This probably constitutes El Panic Buying, but it’s not. I didn’t realise that the Fuel Boat, nb BARGUS, would be calling some twice more before Spendmas, so I loaded aboard as much as may be. Still, better t’have than not. Coal briquettes (tis virtually illegal – and soon will be totally illegal – to buy real coal, I suspect that this has a lot to do with real coal not being manufactured and thus not having varying proportions of brick dust mixed in), logs (by law must be kiln-dried…) and kindling treats.
When you stop – if you ever stop – to consider the controlling reach of the manifold laws, bylaws and general restrictions affecting the minutiae of our lives it all adds up to “Gobsmacking”.
Dullth and greyth and wind and rain – at times lashing winds and howling rains – have been the order of the day here, interspersed with “eye of the storm” almost full-on spells of Summer. Typical, for a small island in the North Atlantic. November weather in a boat is tres atmospherique, and best listened to from under a duvet while dipping in and out of a good book and a mug of hot Cocoa Substitute.
The sun barely rises before it sets again, and there’s really no need to actually turn your head to view both rising and setting, they don’t happen far away from one another; perhaps a quarter of the horizon in this northerly season.
The wind is at least blowing vaguely onto the towpath for the nonce and forecast so for the next few days, which is wot r better than blowing off the towpath, straining at the ropes.
With all peasants (but not important people) under House Arrest the world is a quiet-ish place. Dog-emptiers (a distinct species quite separate from dog-walkers) pass occasionally, the hounds making the best of a begrudged job. This patch of towpath doesn’t often see lycra-clad morons (“keen” bicyclerists), praise be to Zeus. Ramblers occasionally stagger by, staggering under the weight of everything that the man in the Outdoors Shop sold them, and struggling with two Alpine Walking Poles each.
The Goose Nation comes and goes, informed local word has it that they commute between the winding hole and Hurleston Reservoir.
Hurleston Reservoir is another massive chunk of infrastructure in the care of the Wellness Trust Ltd., as may be deduced from the white poles being used to monitor the Mount St Helens-esque failure and slumping of the reservoir sides…
Either that, or someone is playing an insane game of croquet.
Given the nature of the Wellness Trust Ltd’s directatorship and “trustees” I wouldn’t entirely rule out the latter.
Twenty-one acres, some eighty-five Imperial millions of gallons of water – and that slope is supposed to be uniform and, obvs, immobile. Lovely, yeah.
It’ll be spect-a-queue-lar when it goes. It doesn’t take a brain the size of a planet to see that there’s a problem, and it’s not going to mend itself. Provided that I avoid the moorings on the canal below I may be around to get some good photographs of RAF Chinooks, dropping bags of hardcore into the breach some day. Probably some day soon.
I like Chinooks.
When I am Lord High He-Who (Must Be Obeyed) I shall have several placed at my disposal.
Hopefully there’s less drear wherever you are, dear reader (almost singular).
Ian H., and Cardinal W.