Of More Sad Goodbyes And Floating Free

I may have mentioned that I run a monthly acoustic evening for writers to perform their own poems and songs. I know I am reaching that age but, rather disturbingly, the last two of these included performances by two of our regular songwriters who, within hours of giving fine performances passed away. I've been to both funerals in the past few weeks and it is enough to bring me up a little short. I know we all have to face the reality of our own mortality, but I feel honoured to have witnessed two such fine performances. Both funeral services took place in nearby crematoria and it was comforting to be able to spend time with mutual friends at both. I have pretty much always felt that funerals should be for those who are left behind. It makes sense that we should be able to honour the departed in the way that seems most appropriate.

Barry, whose funeral was last weekend, wrote his songs as poems and sang them. He didn't read or write music, he didn't record his melodies, but somehow he just remembered them. I have to write my songs down, including the music, or I forget them, so I appreciate his dedication to being able to remember his own songs. Many of his songs were historical documents about his life as an engineer with a particular passion for boats, trains and other engines. As I type this I have the part of the tune to his song, "Legging" going through my head. It was about the "leggers" who, working in pairs, used to lie on their backs on a board across a narrowboat with their feet pressed against the tunnel walls in order to propel it through a tunnel in the days before steam or internal combustion engines. This was an arduous and risky occupation with several fatalities.

After our sessions Barry and I often talked about boats. He is the only person ever to have observed and remarked correctly concerning my affectation for wearing odd socks. He correctly noticed I always had a port and a starboard sock, i.e. I generally wear a sock with red in it on my left foot and something on the blue/green end of the spectrum on my right. I'll miss Barry, as I'll miss Mike with his "French Polisher's Blues". Cabriole legs will never be the same again. We are approaching the final Friday of the month when we hold our Songwriters & Poets night. I do not wish to go to any more funerals just yet.

The wake following Barry’s funeral was to be held in a hotel a few miles away that stands just across the road from the river. Of course it seemed quite appropriate for me to go by boat. I left a few hours hours to give me enough time to turn the boat round in a wide bit of river about fifteen minutes away and set off back passing where I started towards the hotel. The lock was against me and the lock-keeper unavailable - just me then. Closing the open penstocks (that’s what we call paddles in the Fens) left open by the last user, emptying the lock, manoeuvring the boat, closing the lock gates, filling the lock again, mooring the boat at the nearby staithe while I went back to close the gates again took the best part of forty-five minutes. I arrived at the hotel with enough time to order a lunch and eat it. The boat had behaved impeccably all the way. This must be what other boaters feel like when they go out on their boats. I made four videos during the journey. Here's the first of them.