"Good morning!" said Carol bright-and-breezily. "Nice to see you again! Are you... back? Like, back back? You don't usually come back back until the crap weather's over!"
So says our friend at the start of the first chapter of my book 'Moving home with our feet under water'. And she was... rightish. It's been our habit over our years with Kantara to sit out the depths of winter in our house. There have been times when we returned to the boat in February and found out that the winter still had snow and ice to throw at us, but more often we've avoided the most extreme meteorological events.
This year, all sorts of things conspired to keep us from returning to the marina ("back back") until the Sunday of two weeks ago, as mentioned in my last post. And even then, more sorts of things insisted that we drove back to St Albans four days later, and stayed until last Tuesday. But now, we're on board our lovely home, and, as far as I know, back back.
We were due to be going back to St Albans yesterday to help Naomi with work in our garden, but, just before we left, we got a message from Jess saying that she had Covid, so we decided to postpone. We're not afraid of the virus, but Naomi wanted us to be ultra-cautious. We are old, after all! Jess felt pretty grotty to start with, but is much improved today.
We're eager to get out on the cut and cruise but, before then, we have a number of jobs to be done professionally on our 22-year-old boat. The engine is to be serviced by the RCR, and inspected for hidden problems; our toilet has to be replaced; our gas boiler is past its safe working date (neighbours with a younger model had theirs burst its water tank and flood the floor and bilges) so we'll be getting that replaced, too. Also, it's time we got a new canopy over the front of the boat - the well-deck. It suffered badly at the hands of the elements while we were away from Kantara for so long, and the algae and moulds have made an irremovable mess of it. It still serves its purpose, though, and we might book for that to be done after we've finished our year on the cut. However, the other jobs have to take precedence over cruising unfortunately. (Oh, and there's the taffrail to reassemble, after being taken apart de-rusted where necessary, and repainted.)
BOAT - Bring Out Another Thousand!
The weather's been lovely until today, when we've had the Bubble burning for much of the day so far. On previous days, under a bright, warm sun, we started washing, waxing and polishing the boat's paintwork. As soon as the weather allows, we'll do the other side. While we've been doing this, we've been making a note of the places where rust has broken through the paint, and dealing with that will come next. One night, after getting into bed, I realised that I'd left the back of the boat open. Not wanting to find ducks and/or duck poo in the engine room the next morning, I put on my dressing gown and went out to close up. The night was wonderful. The air was warm, the moonlit sky was dotted with cotton-wool clouds, and the stillness had only the movement of various animals and birds to disturb it. It all put me in mind of the foreword of my book, "Moving home with our feet under water", which shares a real moment I enjoyed some years ago.
*****
I’m standing at the end of the pontoon where
Kantara is berthed. She lies to my left, the water in front of me.
Emma Jane lies on my right. It's mid-June, 10:30 at night, and
there's still a glow subdued in the western sky in front of me.
Earlier, there was a striking sunset of many colours, manifold hues.
Now the sky is laced with subtle greys, greens and blues with just a
hint of pink reflecting off the clouds. The day has been cold and
gloomy, but the air feels warmer now. There's a faint breeze. The
smell of newly-mown grass drifts across the marina, the scent of
nearby flag irises and hawthorn, and a faint fishiness off the water,
not unpleasant.
A duck swims by with her two tiny ducklings making
swishing noises in the water, and tiny guttural sounds in their
throats, as if talking with each other. And suddenly I’m aware of
much more sound. It's peaceful out here, but it’s far from silent.
A fox is barking not far away on the other side of the canal. There
are two very vocal owls; one hoots and the other screeches. Something
stirs the reeds and rushes at the side of the water just a few metres
to my right. There’s a splish in the water. A vole? A coot? A
shrill peeping sound confirms it’s the coot.
A gaggle of geese lands noisily on the pound, late
visitors to the marina, calling and splashing, and the once
mirror-like water ripples away from them. Bats speed around me, and
just a few swallows, too, though dozens had spent hours here earlier
in the day, swooping low over the water to catch insects. Now the
bats do the same, though I can only see their reflections when they
skim over that stretch of water that catches the light lingering
above my horizon.
Occasionally, a fish jumps. Sometimes I see them,
though only briefly. More often, I just hear the loud plop in the
water, and watch faint ripples spreading outwards from where they've
dropped back in, glinting in the dimly reflected sky.
My attention is drawn to two shapes on the water
over by the marina entrance. Faintly white, moving slowly, they
emerge from the shadows of the canal. It's the pair of swans who
hatched a single egg here not long ago. Their cygnet glides in,
darker, behind them.
I look up into the sky. The evening star is clear
and bright. Other stars are beginning to appear in the pale night.
The moon is full, and low in the sky, throwing a shiver of white onto
the water. I look across at the horizon, and see stretched out below
it a scene painted in bands, layers of faded colour and of black.
First the fading sky. Below that the silhouetted trees, the boats,
then the boat reflections, tree reflections, and the sky mirrored on
the water, all in perfect symmetry.
I focus on those boats, pitch-dark and vague in
the black band opposite me. Their shapes merge together, blended
between the dense line of trees above them and their own reflections
beneath. Yet some of the boats don't hide in the night. Lights shine
from inside, reminders that these ones are people's homes. And when I
concentrate on those boats, I can hear faint strains of music, of
television, the occasional laugh or shout, water being let out of
sinks and basins into the marina pound. Someone's having a shower,
and their pump is sending out rhythmic gushes that pour,
phosphorescent, into the water beneath.
Breathing in deeply, I slowly take it all in,
turning slowly on the spot until I've seen the whole panorama. To my
left, boats are lined up side by side away into the dusklight. I turn
a little, and see the grassy hill, atop which stands the wind
turbine, its blades revolving slowly and almost silently. I turn
again, and watch the hill fall away and disappear behind the squat
office building, a simple silhouette now against a sky only slightly
lighter. Turn once more, and I can just make out the first of the
boats on the other side of the pound.
It's beautiful. It's magical.
I turn to face Kantara. I cast my eyes down
her length. A warm light glows out from the curtained saloon window.
Grace is down there, reading, drinking wine. I move the boat gently
with my hands, and feel her rock on the water.
I’m smiling broadly.
This is Kantara, our home, our delight...
Welcome! Please, come inside and join us!
