Mud, wind and pandemics.
Oh yes – and “Harry” and “Thing” and ReGretable Thunberg are all in the country.
Exactly how many horses’ arses of the Apocalypse are we playing host to?
Is that fair?
I suspect that England is currently out of favour with the inhabitants of Mount Olympus.
There’s no other explanation.
Zeus and Co have turned their backs upon us.
This is much more serious than had Legs & Co. decided to shun our company.
Gosh but my ol’ Dad used to like the songs where the pop group themselves couldn’t get to the BBC studio, so Legs & Co sort of filled in while someone played the record.
A couple of the other boats on these moorings have moved, so I have a choice of two and a half other moorings now – except that it would be pointless moving. The other spaces are all closer to trees, farther from the mobile mast, and it would just be an exercise in swapping one mud-wallow for another.
I received a very kind email from a mate of mine the other day – Chris, of TheStoryReadingApe Blog – (highly recommended) – letting me know that schools in towns nearby to me had been closed after pupils returned from half-term trips to Italy, and had tested positive for the current virus stuff. Chris is aware that I do not have – will not have – a television on the premises, and surmised quite correctly that I would not have seen that news. Thank’ee kindly sirrah.
[Some] schools are closed in Northwich, Sandbach and Nantwich. I was planning on mooching towards and through Middlewich, but I don’t think that I’ll do that now, considering… Middlewich has five locks in the middle of town, and getting through them would require a high degree of exposure to recently-pre-breathed air, too high an exposure for my liking. If the stoppage at Barbridge is cleared soon I may well scoot on through Nantwich – without stopping (no locks) and without breathing – into the wilds yonder.
That, if that it be, won’t be for a while yet though. We have another “named” storm breezing through in the next few says, 50mph gusts &etc forecast, bags of rain, that sort of thing, so here I stay. So long as the ropes hold and nothing blows off the roof (and nothing blows onto the roof) it’s all very atmospheric.
Unless, of course, Hairy and Meghan or Greta moor up here, in which case I wouldn’t bother with untying, I’d just ring down for “full steam ahead” and part the ropes.
I got groceries again yesterday. Eventually. Eee by gum, it were reet fun oiking them back to the Cardinal along that towpath. Had one especially lovely cartoon-esque moment where, had I not been forced to dance the high-speed Highland Fling as a child, I would have been apex over fundament and covered in fresh vegetables and pesto.
As it was I could hear “Th…th…that’s all, Folks!” as I regained my footing.
It is the kind of mud that sucks the boots off your feet.
If you ever let it get the boots off your feet it would then suck your feet off your ankles, and after half an hour of struggling you’d just be a head, pulling itself along using your tongue a la John Carpenter’s “The Thing”.
Three trips back and forth to carry the groceries, one to go back for my abandoned trolley. The ground is more solid at either edge, but which would be preferable, disappearing into the ditch under the hedgerow or (Little Jim voice by Spike Millligan – Goons) He’s fallen in the water…?
It was one of those tasks that you just shut down your brain for and get on with. A bit like being on the board of an NGO and/or a “not-for-profit” (what, in the olden days, would have been a Quango). The fun part is juggling around getting into the boat and once back aboard, reducing the amount of the countryside one brings in…
It’s all good,
With the ground everywhere soggy and the winds high there are trees down left, right and centre, and a few land-slips and unintentionally-mobile hitherto fixed-for-200-years embankments to be tickled back into shape. At least though, for the present, in these parts, there hasn’t been the flooding and mayhem that there is on parts of the system in Yorkshire and Lancashire and all other hilly/river-flood-plain/wotnot/whatever areas. Has been civilised, thanks be. Long may it remain so. It’s why I like this part of the system!
Ho hum. Storm Jorge (“Hor-hey” – for tis the Spainish who named this new storm, and they are strange about their Js and have some very odd GEs), Chinerese COVID-19 and the effectiveness or otherwise of containment tactics and methods may dictate whether there are any further blog entries here. At all. Ever.
Shan’t though, for a while, be short of pasta, coal and mud*.
*Not ingredients for a recommended recipe.
**Not yet awhile, anyway. Let’s see what happens if/when the shortages kick in.
Whomever you are, wherever you are, tape up the windows, kill the in-laws now (it’s kinder that way, they suffer less) and be safe.
Remember: coughs and sneezes spread diseases, catch them in your handkercheeses.
Well, you understand the idea.
Chin-chin for the mo,
Ian H., and Cardinal W.
So follow me follow, down to the hollow, and there we shall wallow in glo-ree-ous mud.
Glorious mud. There’s nothing quite like it for… nope, can’t think of a single practical use.