already been so full of my own grief, I didn't know what to do with this knowledge. His loneliness cast him out of his own life in the end. He is not the first heart family I have lost in the last few years; he surely will not be the last. I wish his brain could have been kinder to him for he will surely be missed by many and his wise, creative spirit was rare and beautiful, and so very bright.” Poetic Meg

Thank you, Clifford for all you have done, and there will always be a part of that great heart of yours in this podcast. But this one thing I wish. Cloud Herder, won’t you spin us one last story?

For Clifford, you and Dad are missed, and I am thankful for all you have meant to me. You will both remain a part of my world.

Thin rain
 Ebb tide

But now the tide turns 
 The flood tide begins
 And the wave of spring approaches. 

SIGNING OFF 

This is the narrowboat Erica signing off for the night and wishing you a very peaceful and restful night. Good night.

WEATHER LOG