I still have a magnificent quarter-mile or so of open view from my bow, but – yep – rather akin to parking your car in a quiet spot in the supermarket car park, we’ve attracted other boats. Ho hum. 😉 This being a standard narrowboat I don’t have a view behind, but if I did have a view behind, I wouldn’t currently have a view behind.
I love people, I really do, it’s just that I’ve never found a decent recipe or had an oven large enough to cook one in.
As a matter of pure habit I photograph a train if one appears while I am perambulating near the tracks. There are some very chunky-looking freight trains and some weird-looking industrial things pass by on this line. I’m not a spotter, I just like big machinery. Ditto steam trains, I couldn’t distinguish one from t’other to save my life, but I do love to see them.
However, I must stop photographing them.
The driver of one a few days ago saw me with pocket-rocket rinky-dinky camera in hand and promptly stuck his arm out of the cab window and waved at me.
I was horrified, and genuinely couldn’t move for a few moments, rooted to the spot by my mis-identification as a train-spotter. Note to self: modify behaviour (and dispose of the duffle coat, the bobble-hat and the little notebook).
Incidentally – do kids still do that? Do “grown-ups” still train-spot? Standing on a station platform with a notebook would likely get a chap arrested as an international terrorist these days. Tasered by some Plastic Plod just as a 4-4-6-2 with double-flange steam-release gubbins rolls past…
There’s boogy-woogie bugle boy b’ger-all happening today. It’s one of those still, dull, not-really-bothering days today. Gloomy at first it’s a tad brighter now, but still nothing to please the solar panels much above a slack half-dozen electric amps, give or take an erg.
One boat past so far. High engine revs approaching (with concomitant canal-relative speed) and then just as their bow came level with mine, the chap-person on the tiller dropped the revs. Not really the idea, is it? Couldn’t give a fluffy chuff about his engine speed, it’s the bow-wave and the wash that is impolite. Ce sera sera. With any luck at all he’s now stuck with his bows perched over the top gate at Minshull Lock. I can’t be sure though; I put the curse together rather hurriedly while standing at the galley sink, and even on a Sunday my latin is questionable.
The local wild Podiceps Cristatus also breezed past this morning. A grebe by any other name. Odd birds. On the surface they look waterlogged and about to send up a flare to summon the R.N.L.I., while when they dive they dive for so long that a thoughtful cove necessarily worries in re their ever surfacing again. This one was sort of middling on the dives today, swimming past underwater in roughly ten yard stretches before surfacing for a gobful of the old fresh stuff. Sometimes they are so enthusiastic in their under-water fishing that they bang into the Cardinal’s hull and/or try to surface too close. Most splendid to see, even in today’s murk.
I have a treat lined up for tiffin.
A fresh, unsliced, squishy loaf with a nice elastic crust (thank’ee!) and some cheese & onion crisps – there will be a crisp sandwich consumed mid to late afternoon. It is The Law.
Photos? Well they’re a bit thin on the ground at the moment, since the ground hereabouts has been subject to some several days of para-biblical rain. Mud R us. I might venture out again later to see if there’s anything (other than trains) moving about or looking in any way picturesqueish. Rather unlike today’s grebe though, I wouldn’t hold your breath.
The world is virtually monochrome with just a dash of the pale and ill-lit green brush this Sunday day. Ideal for black-clad parsons to be seen scurrying along bare hedgerows to and fro the faithful, dabbing at mist-chilled parson’s noses and clinging to worn-out hymnals. Their boots soggy, ecclesiastical toes cold, mud-splatters on the hem of their cassock, sinfully-well starched and religiously-bleached white crossed collar being quite the brightest thing in the whole ensemble, parson included.
Now there’s a thought, atheist though I be. I haven’t heard the pleasing call of church bells ringing out for a long, long time. Do we still do that in England, or is it too un-de-re-constructed, and non-PC? Have the bells been silenced for fear of offending some group or individual or other?
Reminds me of a mooring on the Llangollen where I woke one fine day to the sound of a heavenly-ish choir, and thought that I’d been scooped up by the Grim Reaper during the night. Turned out that just over the hedge lining the towpath was a convent, and the nuns began their worshipful labours early…
Had I been more readily awake and able to give the matter deeper thought, hot vapours of sulphur creeping up the nostrils would have been more likely…
Ian H., starring soon in Trainspotter III.