This little fellow came along with me for part of my perambulations.
I was walking, he was flying. His legs weren’t long enough to match my colossal strides, and if they were to be then he’d be a flamin’go, not a robin. My wings were removed when I fell from Heaven – a spot of a disagreement with management; the pattern of my life begins…
He was of course, as all wildlife arranges to be, at the extreme end of the zoom of my pocket picturemaker. I make no apologies.
It’s been a mixed old week, wevvawise. Four days out of the past five there’s been enough sunshineation to get the Cardinal’s batteries to “float” without my intervention, the other three days we’ve spent hours in “absorption” and been convincingly satisfied. We’ve had rain, wind and total calm, relative warmth, biting cold, and while we don’t have snow at the moment, as I type we’ve just had a flurry of tiny hailstones. Nothing big enough to brain a duck, just enough to pitter-patter against the glass of the windows and portholes.
I am, the Watery Wellness Trust Ltd will doubtless be pleased to know, still denying all of the nice boaters moorings and facilities in this area.
The Cardinal, as WWT Ltd will tell you, is just under 3,000 metres in length, and when I moor up I really moor up.
Gosh, I’m so selfish and inconsiderate.
It’s time that something was done about me.
The boats above are on the offside, on private moorings (Venetian). The Cardinal’s stern would be visible under the bending-over-backwards arch of the lovely old apple tree near the benches, were it not for the shrubbery.
It’s even worse down in Windy Alley below the lock and beyond the railway line, where the Cardinal is hogging almost absolutely all of the space and there’s only room for one poor wee cruiser…
There is one interesting feature out there on Windy Alley, but it’s on the towpath.
It is the custom around these parts to bury ne’er-do-wells (anglers, cyclists, joggers, ramblers) and other boat-botherers in un-marked graves, head-down in the towpath. Occasionally, as here, soil erosion and wotnot uncovers the soles of their feet and/or shoes. Here be the grave of one, one-legged boat-botherer, revealed by the falling level of the Middlewich Branch towpath at Windy Alley.
I wonder what this size 9 fellow did to merit quiet, unofficial burial in unconsecrated ground?
We shall likely never know.
Mind you, I don’t know most things, so what’s one thing more in the Grand Scheme of Not Knowing Things?
My money, were I to have any, would be on “seen wearing lycra with malice aforethought and bulges abounding” and/or “in the possession of alpine walking poles and a map in a plastic bag around his neck”.
Both capital crimes in these parts (planet Earth).
It’s been a week now since Messrs ASDA fought their way to me through the over-crowding and chaos that I cause, and I have but some spuds, carrots, onions and dark-green cabbage remaining in the fresh comestibles line. A confusion of a variant of Colcannon is called for, methinks, all steamed and then mashed and mixed and scattered about with a smidge of sea-salt and a lashing of fresh black pepper.
What though for protein, you hear me cry.
Oye mi canto, protein-wise.
Robin, I think. Roast wild robin.
That’ll teach the little b’ger to escort me off “his” turf.
Now, if you’ll please to excuse me, I have to find some little white paper ruffs to adorn a roast robin’s feet.
Can’t serve him up on top of my veggies improperly dressed now, can I?
To stuff or not to stuff, that is the culinary question.
With what, and how though?