Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 4

I had a few options and I had to make a decision. The new engine would have been nice, but I could not contemplate trying to find that amount of money. The co-contractor had finally called me and had taken details. They sent me an estimate for the work that would need doing. The estimate was very light on detail and I was concerned about what wasn't being included in the job-list as well as what was. It came in at the lowest quote of the three formal options, but I could see the actual invoice working out to be quite an inflated version of the estimate. My experience of waiting so long for them to contact me and the sound of the voice on the other end of the phone suggested to me a weariness that may have indicated a lack of dynamism. Of course I could have been quite mistaken, but learning to trust my instincts has been a very tough life lesson to take on. I guessed that taking my engine to Rugby myself was probably the most reliable option. I knew the marina to have a good reputation and I had bought spares from them a few times over the years. The voice of the owner when we spoke was in massive contrast to the co-contractor. I knew him to be a man well-past retirement age, but he exuded enthusiasm and confidence and it was obvious he knew my engine type in great detail. I really liked the passion he communicated and I felt very confident that he was my best option. There had been one further possibility that I discounted more or less immediately. A relative of one of the residents at "Butlins" apparently knew a lot about boats and had a boat himself, albeit a big GRP (glass-reinforced plastic) twin-outboard cruiser. We spent a long time on a video call with him diagnosing my problems from the phone screen and offering to fix them for far less than I would pay the boatyard. I had been down this route many times before to my frustration and cost. That was really a non-starter, specially since he seemed to be quite the salesman and I'd pretty much decided that I had made the best decision for me.

I went back to the local boatyard. They would tow me in, remove my engine and put it into my van which I would then drive to Rugby. Normally there was a wait of six weeks for a rebuild, but a spot had opened up the following Monday after an engine that had been due for repair was held up by paperwork in Norway and had had to postpone. I would probably have a rebuilt engine ("as good as new") by the end of the following week. I reckoned that with the likely costs of the two marinas involved it would probably add up in the region of £6-7k. It was less than half the price of a new Beta 43 and it had to be done.

Cutting a long story a little shorter, Alan - from the local boatyard - appeared in one of the marina's hire fleet before the 9am on the Wednesday morning and prepared to tow me the mile or two to the boatyard. We were going to breast up the whole way, which would offer him good control over the two boats. I wondered how we would negotiate some of the narrower parts of the river, but at least that wouldn't be my problem! Almost immediately we hit the first challenge. The Middle Level Commissioners had started pumping water again and this time the pumps were working hard. Our trip towards the marina was against a strong flow of outgoing water and the depth had been severely affected. We hadn't gone far at all when we bottomed out and neither boat was able to move. That was when Alan suggested we would need to try him in front pulling me behind. I wasn't as keen on this plan, but there was no other option. I collected the barge pole ready to deploy it to keep me from swinging too far one way or the other. Fishtailing my way past a line of GRP boats in the narrowest part of the river through the town made me very nervous. I really didn't want to have to fend off a plastic boat with my bargepole. That would be inviting trouble. Alan took the journey quite gently and it wasn't as difficult as I feared. A little over an hour later we arrived in the marina. I was there in plenty of time to drive to my eye clinic appointment in Peterborough. I'm glad I'd had the foresight to take my van to the marina the day before and leave it overnight in their car park. It is so lovely, not to mention unusual, when a plan actually comes together. Despite the horror of the engine seizing up in the first place, the plans for sorting it out could have been a lot more complicated than they turned out to be and have taken many weeks longer than they did.

Let's see if video and still photography can tell the next part of the story. 

Plan B - being towed behind, bargepole ready

Arriving at the marina

Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 3

Despite Stella saying that she would speak to the neighbours on my behalf it felt only courteous to meet them face to face myself. Only the back doors, glass French windows leading directly into an upper ground floor room, were easily accessible from my boat and it was five minute walk round the terraced block to get to the front doors of the houses. I rang the bell of one of the houses and a man answered. He was very friendly and said that I could stay as long as I needed to. There was no response from anyone in the house on the other side. I would have to make a point of coming back again. I went to bed early, but did not get much sleep.

Early the next morning, Sunday, I had a call from the rescue service. An engineer was going to come from Coventry. For a national service it felt a little strange for the company not to have more of a network of engineers. When he arrived it was the same man who had carried out my inspection and service three or four days earlier. Accompanying him was the same slightly younger man who was shadowing him for a few weeks prior to being launched out on his own. Both seemed just as friendly and carried the same air of confidence as they had when they came to my boat the first time. My confidence in them had taken a bit of a bruising, though, after finding the screw-in dipstick unscrewed the day before. I really had no way of knowing whether they were at fault in the first place, but I knew I should have checked the oil level before setting off, so I did not labour the point about my discovery. It took no longer than a couple of minutes for them to declare the engine well and truly knackered. The front pulley was fully seized and could not be moved, even with a hefty ring spanner. It would require the services of one of their co-contractors to sort the problem. I would have to wait for them to call me. It would probably not be until Monday at the earliest. The older rescuer asked if I needed anything. I had my bicycle on the boat with me, but my van would be very handy because I had to get to GP and hospital appointments in the next few days. I assumed correctly that little could be done about the boat before then. He drove me back to my home mooring where I collected my van. At least now I was mobile. When I arrived back at the boat Stella came back to check that I had everything I needed. She had found a thirty metre extension lead that reached from her living room to the boat. With that I was able to plug in my battery charger and no longer needed to be worried about losing all my power. It was the wrong time of year to expect the sun to provide the power via my solar panels and there were tall trees on the other side of the river blocking some of the best of the sunlight, so a mains hookup was perfect.

I could not really do much on the boat while I was waiting for phone calls so I decided to go out and explore this area that I only knew from the water. I ended up walking up to a friend's mooring. He, a very able and fellow musician, and his soon to be fiancée live on a widebeam boat moored at a large rural plot, which they were developing as a smallholding. Being with a good friend was very therapeutic. His partner was at work for a few hours, but they invited me for a late Sunday afternoon vegan roast dinner, which was delicious and the company was excellent. After a few hours I felt at risk of outstaying my welcome, so I prepared to walk back.  However, M wouldn't hear of it and he drove me back to Butlins where a lovely surprise was in store. Stella, among her many activities had been hosting a regular meeting of a Mah-Jong group at her house. Naturally the subject of the hippy on a broken down boat moored outside the back garden came up. After some discussion, one of her guests, a retired head teacher, declared that he thought he knew me, so she came out with him to say hello. Indeed we did know each other. During a period of a couple of decades I think I probably worked in every school in Norfolk. I carried out a lot of work in his school and he was willing to let me get involved in some fascinating and some quite outrageous, projects, including several involving the friend with whom I'd just enjoyed the delicious meal. It really is a small world and it was a delight to see him again. "His greeting was, "I don't know if you remember me, but ..." Oh my days! Of course I remembered him!

The following morning I had phone calls from the rescue service and my GP appointment. The rescue service were checking up on my well-being and asking whether the co-contractor had been in touch while the GP determined I needed to be seen as soon as possible by an emergency hospital ophthalmologist! Nothing to worry about there then, just another wait for another phone call.

I cycled up to the local boatyard where I was due to be the following day to have my engine mounts replaced. That seemed the least of my cares at that moment. We discussed options for the boat, one of which was a new Vetus Beta 43 engine costing about £15k to fit. The cheapest option appeared to be to see if my BMC engine could be rebuilt. That would have to be done at another marina and boatyard near Rugby who specialised in my ancient engine. I would save about £400-500 if I took the engine myself in my van. I was still waiting for a call from the rescue service's co-contractor, so there was a lot to think about. Just to give me another concern it appeared that I had started a dogpile controversy on Facebook by having the temerity to moor and abandon my boat on the private moorings at "Butlins". I did not know anything about this until someone at the boatyard mentioned it, having recognised my boat from a photograph the affronted person had taken. I guess the woman who started the discussion must have tried to see if anyone was at home while I was out enjoying my vegan roast dinner the day before. I'm going to be generous here and assume she did indeed come down to the boat and try to arouse some response from me. Of course it's also possible that her keyboard was her first line of attack. I didn't see, and still have not seen, the discussion, but I believe it was quite lengthy and gave many people an opportunity to air their thoughts about water gypsies, ditch dwellers and the outrageous state of many of the boats on the system, specially the ones like mine, that had lost their shine owing to exposure to the weather. I believe there was also some outrage over how some people don't feel the rules apply to them and they think they can moor on private property whenever they please ... and so on.

This confused me a little. I knew it couldn't have been Stella, because she had come out to find out what was going on as soon as I had arrived. I'd seen who I'd thought was the neighbour on one side who was okay with me being there until I could move again. There was one neighbour I hadn't yet met so, on my return from the boatyard I called again at the house and this time, eventually, there was a response. The owner had just moved there a few weeks before and the family had been back in London over the weekend at a forest-school event when I had called round previously. We had a long and very interesting conversation. She told me that her children had been very excited to arrive home late on Sunday evening and discover a boat on the back garden mooring. Somehow I didn't think it would have been her either. I've no idea who the neighbour was that I spoke to when I arrived and why he hadn't explained the situation to anyone else in the house. The world is full of mysteries!

The view of the "Butlin's" moorings from my boat - far from the bank!

The Middle Level being primarily a drainage and flood defence system often leaves boaters a very distant third place in any list of priorities. Wiggenhall St Germans is home to one of the largest pumping stations in Europe and when heavy rainfall is anticipated or has just fallen, the river levels can change drastically over relatively short periods if the pumps are working hard. I've already mentioned that the water was too shallow to bring the stern of the boat in fully. I had woken up on my first morning to find the bow end grounded as well. I couldn't push the boat out any further to allow it to find its own level so I was listing to port, which made walking around inside the boat a bit like walking round a steep hill when halfway up. As the day went on the pumps must have slowed allowing the water level to rise enough to let me push the boat out far enough for it to float again and moving around inside the boat was not such an uphill battle. Disembarking, though was another matter altogether. My gangplank was only about six feet long and the wood was rotting through. It was one of the things on my "to do list" that hadn't been done and using it was a definite liability. I knew M. had replaced his own gangplank recently when he and S. moved their boat to its new home. I asked him if he could help me out and he said he had just the thing if I could hang on until he was free to get over to me. He turned up a few hours later with S's son carrying a twelve-foot scaffold board and a saw. I thought immediately of a 1960s comedy sketch or, more unfairly, Laurel and Hardy. I suggested he didn't need to saw it. I have too frequently been caught up in situations where a longer gangplank would have proven very useful, however heavy and unwieldy it turns out to be. I was able to get on and off the boat with much less difficulty with the new super-gangplank.

There was no news from the co-contractor and they weren't answering the phone. I was clearly not any kind of priority for them. 

Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 2

I was stuck and there was no one around to help. I had drifted to a stop perpendicular to the river bank. There was just enough space for a kayak to squeeze by, but were anyone to approach in a narrowboat or a cruiser they would need to be a lot more narrow if the wind and the current didn't push me out of the way before they got to me. There was no point in panicking, so it looked like I was about to get some use out of the rescue service to which I had subscribed for so many years. I phoned through and gave my details. They would get someone out to me as soon as they could. In the meantime they wanted some photographs of my surroundings and the What3Words reference so an engineer could find me. 

Stuck at right angles and blocking the river. 

As I was waiting for a call back an angler in a tiny boat fitted with an outboard engine called over asking if I were okay. He pulled his rods in, started up his outboard engine and puttered over to me. If he could move me a little I could at least tuck into the bank where I'd be out of the way of any other traffic. He caught my bow rope and tried towing me. With some additional pushing off the foliage and away from the bank with my barge pole we were able to start turning the boat enough to allow him to edge past me. I knew there was a spare mooring just round the nearest bend so we inched our way towards it. The extraordinary thing about being on the water is that one can stand on land and pull a huge mass with one's bare hands if there is no strong wind to battle against. A few months ago I was able to pull a 120-ton Dutch barge in and tie it up at a mooring on the River Lark. I was hoping my mere twenty tons of narrowboat would not prove too big a task for a tiny outboard engine.

As the angler and I set off my boat began to fishtail from side to side. This action meant that my weight was pulling the fishing boat off its heading. I began to be concerned that my bow rope could become caught up in, or chopped through by, his propellor. If that happened the very best outcome I could imagine would be his engine would stall. At worst it could damage his prop or even the whole outboard. I've also seen the back end of a boat break off and a boat sink before when an outboard motor is under extreme stress. None of these outcomes were specially desirable. I had no control at all over my boat although I imagined that some application of my tiller made a difference, but if it did that difference was only minimal. The angler suggested he might have more control of both our boats if he tied my bow rope to his bow and set off in reverse. This actually seemed to work better and it reduced the the likelihood of his boat being pulled apart. We eventually managed to make some progress. As we approached the mooring I had in mind, the angler called out that the moorings there were protected by a locked gate and that I would not be able to get out of the pound. He was prepared to tow me all the way into town, but I was concerned about putting that kind of sustained strain on his motor as well as having to risk a puff of wind or the current knocking me into any of the moored up plastic boats I would have to pass in some narrow stretches of the river. The next closest place where I might be able to tie up my boat was just the other side of a railway bridge, beyond half-a-dozen narrowboats moored adjacent to a storage yard. A few years ago a terrace of four-storey town houses had been built the other side of the bridge, facing the river, and almost right up against the railway line. They are taller versions of the "little boxes" of the Malvina Reynolds song made made famous by Pete Seeger and dozens of others, except these tall little boxes are all the same colour. There must be something about them though because a young friend who lives on his own boat nearby refers to the terrace as "Butlins". I doubt he is familiar with the song; I must remember to ask him.

There used to be boats on all these private moorings, but following the change in the law (The Middle Level Act 2018) which included the imposition that licences be required for all vessels on the Middle Level, many boats had been sold and the Butlins moorings were now clear of boats and generally only used by the house owners and their guests sitting on benches or deck chairs in quiet contemplation, or engaged in fishing or reading. There is irony in the current empty berth status of the Butlins moorings because it had been the added attraction of private moorings that had allowed the developer to charge a huge premium for these properties. I hoped the residents would be at home to ask for permission to stay and they might have some understanding of my situation.

We approached the "Butlins" moorings. Passing under the railway bridge a walker called out asking if I needed any help. Since he was the only person actually on terra firma I asked him to catch my centre line and pull me in, which he was able to do. I bottomed out at the stern but thankfully the bow came in close enough for me to disembark. We tied the boat up and it stretched across three adjacent moorings belonging to the end three houses. I thanked the angler and offered him some money for his petrol, which he kindly refused. I couldn't think that I would need his services for anything further, so I thanked him again and he went on his way to catch the last of the daylight for a spot more fish-torturing. The walker stayed for quite a while and we enjoyed a bit of a mardle as I checked the boat was as secure as it could be with its back end sticking out into the river. At least I had ropes tied up afore, middle and aft, so I didn't think I'd be likely to drift off anywhere as long as the rings and cleats on the landing stages held fast. The next job was to let the rescue service know that I was out of immediate danger. They downgraded my call from an emergency to an "at home" and someone would be with me the next day.

As the walker and I were talking a woman appeared on the mooring where we were standing. She owned the middle of the three moorings and was very friendly and understanding of my plight. She said she would speak to the neighbours and explain the situation to them. She offered hot drinks and later even some home-made soup and an extension lead from her house so I would be able to keep my domestic batteries topped up. She was a fascinating conversationalist too, a very sparky octogenarian and retired librarian. I could not have asked for any greater kindness.  She was Stella by name and stellar by nature.

                          

Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 1

 I have a huge sump! I'm not boasting, but this sump came with the boat and its allegedly reconditioned engine when I bought it (sorry, I've never been able to speak of boats using feminine pronouns). I know it's huge because each service requires sixteen litres of oil when performing an oil change and I recently discovered that the engine probably came from a repurposed cooling system. The large capacity proves quite useful because I am led to believe that if I have a huge oil well to lubricate the engine I only need one service per year, as long as I keep an eye on hoses and belt tensions, prop shaft, water and oil levels between services. This advice has served me well since the engine was finally resurrected after my first five years of ownership during which I was frequently left stranded somewhere remote in the middle of a river. During those years I met a lot of experts who knew all about boats and their engines. Some of those experts were well-informed and helpful though only rarely was a job actually finished. Over a period of years hoses were replaced and I seem to recall that a new thermostat was required. After the thermostat it was the heat exchanger followed by extra cooling pipes. Once the cooling system had been "fixed" there were the fuel leaks, the oil leaks, alternator belts, the alternator itself, glow-plugs and starter motor that needed work. The list of things that needed repairing, replacing or upgrading seemed endless. I learned that my engine had things like a spill rail, injectors, a fuel lift pump and all sorts of items I knew nothing about. Eventually, completely frustrated by the results of the efforts of all my new-found and helpful friends, I took the boat to the nearest marina. Only then did things start to work, although it still took several visits to get the engine to do its thing reliably.

Although I now know more about engines than I ever imagined I would need to know I can in no way consider myself "handy". I can do some very basic fault-finding and maintenance, but anything beyond that and the boat has to be entrusted to the care of real experts, the ones who actually know what they are doing. It also seemed reasonable to subscribe to a rescue service, an AA for the waterways, and that membership has mostly been peace of mind, a state of bliss perpetuated because I've never required their services in an emergency situation. However, in the down season, they do offer a free annual engine inspection and I have used their services for this purpose as well as a full engine service at a discounted rate. This arrangement has served me well for several years.

This winter's inspection and service highlighted a need for my engine mounts to be renewed. The job had actually become quite urgent. Obviously this would be the sort of job for which the boat needed another visit to the boatyard. I made an appointment and took the boat there the day following the inspection and service. The engineer at the marina wanted to check whether they had the required engine mounts in stock or whether they would need to be ordered. We decided on that Thursday that I could bring the boat back early the following week for the mounts to be replaced. In the meantime I decided not to travel far as the situation sounded so urgent. I thought to stay in town, which meant making arrangements to overstay on the town mooring, requiring nothing more than a short phone call to the local navigation officer.

I was due back in the boatyard on Monday so I decided to turn round on Saturday afternoon. I figured this would take me a couple of hours because I needed to cruise out of town to a part of the river wide enough to allow a fifty-foot boat to wind (pronounced like the air that blows) round. With the manoeuvre completed successfully I headed back towards the town. I had only gone a few yards when, with a short series of bangs and clunks, the engine cut out altogether. It would not restart, and would not even make an effort to turn over. There was nothing! The river was very quiet. I hadn't seen any river traffic for several days. I remembered the bad old days when allowing the engine some cooling down time meant I could top up the coolant and it would sometimes restart. I checked the coolant level and there was nothing to be seen. Whoops! Maybe a hose had split or a jubilee clip had worked loose? While I was checking levels of engine fluids I thought I'd check the oil. It should have been fine with the sixteen litres of new oil that had been added less than a week earlier, but not a drop of oil registered on the dipstick. There was a lot of ominously dark fluid swilling about in the bilge. It was suspicious that the screw-in cap to access the sump and the dipstick was not screwed in. It was sitting on top of the tube into which it normally screws. I never leave it like that and I discovered long ago that there is a bit of a technique to getting it the screw in firmly, which I do automatically each time I check the oil level. It never crossed my mind to check that the engineers who had changed the oil had screwed the dipstick back into place properly. I assumed they knew what they were doing. My engine never loses oil in significant enough quantities to warrant checking the level on its first trip after the service. Of course I have no proof of anyone being at fault, but my naivety was going to prove very inconvenient and VERY expensive.

A cartoonist's eye view of a narrowboat on the Old Nene at March
(artist unknown, but please let me know if this is your work!)

Of Real Independence?

I don’t think that I’ve ever aspired to do more than avoid the mainstream and share my music with those who care to listen; no industry, no middle managers, no manufacturing, no begging to appease an “industry”. The first half of my musical life was often working with children - songs, singing games, percussion workshops, but my real love became encouraging them to make their own original music. Increasingly over the past thirty years I’ve composed and performed and played whole evenings of my own music with my bands for social events and private functions, including many, many weddings. 

After a life changing health situation I now play solo. That way should my health let me down again I’ve no band members or booked audience to disappoint. The greatest joy I experience now is in writing songs and singing them as a street performer at times of my own choosing; again, completely without the interference of any industry professionals. Apart from real people and real street encounters I believe I am as much under the radar as it’s possible to be and all the happier for it. 

I do like small independently organised festivals curated by real musicians and when I go to one (a few times a year) I try to play what I call a guérilla set, sometimes in the arena when nothing else is happening and often in the campsite among the tents and wagons of the hippies and travelling folk, many of whom have become friends. Sometimes it leads to a spot on a small stage, but that’s not my motivation. My life is incredibly rich, full and brimming over with love. Who needs Spotify, Artificial Intelligence or any other mod *con*! 

I had a message from one of these travelling friends the evening after I wrote this section. I was about to leave for France for a few days and the day after I returned (six train journeys from the Alps to the Fens) he wanted me to play on his beautiful homemade stage that he pulls with his horses from festival to festival. Yeah, man. Life is sometimes grand!

Many months later ...

There are some issues though. Much like my essays on this site have become more sporadic I sometimes feel my ability to get out in the street and play is affected by the seasons. Cold and inclement weather make it hard to climb out of the boat with my instruments and lug them along the bank to my van. Unlike some buskers I don't risk the instruments by playing in the rain. I've realised I can go for weeks or sometimes even months without playing. When the darkness really takes hold it's difficult to motivate myself to play and sing in the cosiness of the boat too. After a while of such musical inactivity it's hard to get started again. Then the voice gets weak and the finger joints stiffen, the finger tips soften and my leg muscles tire easily. Is this because I'm seventy years old, with seventy-one approaching like the speeding bullet in Superman stories; am I tired, or just lazy? I'm not sure of the answer, but I do know that I had an idea for a new song last evening and made a start on the lyrics, played a few songs this afternoon, cleared a space on my desk that is normally unusable due to being covered with stuff - mostly unsorted papers, cables and leads and often clothes not quite ready for laundering and into that space I've placed my laptop. It's so old that the OS can't be updated, the obsolete battery no longer holds a charge, I can't find a replacement and some of the keys seemed to have given up working. This decrepitude seems like a metaphor for my state of mind, spirit and body, but it feels pretty good sitting here and adding to an essay I started writing last September. It's February and the days are stretching out. You know, life is beginning to feel a bit grand. So much has happened in the past few months and I have kept little record of it. Maybe I'll try and do a little catching up. This self-indulgent claptrap is unlikely to catch the eye of any passing surfer, but let it be a reminder to myself. Using all my fingers to type on a proper keyboard is one way of getting them moving again.

Of That Thing - Getting Back Into It

Three things that bring me joy are boating, busking and biking. Today I woke up on my boat and prepared for the day - breakfast, a little daily French and Italian study, responding to messages and making some phone calls. It was bright and very breezy outside the boat. I had not been busking for far too long, so today was going to be the day I’d remind myself of the joy of being a street performer. I’ve been to several concerts and festivals recently and have performed many a guerilla set somewhere, even if sometimes the only spot I can find is by the van on the campsite, but real busking is where it’s at. 

I haven’t performed Wisbech for a while, so that was the plan. Just then a hire boat, one of the two day boats, went by heading for the lock. If I have the time I generally cycle up to the lock and see if the crew need any support going through. Because my plans were already in hand I drove to the lock rather than cycled. The extended family out on the river for the day were not complete novices at this boating lark, but they hadn’t been on a narrowboat for several years. They were grateful that I’d taken the trouble to see if they were okay. There was the stiff breeze and the idiosyncratic behaviour of the lock to contend with. The two youngsters in the party were so excited they had to run everywhere, except for the times they remembered how much they needed the sausage rolls set out in the picnic inside their boat. Eventually, with the family safely through the lock, I headed into town. 

I parked the van in a long-term car park and loaded my trolley with the gear - Footdrum kit, guitar, harmonicas, neck brace for the harps, my A1 sized notice board (displaying stuff about me, contact details, merch, socials links etc.), drum mat, water bottle, merch box and hat for tips and donations. It’s probably as well I am completely acoustic, I carry enough stuff around without worrying about amplification/mics/stands and suchlike. As I was pushing my trolley towards my intended busking spot I heard someone greet me by name. I turned to see who it was and after a few moments of prosopagnosiac confusion I realised it was my artist friend, Ricki. It’s always lovely to see her and we accompanied each other into the market square where I intended to set up. Ricki was going on to somewhere else.

Wisbech used to have a central car park cum market square. It was recently pedestrianised and on non-market days like today there is plenty of space to choose from. Unless I’m in a street where I can set up in front of a (usually empty and closed down) shop the main difficulty is in deciding which way to face. I have that difficulty here in Wisbech and also in Spalding. Today I opted to have my back against a young tree and facing out into the rest of the square where there is a thoroughfare. That meant I also had my back to people sitting on benches around the square under the shade of some juvenile trees. I don’t like to assume that my music is more important than the conversations they are enjoying with their companions. It’s a juggling act and my feeling is that if they are interested enough they can always come closer, which some did I’m happy to report. 

I played for about two hours, which is about the most my voice will allow these days. I’m happy to know that I have enough learned repertoire that I never have to repeat a song during a two-hour busk. I did attempt a first public performance of a new song, "I've Got Love" and I remembered most of it, I'm glad to say. Unusually for me, the song only took about a week to write and knock into playable shape. It is actually taking longer to learn it than it did to write it. Being out in public means there are songs that do not get an airing. Those have to be saved for a roomful of adults only. So, I guess that I could probably manage three hours if it were deemed necessary. One of the joys of busking is that there is always an interaction with people passing by. As my song, “Busker” observes 

A nod, a smile, a thumbs up and it’s good to pause and chat …

Chatting is a pleasure. People like to ask about the music, usually about the drum kit. Occasionally, like today, it was about other quite personal or even ordinary matters. I recognised a woman I’d seen at the annual “rock” festival on Sunday. When I say “recognised” it was by her beautiful coloured braided hair extensions. I certainly could not recognise her by her facial features. We talked about hair. The braids looked very tight, but she was very happy with them. Another woman stopped. She was Brazilian, so we had lots to talk about - samba bands, dancing, my daughter-in-law and I’d never met anyone from Santa Catarina before. Apparently it has summer and winter, not just all year round tropical weather. Eventually it was time to pack up and go. Just as I was about to start derigging the gear another couple of women approached. I was to find out they were mother and daughter. That was not a surprise, but being told by the mother that she was ninety and her daughter was seventy certainly was! They both could genuinely have passed themselves off with being fifteen years younger - great genes! “What are you going to play for me?” asked the nonagenarian. I asked what sort of song she would like, since I only sing my own songs and she would not be likely to know any of them. She decided it should be up to me. I took a chance, and said I’ll sing you this song, but you can stop me if you don’t like it. A small shadow of concern briefly showed in her features, like a small cloud passing across the sun. I sang “Fighting For Me”. She listened very intently, nodding and murmuring agreement with some of the lyrics I’d written while occasionally wiping a tear from her eyes. When I’d finished she said, “I remember very well the boys who were so full of bravado, very excited to be going to war, boarding the trains and boasting about what they were going to do. Not one of them came home.”

Of Good Times And Bad Vibes

 Here we go again, I’m sorry. I have loads of stuff I could have been writing about over the past few months, but I never got round to it. There may be infill, but I wanted to write this while the events were still fresh in my mind. 

Today I went busking in Huntingdon. You may know, or even remember, that I pick up my bOat milk from the farm at King’s Ripton where the oats are grown and turned into Pure Oaty and generally combine it with a trip into the town centre to provide a little street entertainment. My favourite spot was always in the High Street. For the past few visits, though, I’ve favoured a spot near Holland & Barrett, because the High Street spot was often taken already. There always seemed to be a lot of footfall as people made their way between the High Street and Sainsbury, but I rarely seemed to attract much in the way of tips. Last time I earned less than £5. Today I thought I’d try and get to my old spot on the High Street. Fortunately today it was clear. The sun was shining, the first tip was dropped in the hat during the first line of the first song. I had a good feeling about this spot. I was right. There was a steady flow of smiling people and tips. One woman dropped a couple of pounds in the hat telling me the combination of sunshine and live music had made her day. Definitely comments like that make busking so worthwhile. There were children and animals in plentiful supply and I turned at one point to find a boy out with his family flapping two £10 notes at me. Wow!

Eventually I’d gone through most of my usual repertoire and stopped to begin packing up. Wheeling my trolley back towards the car I saw the man of North African appearance (he later claimed to be Algerian) I’d seen on my way to my spot. He was in position pretty much as he had been before. Sitting on the ground on a blue sleeping bag and leaning against the wall. Now I had some money I was happy to share some of my day’s earnings. In front of him was a sign declaring, “I am very hungry. God bless you”. As I was about to drop a coin into his hat I was interrupted by a young man and his girlfriend, who had completely swallowed the Tory Party’s primer on migration. The young man was an out of work plasterer whose diabetes and recovery from addiction had led to his homelessness and joblessness. He railed at the Algerian man sitting passively in the teeth of a verbal onslaught of cliché’s including “he’s not homeless, he turned up in a van with others this morning”; “they’ve all got iPhones”; “he can sit there with his sign and people give him money, if I sit out with a sign I get done for begging” and the tirade continued. His girlfriend explained she had cancer and was losing her hair. They were both clearly upset that they got nothing from the state and this foreigner was getting everything. He pulled boxes of prescription drugs out of an orange carrier bag. He challenged the Algerian to tell him what time it was when it rained last night. He knew because he was soaked through in the rain … It was horrible and at times very threatening. I thought he might attack the man. I felt sorry for them all. None of them had asked to be dealt these particular hands. He demanded to see the iPhone, which the Algerian denied having. He asked how much money the Algerian had begged yesterday. While this was going on people came up to give food, which clearly heightened the irritation of the plasterer and his girlfriend. “I’m hungry,” he said, “but you don’t see anyone giving me food!” I pointed out that most people probably wouldn’t know he was hungry, homeless and penniless if he didn’t tell anyone. The couple were joined by someone else they knew who suggested the man should sell his iPhone and use the money for food. This got pretty heated and I felt I couldn’t just walk away from this situation. I asked how he knew the Algerian had an iPhone. It seems a woman told him so yesterday … “Ah, I see, and how did she know?” 

“I’m not racist, but poverty (did he mean ‘charity’?) begins at home innit!”

I started to point out that he was playing right into the hands of the government and its disgusting migrant rhetoric. I wanted to tell him he was attacking the wrong target and that he only needed to think through some of the stuff he was saying to realise how illogical it was. If the man arrived in a van, who was driving? If he lived in a house who owned it and how many others lived there too? As a migrant he couldn’t work legally if he did not have the correct papers. If he acquired money through begging where did the money go? Quite likely in “rent” for his shared accommodation. I’m inclined to believe he did not have a mobile phone. Why would he if he were enslaved?

At my suggestion the plasterer and his girlfriend moved on, but I passed them still railing against the injustices of his situation to some of the other members of the Huntingdon underclass. I feared the situation was going to escalate and the Algerian was at risk. I continued back to my van and loaded up my instruments. Then I went back to see if the Algerian was okay. He spoke passable English, French too and asked me if I spoke Italian, which it seemed he knew. I assumed he spoke Arabic and who knows what else. He gave all the appearances of a well-educated man who had somehow ended up in this terrible situation. It seems he has had issues with local homeless people already. 

Government policy is pitting the have-nots against each other. If only they could see it. The plasterer should have been hammering on the door of his MP and demanding fairer treatment. Somehow I doubt that’s going to be seen as an option. I walked around the town looking for a “Town Ranger” to warn her of a possible confrontation in escalation. Naturally neither of the TRs were to be seen. I went to the town council office to see if they had contact details. No one answered the entry phone in the town hall lobby though I buzzed several times. I went to a nearby charity shop assuming they would have a number, which they did. “We call them the ‘powerless rangers’ said a man in the shop. They can’t do anything.” Nevertheless I was given a mobile phone number, which went straight to voicemail. I called 101, the non-emergency police number. The Cambridgeshire call centre tried to put me through to a more local contact, but it rang for fifteen minutes with no reply. I got back to my van and set off for home having used up my three hours of parking. What a mess!