tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16901910692284508422024-02-07T02:34:30.218-08:00The Exploding MoorhenNature, narrowboats, poetry, writing, spirituality, canal life and random musings.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-7777387682510940172013-08-12T16:36:00.001-07:002013-08-12T16:36:15.522-07:00Life, death and cats<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, it has been a while! Back in March I was planning to write about our first winter on the canal, thinking that winter had ended and that we'd got off lightly. But then came the ice. Every morning we awoke to a frozen canal, around the beginning of British Summer Time. And with the return to winter came a succession of events, chaotic and confusing. Our little grey cat died suddenly one Sunday. However, she didn't suffer any long drawnout illness and we knew she chose to go. A friendship became more established as a result - we only knew one person at the time who would not bat an eye if we turned up at his boat at 8am with a dead cat, asking to borrow a spade. Not only did he lend the spade, but also found a lovely spot in the woods where the wild garlic grows, and dug the hole in the half-frozen stoney ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We went to a Quaker funeral not long after this, of a new friend, someone we would have liked to have got to know and had long conversations with about nature. She was approaching old-age, very busy and active and she took her own life so that she would not become a burden to anyone. I still don't know which I find more upsetting and shocking - that she took her own life or her reasons for doing so. What kind of society are we, that our Elders feels this is their only option?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so the freeze continued, with Life Stuff that could not be resolved easily. We just had to wait and be patient.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was also the matter of renewing our licence. All boats on the waterways of Britain need a licence, renewable every year. The granting of the licence is dependant on a valid Boat Safety Certificate, renewable every four years. Guess when ours ran out? A couple of weeks before our licence was due to expire. Without going into tedious detail, it all got sorted out. We reported ourselves to the Canal and River Trust, before anyone else phoned the Licence Evasion Hotline (oh yes, there is On). One day I returned to the boat , and after stepping over a slumbering dog, banished to the towpath, I found my Beloved and a friendly bearded chap holding something that looked very like a large catheter bag over the sink. An onometer apparently. It told us we had no gas leaks and we could have our BSC. Despite the cast iron stove not being bolted to the floor (yes, really!), a large bit of wood screwed down over the air vent in the back door and the duct tape which we hastily peeled off the air vent in the front door. We got our licence a few weeks late, but we were not evicted from our boat for being skint and disorganised.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Gradually, more good things began to happen. We have a new boat cat, who is lively, funny and affectionate despite the bad things that have happened to her in the past. She loves boat life, is endlessly curious about many things, such as the engine bay, the weed hatch and the local boatyard where we go for water and pumpouts, none of which is she allowed to explore. She is an excellent swimmer...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The final breaking of the winter spell came in early July, a couple of days before our first anniversary of living on the boat. I was awoken at 3 am by something splashing in the water. In my sleep fuddled state I thought a deer might have fallen in and I didn't think I could get back to sleep with a drowning animal just a few feet away. So I got dressed and went out. I don't know what I could have done if it had been a deer, but I felt compelled to go outside anyway. Only it wasn't a drowning deer, it was a pair of otters having a very successful nights fishing. We made tea and watched until dawn. Then when dawn came, we made more tea and watched some more. These were the first otters I had seen in the wild ever. I still cannot find adequate words to describe the beauty and magic of those few hours. Another boater said later that he had heard the splashing and wished he had come to watch too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Although I would describe myself as druid, with an interest in the shamanic, I generally don't believe in wildlife as " psychic messengers" or wonder what it means to see a buzzard or a hare. Or even an otter. (I want to explore this more fully in a different post). But. After the otters, things changed. Became less frozen, more fluid. I am writing and blogging again, teaching myself to crochet and to play the dulcimer. I love my itinerant life afloat, and couldn't go back to land living.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">yes, she does this on the water side too, thereby disproving the theory </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...that tails are essential for balance!</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-46596384673948806732013-03-05T14:48:00.000-08:002013-03-05T14:58:07.518-08:00Firewood and Fish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Boatie people generally derive happiness from simple things - like free wood. This morning a few large branches were "pruned" from an even larger Ash tree by a man with a chainsaw dangling on the end of a rope. The offcuts range in size from 2 inches in diameter to almost 2 feet, and have been left neatly stacked for folk to help themselves to, as is the custom along the canal. We had to go out for a few hours but by the time we returned there was still a fair bit left. Our appointment had been frustrating and not ended with the outcome we expected. We felt deflated and overwhelmed with the unfairness of it. After a mug of tea we went and joined the other hunter-gatherers at the woodpile. It was a lot of fun - lots of laughing and joking and people just taking what they needed. We made several new friends, one of whom came by later with a sack of smaller branches that we can saw up easily - she knew one of us has sciatica and that we don't have a log splitter for larger stuff. We do possess an axe which I asked my Dad to sharpen for us. It was returned with a little green hessian bag tied neatly to the blade, but wasn't much sharper...can't see me being able to chop much wood with it, bless him, which may have been his intention! Probably just as well. A complete set of digits is fairly vital to our work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Other small kindnesses followed - including a text from a friend wishing us well today, and conversations with family. In turn we were able to find a way of letting someone know we were thinking of them. Earlier on this evening I heard a familiar plop! like a stone hitting water and I turned to see a kingfisher emerging from the cold green water with a fish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">The community here is fluid, tomorrow or the next day someone will pull up their mooring pins and move on. We may see them again in a few days, weeks or even months. Nevertheless it is a community and I have experienced more friendship and generosity and practical help in eight months than I ever did in years of living in a city and its suburbs. We have tied up several boats that have come adrift, and others have done the same for us - no one shrugs and says "not my problem".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Over the last couple of weeks we have been on the receiving end of unneccessary blame and pettiness. But, like that kingfisher rising to the surface with a fish, it is the hospitality and many kindnessess that rise to the surface and sustain us.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-25995560179810293072013-02-02T03:40:00.002-08:002013-02-02T03:40:44.837-08:00Spring, Swans and snowdrops<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> A boatie friend of ours often says that happiness is in direct proportion to two things - the fullness of your water tank and the emptiness of the toilet tank. Yesterday our joy was made complete by the fitting of a new bilge pump - always good to know the boat isn't going sink.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As we made our way up to the marina I was struck by how much has changed in just a week. A week ago when we moved Netty, the last dirty, slushy piles of snow remained in places. We got to where we thought we wanted to be and then had to reverse half a mile, because of the large amount of dog turds which had accumulated ( why do dog owners think they are exempt from clearing up after their animals just because there is snow, rain, wind, it's too cold, too hot, they "forgot" to carry bags...they live in Bath and are just too posh to stoop to such things...this annoys me greatly, can you tell!), someone had spilled oil in the water and there were dead things floating around including a cat which upset me more than the dog poo. It is not unusual to see the odd drowned rabbit or pigeon. The other day it was like moving through a bizarre game soup - a pheasant , an onion, a carrot , a leek and a field mushroom all marinading together. People throw their mouldering veg into the canal, presumably for the mallards who don't want to eat that last quarter of butternut squash you don't know what to do with either - because you've been eating it in soups and curry and stew all week and can't face any more. I see the ducks and moorhens circling round and grumbling "not another bloody butternut squash - can't wait for the holiday boats to come back with their stale white bread..ah, summer.."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> So anyway, back to yesterday. Imbolc. The first stirrings of spring. What energy and life almost overnight. Snowdrops flowering in the woods. Swans renewing and strengthening their partnerships. Turning our boat last night, we got caught in the middle of a swan squabble...Rose and Harold (our stalkers, see previous post) are muscling in on the territory of Alfred, a lone male. As we manoevered several tonnes of steel against a strong breeze, Alfie ducked around the boat and used us as sort of barrage against the interlopers. All evening and into the night, we could hear the fwee fwee fwee of swans flying low over the water, back and forth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Last night the spring was carried in on the cries of a vixen calling for a mate, on the wit wit wit of a tawny owl and on the strong white wings of a swan. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-31546546728333016982013-01-19T14:02:00.001-08:002013-01-19T14:02:55.399-08:00snow days!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have been wanting to add some pictures here for a while and for once the camera battery was fully charged at the right time. That's the thing with our boat's 12 volt system - anything with a plug and needing charging with the inverter has to form an orderly queue. Generally the laptop and phone get in first. Yes, a solar panel would be a good thing, but my concern is that we would then be tempted to acquire more things with plugs which we probably don't need.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Just before the snow fell, a walker on the towpath glanced at our little boat, shivered and said he was very glad to have central heating. Inside, we are warm and cosy - our solid fuel stove throws out quite enough heat, too much sometimes, and then we have to open the windows. And talking of energy, we can also change our gas supplier whenever we like. We got our last bottle from Will Coalboat, the time before that we went to a marina (don't tell Will!).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Like kids waiting for Santa, we were looking forward to the snow - our first snow on the boat! I was so disappointed at 3am on Friday when it still hadn't arrived. But by 7, the boats and the gound were covered and the snow was still falling. One of my favourite things about snow is the kind of silence that it brings. Less traffic, fewer people, but also a muffled quality. Like being wrapped in a blanket. Like being in a magical world. The road was hidden from view and as we looked up through the trees and saw a single street lamp still on. Like Narnia! We failed to find the wardrobe so we came home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">At dusk, I looked up from my work to see a bid of prey landing on the fence post opposite the window, a kestrel or a falcon, not sure which. The mallards who had been cruising up and down in the hope of bread went very quiet and drew up close to the side of the boat. The finches and the longtailed tits disappeared. We watched enchanted as the hunter took off and flew in large sweeping arcs, scanning every inch of the snow covered ground for prey. Then he moved on, and cautiously the ducks came out of hiding.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-55531899054451562462013-01-04T12:22:00.000-08:002013-01-04T12:22:03.874-08:00Strange fruit?<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An item on Radio 4 today made me smile, about how to prepare and eat a persimmon. Apparently they are being hailed as a new superfood and the food expert being interviewed said that now is a good time to try them as they are "in season" ...er, yes, they are if you live in the Middle East or a Meditarannean country...and more "interesting" than apples. Nice bit of promotion of British fruit growers there, good one BBC!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I don't have anything against persimmons at all. Seeing them in supermarkets brings back good memories. I first ate them 20 years ago in Israel where I spent a few months doing voluntary work in a convent in Jersusalem. Maybe</span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> some things just taste better where they are grown. I did try an imported one a couple of years ago and it was much drier and had less flavour than I remembered. It was a more hopeful time then, with a peace process being negotiated. Hard to imagine now, seeing the escalating violence, that there too people go about their lives doing ordinary things, like eating fruit the colour of the sun.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-3609017639314945732013-01-01T12:59:00.002-08:002013-01-01T12:59:32.110-08:00<strong><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The morning after</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The waning moon grows paler</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">with the rising sun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A grey boat, engine softly purring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">pushes through the morning mist -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Happy New Year! Happy New Year!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">they shout and wave from the roof</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">then they are gone</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">and the silence folds back on itself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A dark crumpled thing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">like charred paper</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">tumbles out of the willow,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">becomes blackbird,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">flies away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Heron fishes at the edge</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">of a small oxbow lake</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">made by flood water, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">while cormorant </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">is just passing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Kingfisher zigzags </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">between</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">canal and river,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">river and canal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Catkins teasing from the hazel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">could be mistaken for spring</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">too soon, too soon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">This new day</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">this new year</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">and I am home.</span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-90239207727938587252012-11-26T14:38:00.002-08:002012-11-26T14:38:53.848-08:00Halcyon Days<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The original halcyon days, according to Greek myth were seven storm-free days around midwinter rather than any perfect summer's day. This was when Alcyone in the form of a kingfisher was able to nest on the beach in calm weather granted by the gods. It seems that the seven halcyon days were consecutive rather than sporadic as they are at the moment. Yesterday we took advantage of the break in the weather to walk a couple of miles up the towpath to collect our laundry. We stopped to watch a kingfisher expertly catching small silvery fish, flipping them in his beak and swallowing head first, so that their scales and fins lay flat. A family out for a sunday stroll stopped to see what we were looking at so intently. "Kingfisher!" we said, pointing across the canal. The kingfisher fluffed out his feathers and prepared for another dive, delighting his growing audience with another catch. A man rushed up with a camera, "what are we looking at ?" "Kingfisher!" we all replied in unison. The kingfisher spotted the camera and was off in a blurr of electric blue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I remember a conversation I had with a poet friend, about how, given any kind of experience, poets usually have written a poem about it. She had a poem about not seeing otters. I had one about not seeing kingfishers. But that was a few years ago, and these days it is more usual to see one than not. Here, the canal and the river run parrallel to each other, and the kingfishers and herons inhabit and fish both. Now the trees are stripped bare, they are much easier to spot but each sighting still has an element of magic about it, a few precious moments of wonder. A special kingfisher moment happened a couple of months ago, I was sitting at the front of the boat, writing about kingfishers. I glanced up just as one landed on the prow, inches away. I held my breath as we regarded each other. It was just a few seconds, but long enough for me to take the full range of colours in this one small bird, the patterning of tiny black and white feathers around the head. And that eye! So big, dark and deep. I still don't know how to write about such encounters with wildlife, without sounding sentimental. All I can say for now is that such moments are real gifts and I hope my friend gets to write a poem about seeing otters, just as I can now write about seeing kingfishers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-73244964231482581082012-10-27T11:03:00.002-07:002012-10-27T11:05:30.747-07:00Today's gifts<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First frost of the year. My Beloved brought me a frosted autumn leaf, "quick,look before it melts!". Some gifts last only seconds but are no less special for that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Butterflies still, a Red Admiral and a Comma, wings outstretched and quivering to catch the last of the sun. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pinks and oranges of a spindle tree against a blue sky. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Deer prints in the mud. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A kingfisher landing a few short feet away. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Finding new places to wander and wonder - an imaginatively planted woodland with cherry and spindle and sweet chestnut, willow and walnut, maple and oak.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The nearly full moon rising in a lavender sky in the east, the sun setting in a fiery western sky.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-36361758986484220692012-10-25T09:22:00.000-07:002012-10-25T09:22:06.405-07:004, 3, 2, 1...3<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have been watching swan family dynamics with interest over the last week or so. This particular pair had two nests washed out earlier in the year until they realised that the canal might be less prone to flooding than the nearby river. So on their third attempt they have succeeded in rearing four healthy and robust cygnets. To protect them from being attacked by their parents, their feathers remain grey until they are fully grown, the appearance of white feathers seeming to trigger an aggressive response and the cygnets are then chased away when they are ready to fend for themselves. However, the parents of "our" swan family seem divided in opinion as to whether the cygnets are ready to leave and continue with the next stage of their development into independant adults.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The cob has been steadily losing interest for quite some weeks now - he seems to need a lot of "me time" while the rest of the family are content to drift along nibbling reeds and harrassing boaters for bread. On Sunday we stopped and watched as the pen and all four cygnets stood at the top of the slipway, combing their feathers through and shaking out the loose ones until they stood on a soft downy white and grey carpet. We watched as they stretched out long, beautiful wings each with a full set of perfect flight feathers. Just a few weeks ago, their wings were short, stubby and downy. We realised we were standing quite close to these birds and no warning grunts or hisses were forthcoming - several of the cygnets being bigger than their mother and they looked more like her minders than her offspring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Next day, Dad had returned but there were only three cygnets. I was very worried about the missing one, imagining all sorts of things that could have happened until I noticed how aggressive the cob was being towards the remaining cygnets, and how irritable they all were with each other. Their feathers are no longer solid grey and some white is beginning to show through.Then the three became two and two became one. Yesterday morning an adult swan and a mottled juvenile were hanging around near the boat. Suddenly the adult snorted and made off very swiftly, after a while the juvenile followed - much to the disgust of the parent bird. It occurred to me that we were perhaps supposed to feed the cygnet and cause a distraction so the parent could get away. Just after sunset the same day two adults and three cygnets came visiting. Having watched the behaviour of the adult birds over several days, it seems that Dad is busy driving the young away, while Mum is rounding them up and bringing them together again. It seems that she doesn't want to let go of them, just yet.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-11262805833835816392012-10-23T13:26:00.000-07:002012-10-23T13:26:07.364-07:00Gabrielle...<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gabrielle Roth, dancer, shaman, creator of 5 rhythms danced into stillness today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I met her only once, a few years ago when she came to the UK for the last time and ran a weekend of Slow Dancing with Chaos. But I came across her books about 15 years ago and was lucky to be living in Bristol with easy access to 5Rhythms teachers. I had a flirtation with yoga for a while, but it didn't suit me or my body and seemed to create more rigidity than flexibility. Then I gradually found the courage to dance! I've never been someone who fits easily into a group, but on the whole I have found more encouragement, acceptance and love among other dancers than in many other places.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I gave away all three of her books when I moved onto the boat, and I wonder now if I should have kept them...but I have read all the words over and over. Now is the time to dance and find my own words.Through dancing I found the poet and storyteller within myself, and for that I am grateful to Gabrielle, the teacher of my teachers. If she hadn't listened, hadn't accepted her gifts and offered them to the world I and many others would be in a different much poorer place, mentally, physically and spiritually.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sometime soon I will find a way to dance in her honour in a space 50 feet by 6 foot 10.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-37936657649367313472012-10-12T13:11:00.003-07:002012-10-12T13:11:33.320-07:00Each day, something new<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This may sound fanciful but it seems narrowboat Netty has her own ideas about where to go and where to moor up. Two days ago we planned to return to a particular place which we had enjoyed in the summer, with wide grass verges. It would have been good for our little cat since the cyclepath veers away from the edge of the canal keeping the dog walkers and bikes at a distance. There are trees and owls and it is quiet. But no. Netty refused to get her nose anywhere the bank and complained it was far too shallow and muddy for her, even though the water levels are much higher than they were during our last visit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> So we continued, and found a different spot. We have been down among woods for a few weeks and now we have emerged into more open countryside. As we were mooring up, geese flew overhead calling to each other, a sound that pulls at my heart in ways I cannot explain. The swallows are leaving, taking the summer with them, and canada geese are bringing in the winter. The crows gather in the stubble fields and willow leaves drop like feathers into the water. Two russet foxes hunt in the fields at the water's edge. Too much time in the woods saps the light, saps my energy. Here it is open and bright, there is colour everywhere and even as the three inches of rain promised by the weather forecasters begins to fall, I feel awake and alert and alive.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-23774892565900009242012-10-01T14:49:00.000-07:002012-10-01T14:49:53.777-07:00stalkers...<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are being stalked and it's all our own fault. It began innocently enough, the admiring glances and a few kind words. The breakfast meetings were probably a step too far. I see it now. It didn't stop there, soon they were banging on the side of the boat at lunchtime and suppertime too. I thought that if I gave them what they wanted they would go away, but no, they lingered silently in the darkness not accepting that no means no. After a week or so we moved a few miles down the canal. They followed us at a distance until the first swing bridge and then they were gone. We missed them despite everything and our uneaten crusts went to the ducks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then, the evening before last I was standing on the stern listening for owls when I heard a familiar sound. "Ship ship" they said. "Ship ship". They knew we had been to a farmers market and had fresh bread. They sounded like the mute swans we had left behind some days previously, but I did the lettuce test just to be sure. According to the website of a swan rescue centre, they can be fed bread and green leafy things like lettuce or spinach. They need to drink with their food so it is best thrown into the water. I threw some lettuce out to them, and sure enough, Mr Swan nibbled half heartedly while Mrs Swan swam in supicious circles around the floating leaves. I went and got some of the good stuff.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I am not alone in being fascinated by these birds, they have been at the centre of myths and stories for centuries. They have a reputation for agression, and according to a present-day myth can break a man's arm with a single flap of a wing. I'm sure this might be possible...if the swan has been trained in unarmed combat by the SAS. In truth they are far more vulnerable than dangerous, being at risk from discarded fishing tackle and power lines.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I want to write more about the birds that live on and around the water here, but for now, it is getting late and if I turn out the lights and keep away from the windows then I might just get to the other end of the boat without being seen...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-80162137757086652022012-08-28T14:28:00.001-07:002012-08-28T14:28:08.468-07:00"I couldn't live like you..."<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gongoozler is a word invented by writer Terry Darlington to describe a very particular group of people. They are the ones who hang around locks, filming unwary boaters on their phones in the hope of an impending disaster which they can then download onto YouTube. My initiation into their twilight world came as a result of our engine breaking down and having to get our boat towed down the Caen Hill flight. Learning to drive two boats breasted together when one has no engine therefore no steerage is not how I would have chosen to do it, but sometimes the best way to do something that scares you is by getting on with it through necessity. Apparently I nearly squashed a swan against a lock gate, but I wasn't told that til several days later. Just as well, because I would probably have refused to touch the tiller ever again. But that is another story for another time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Back to the gongoozlers. There are some for whom a camera or camcorder record is not enough. Halfway down the flight, we stopped briefly for a break and we were approached by a small group of tourists who wanted to see inside one of the boats. Seriously? I don't remember anyone knocking on my door, curious to see the inside of my ex-authority flat on the outskirts of Bristol. If they had, they would have got short shrift and sent on their way. But things are different here, and we agreed to let them see inside one of the boats. When they emerged they were frankly quite rude. Unintentionally, but rude, nonetheless. They thought the boats were just like caravans and they couldn't live like that. Thing is, I can't live like they do either. We, my partner and I , live like this for a reason. We were becoming increasingly disturbed by the greed for space and natural resources we saw around us. We now live in a space 50 feet by 6'10", it is our home and our workshop. It is probably smaller that the kitchens desired by people who go on TV programmes about moving to the country. We have to be responsible in our use of water, since we carry it with us and when the tank runs low we have to think about how and where to refill. We have no appliances, and cooking is on a three ring gas burner. No TV, no fridge, no power shower, microwave, dishwasher, washing machine. We are still very new to this life and it is at times physically hard and we've not had a winter on our boat yet, but so far we are happy with our decision. This really is living mindfully, and our personal response to increasing environmental damage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1690191069228450842.post-43778003552125430522012-08-27T14:03:00.000-07:002012-08-27T14:03:43.050-07:00exploding moorhen...?<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This title came about because I couldn't think of a title - so I pulled out a book at random. Now that is not as easy to do as you might think. Having moved from a flat to a narrowboat, my library is a fraction of what it was. All the books I thought I could live without are to be found in various charity shops between Bristol and Devizes. The book that came to hand was, appropriately, Roger Deakin's <em>Waterlog </em>and I just happened to open it on a page containing the words "moorhen" and "exploded". I liked the idea of the exploding moorhen, a sound I have become familiar with in the last few months. Quiet, nervous birds, if surprised they let out volley of sound. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> The transition from land to water has not been a smooth one - engine failure after the first week meant that our plans for the summer did not work out in the way I imagined. I thought I would be writing flowing, lyrical poetry inspired by dragonflies and kingfishers as we drove our green boat through the green, whispering reeds. And yes, there has been a little of that. But mostly I have been watching and learning from the less colourful, more mundane. Like the moorhen. I have grown to love these birds for their persistance and diligence. They can raise up to three broods of chicks a year and I have watched a lone moorhen spend hours tugging at reeds she needs to repair a nest. They are tough plants and don't yield easily to a small bird. I say "she" but it could equally well have been a "he", since moorhen couples share the chick-rearing. The first few chicks to hatch are cared for by one parent, while the rest are cared for by the other. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> And then there were the rats. Now these are creatures that I have considered to be pestilential abberations of nature in the past. But having spent time watching the ones behind Wadworth's I have come to admire their ability to adapt to their environment, their versatility. Essential qualities for this new life that I have begun. They are excellent and graceful swimmers and agile enough to run along a bramble stem, barely moving a leaf. I found myself looking out for them each day, feeling disappointed if they did not appear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> I may not have had the summer I envisaged, but instead I have experienced something more real and lively, finding in myself qualities I didn't know I had.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0