JOURNAL ENTRY

“The sun flashes off the canal
in a shimmering dance of light.

Sweet fruit hang amid
The dappled leaves and butterflies,
Rotting on the higher branches.
We below them look up
Rueing such waste and decay;
Sweetness lost to the wasps.

But for the bottle green beetle
There is no decay, only ripeness
And life.  

For the plum tree,
There is no loss, no waste,
Just the culmination
Of a winter’s worth of survival
During the long cold of
Darkened days.

My world must seem so
Totally incomprehensible
To them.” 

[MUSIC]

WELCOME

The wind has dropped and the air is still. The filling August moon has slipped beneath the horizon, leaving us alone in darkness of this soft night. An owl calls low and distant. Tonight, we float on darkness and owl call. 

This is the narrowboat Erica narrowcasting into the darkness to you wherever you are.

You made it! It's so good to see you, I was hoping you'd be able to come. It's a beautiful night in a chaotic world. The kettle is on and there is a seat waiting for you. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Welcome aboard.   

[MUSIC]

NEWS FROM THE MOORINGS  

We’re on holiday. I mean REAL, true blue, pull up the mooring pins, lose yourself in the sticks, do nothing, stare at the clouds, type of holiday. It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of these. We’ve had time off work, we’ve even had some grabbed couple of days of burying ourselves away from everything, but this year we have a whole week put aside.

Almost inevitably, the week before you go on holiday everything is a bit chaotic and, to be honest, I did think I wasn’t going to be able to do a podcast this week. I usually plan to do a ‘Summer Reading’ while we are on holiday, but I haven’t had a chance to put anything together. However, things have been so turbulent, locally and globally, I felt I wanted to at least record something. It's important to be here. To remember that even though our worlds might feel shaken and battered, the ground still holds our weight, that the sun and moon still sail across the sky. That the landscapes we walk still knows and accepts the shadows our being here casts. After all, this podcast is always more about a sense of place, a relationship, a feeling of sharedness, rather than actual content. And so tonight, things will be a little truncated, but it is important that you are here.    

We have both been really looking forward to this time, being able to cast off the ropes and to go wherever, without plan, without care. Everything we need is here and that is more than sufficient. If we could just drift along with the currents and the wind, then we would, throwing down an anchor midstream and live island-like, cut off from land for a week that would be perfect – although I think Maggie would have a lot to say about it.  

The wind has slightly changed direction this morning – becoming more westerly. Outside our window, wands of withy flail and whip, looking like raking fronds of bamboo. There’s a line of crack willow almost opposite our boat. A tangle of trunks as unruly as a bad hair day in high wind. They are trees that give the appearance of being in love with water. Their upper branches lean drunkenly over the canal. Some of their lower stems and trunks appear to come right out of the water. A little further up is a group of youngish alder. Their foliage exuberant and dense. When the wind blows the lower branches seem to nod and bow like obeisant feudal courtiers. The higher ones pounce like great padded lion’s paws. The difference in movement at times within the same group of trees is so stark.

All day the sky has been heavy - the grubby white you get from unglazed porcelain. From time to time, a fine mist of rain – more like a spray of spindrift spatters against the window panes. It’s the type of rain that doesn’t wet your clothes and the ground stays dry, but it makes your bare arm prickle. The forecast is for steep rise in temperature, but I am happy with this. Content to sit and watch flecks of rain and the reeds on the opposite bank bend and bow. The only mechanical sound (apart from the ubiquitous airliners) is the sound of a tractor, in a field the other side of the canal ploughing the ruddle-red rich soil. A pennant of gulls streaming behind carried on the wings of arch-angels.

And this is where we are. For a short while, an island of our own making in a world of noise and chaos. We could be miles from anywhere, although we’re not. You never really are on the canals. But the air is filled with the rustle of windsong through willow, poplar, beech, and hazel, and wood, heron bark, jackdaw chant, pigeon berceuse, insect phizz and hum, and the plaintive call and response of sheep in afternoon warmth. This is why we are here. It’s a place to recharge our batteries. To sit and do nothing but read and watch. A little bit of writing. But more often, my attention is taken by watching the steam curl and spiral from the mug of tea that sits beside me on the desk. Too little time in life is spent in appreciation of the particular wonder of steam rising from a mug of tea.

And then, from time to time, the sun breaks through spreading a golden light through the portholes, dazzling the brass fittings and stretching out across the cabin floor. Even though it is mid-afternoon, it has the feel and look of morning light. The sort of fresh, confident, light that you get at the beginning of summer – when dew is on the fields and the new season of possibilities and plans lies before you, unmarked and unmarred by experience. Of course, on days like this, with light like this, I should go out; make the most of it. But I am content to sit and watch the dust motes dance like a shekinah pillar, right here, in touching distance. Or maybe gaze at a boat going passed. Whatever the case, it is a fine place right here, this place of steam trails and dancing motes of dust.

A pair of ducks have found us. They’re very different from those at the moorings. They’re understandably more wary, and hesitant in their approach. But they also exude a more appreciative (grateful even) demeanour to offered food. When they feed, they eat it more leisurely. Together, they companionably push off through the duckweed and fallen leaves. The canal shimmers a soupy brown. Pond-skaters skip and skid long-legged at the margins where the grass and bramble hang low to kiss the water and the glow of balsam lanterns hang. On our side of the canal, slightly further up, a blaze of yellow loosestrife competes with the magentas of its sibling, Delicate spears of mint-like, gypsywort, create soft mists of violet. The air hums with insects.   

It is clearly the time of year for thistles. Their airy, feathery, globes of thistledown are everywhere. Any cobweb on the boat – and there are many – are festooned with them. Maggie chases them down the boat. A lot of people here have been calling them ‘fairies.’ It’s a good name for them, I can see why, there is something rather fay about them. Sort of delicate and yet almost indestructible, sort of enchanting and yet also extremely prosaic, almost impossible to capture (as Maggie has found out) and yet will stick to her wet nose or my sleeve without a second glance. Both a joy and a nuisance.

Just around the corner, Rufus, with Wes and Amy, from the vlog, Boat Time, are moored. It's strange to meet up with people you know only through watching their videos. Maggie is besotted by Rufus who seems to exude a gentle calmness. We like them. They're as natural and as warm as they are on their vlogs. I have put a link to it in the programme notes. It's a great warts-and-all record of the highs and lows of living on a boat. They're both in the midst of painting. Various panels are drying on the grass beside the boat. Wes stands chatting with a paint brush in hand. I feel a pang of conscience. There's much painting that I need to do. I push down the guilt. We're on holiday, I tell myself.                  

And now as the light fades the wind too begins to drop. The willow and ash are still. Earlier, the bark of a homeward heron, the water turns glassy. Wind shimmer has now been replaced by the sporadic ripple caused by fish deep below the surface. Darkness seeps along the canal banks and up the vegetation. 3D is transformed into 2-dimensions, solidity becomes paper thin. Now is the time of bat flicker and twist and owl call. A couple of male tawnies banshee in the distance. The twilight deepens into night. The water holds the light last of all.

[MUSIC]

CABIN CHAT

And Captain Arlo’s story of his dad’s workbench

SIGNING OFF

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

WEATHER LOG