Wild Cruises & Dismal Weather

The lead phomatograph is the view down from the top of the forty locks of ancient Hurleston; my gratibodes to Mr K of nb C for his endeavours in lifting the Cardinal to the top of them in record time. Most splendid indeed. 🙂 Thank’ee. Unlike myself the locks (four) have a total rise – or drop – of some 34′ 3″, are as ricketty as they come, and are scheduled to be closed for some lovely partial TLC to No.4 (new gate) come January.

Hurleston Flight is the gateway to the Llangollen Canal. Tis one of the very few canals with an appreciable flow of water, some river or other at the Far Blunt End being the beginning of the water supply for towns such as Nantwich and Crewe and Wotnot, which is wot are stored in Hurleston Reservoir. Hurleston Reservoir is gradually disassembling itself, the grassed sides looking more and more each passing month like Telly Tubby Hill, after the BYoE* Party.

*Bring Your own Explosives.

The weather? Well, that one little “sunshinery” symbol at the start of today was moot, muted, and apt to be missed if one blinked.

Wet, windy, and as dull as an apprentice nun’s secret diary. Hygge my Arse

nal Villa are doing awfullly well this season, are they not?

Still, mustn’t grumble. Seaoned Affective Disorder is not just for Christmas or for dogs.

The new battermaries are in – and, sadly, about to experience the most dismal solar panel activity week since the private (and State) jets of the “good” and the “great” on their way to COP27 or DIMNUT30 or some such conference about how the little people ruin everything blocked out the sun in what is now referred to as The Boeing-Bombardier-Gulfstream Event.

Two of them, dedicated “leisure”, 110Ah each, cross-connected, tickled and greased up like racing pigs – and somewhat heavy. My favourite spine appears to have survived the “sit on Mr Engine, lean forward and left, lift up old batteries at arm’s length, swivel and extend to then lift onto rear deck – and reverse” experience. I had to move one of the new batteries such twice, because Mr Brain – being addled by years of exposure to Everyday Household Chemicals (such as cocaine and Smirnoff Black vodka) – allowed me to forget to first enboltenate on the fancy connector things that go on Big Batteries.

The now-defunct pair lasted some four years and six months, so – seriously – mustn’t grumble.

We are now well and truly into the Season of the Smoking Chibblies, those who can afford the price of coal – as set by the mining corporations, the manufacturers of the nuggetty nuggets, and possibly the importers – not by the customer-end retailers – sometimes burning as many as two lumps at once.

I did try a sneaky Sparrowfart O’Clock manoeuvre through the Venetian services the other day but, having made arrangements with The Management, then found myself foiled in the attempt in just the time it took me to turn us about. Even at that hour The Universe Giggles when My Subset of The Human Species makes plans. Kieran was on the interloper’s roof, living the dream with an early-morning pump-out.

The Cardinal and I awaited our turn (!) on the lock landings. Tsk tsk.

I swear, when the time comes (and I hope that it’s not for an adventure or three yet), I’ll arrive at the cemetery in the electric eco-hearse (wheelbarrow) to find that some stranger’s taken my place.

While the weather outside (is) may be frightful (there’s a song in there somewhere) – and Baby, it’s cold outside (major, major PC infraction, bound to have offended someone, somewhere) – the interwebnettings where we currently are is fabulous. I’ve never seen so many bars of signal in one place. I’ve had to Sellotape a little bit of paper next to the router screen so that it can overflow.

This probably means that All & Sundry hereabouts are merely being microwaved.

Oh well, should cut down on the electrickery used to boil the morning kettle.

For how long shall we be on the LLangollen – barring Snowgoose-esque occurrences? Two cassettes, probably, or one trip to a private marina’s £facilities£. It is possible to squeeze a small bag of rubbish into the (mightily full) slip at Hurleston, and the remaining water-taps – as befits water taps within spitting distance of a major reservoir and pumping station – have hitherto-unfamiliar pressure and flow, but the Elsan facility (and toilets &etc) were done away with as part of The Canal Company Ltd’s UnDeclared But Pellucidly Obvious Policy Of Closing Down Public Service Areas To Discourage Live-Aboard Boaters when the Rocket Science of maintaining a septic tank and emptying it defeated the C&RT Office Wallahs. Unlike the house with the same arrangements, five yards across the canal, which seems to manage just fine.

Damn, I just grumbled.

Oh well. 😉

Messrs ASDA managed to encounter me the other day, so the good (the great) news is that we have broccoli and spuds and carrots and suchlike for some two or three days yet.

Be gone, damned scurvy.

Now, where’s my Hygge S.A.D. lamp?

I feel that I am going to need its services.

Chin-chin, chaps.

Ian H.