According to Her Majesty’s Weather-Soothsayers it was a balmy -5° Metric Celsinghams last night, but I reckon that there were fewer Warm-Particles about than even that. The ice hereabouts is mayhap 1/2″ thick (when measured from top surface to bottom, not from side to side, natch). Yonder frost has provided a comprehensive white-out of the countryside. Better yetski, the deep-freeze effect had changed the mud-baths of the towpath to mere ankle-breakers, so walking about was mucho easier than of late.
Someone in Whitehall rubber-stamped the wrong form and blessed us here in Blingshire of the North with a couple of hours of sunshine-surely-by-mistake.
Today is Day Two of Lockdown Three in this, the Year of Our Masters, Twenty-Twenty-One and we’re all back under strict house-arrest, but I think that perhaps the chill had more to do with my having the walk mostly to myself, rather than any diktat or proclamation of a toga-clad Boris or of any “scientific” or “psy-ops” “advisor” of mono-testicular, dubious haircut and dodgy-moustachio motif. I’m not complaining (about the quietth of the towpath).
The Cardinal and I are in old pastures fresh, having taken our cue and moved yesterday. The canal was frozen then, too, but another narrowboat – thank’ee kindly! – had been and gone and done the necessary ice-breaking, so I took the opportunity and used the channel that they had cut to allow us to move without too much discombobulation of the other moored boats hereabouts. We scooted through the junction and around the corner, to where there are more of those “services” things available for the duration of this The Current Confinement.
Another reason for move-etting was that we have arranged clandestine appointments with both Messrs Grocers and with Messrs Fuel Boat.
There wasn’t much evidence of life this morning on the other boats moored. Not so much as a chimning smokey.
In factum factorum it must be said that there weren’t even many hedgerow birds about. Either they were all still a-bed in their semi-detached “affordable starter home” nests, or else Matrix Ops had simply forgotten to load them this morning. It happens, occasionally.
Given the gobsmacking near-universal ugliness of the (human occupied) world at the moment, it is a relief to see that Father Nature can still deliver the occasional quiet “wow” moment, and at that without license, fee, or expectation of quid pro quo.
I couldn’t countenance a landscape without trees (and clouds), and I have little to no doubt that the trees, while they have expressed no explicit opinion on the matter to me, feel much the same. I’ve shouted to the clouds but they never answer my enquiries; they remain quietly aloof, aloft.
There were horses about although, much like Father Nature, they were saying nothing.
Lips frozen together, probably.
I asked them if this was the problem, and they didn’t say ‘neigh’.
I shall have to teach them how to light their farts, so that they can at least keep one another warm overnight, if they take it in turns.
The solar panels are well and truly covered in frost, but I’m no longer as daft as I am cabbage-looking. I have discovered – by dint of painstaking scientific experiment – that when the sun is this low in the sky a thick layer of clean frost gains me about two or three solar amps… presumably by defraction. There are more tests to do, but for today, the frost stays on. Whodathunkit?
Thanks to a species of latin name Mateus-Mateikus I have (a hefty portion still remaining of) a very large and highly evil loaf of fresh bread, so today began with hot toast and Marmite. Is there any better way? No idea what to prepare for tiffin, nothing appeals as of yet. I’ll wait until something suggests itself. Maybe a repeat of Christmas Tiffin (Heinz Beanz on lashings of toast). I do have a bottle of HP, even if it is Dutch these days. ;-(
Mr Stove is – with my blessings – chewing his way through sack after sack of coal in these times. I think – I hope – that I have sufficent stash to see us through to our meeting with Messrs Fuel Boat. If not then I’ll have to hack down a tree and burn that. Needs must, and blah blah blah. This is no season to be mean with the combustibles.
The Hot-Air Snake was much in evidence last eve; a construction of pipework with a fan at either end, designed to and succeeding in forcing warm-air from the cabin past the ablutions and to my sleepering quarters. Without it the warm air simply doesn’t circulate well down there. Most nights that is fine, since I prefer to keep a cool head while operating in the Land of Nod, but when England freezes he freezes well, and a touch of warmth mun be added.
I’ll end with today’s View From The Side-Hatch and, as is my wont, simply caption it ‘It’s Not Hackney’
Hell’s bells it’s not. 🙂
Mr Sun was a tad reluctant to make an appearance this morning (below), dancing as he rose the Dance of the Seven Veils & a Swish of Cloud. No idea why, he certainly can’t cite the excuse of having had a late night, disappearing as he does at three or four of the afternoon day in this season.
Chin-chin, chaps. Do keep warm and wotnot, wherever you may be, unless you’re somewhere hot, in which case keep cool. Or do whatever you want or prefer.
Does anyone know how to say “…and then you apply a lit match.’ in Horse-speak?
Ian H., &etc.