Of Another Scary Journey

 I'd survived so far, but still needed fuel. It was just over an hour to get to the boat yard where I could fill up. The journey was pretty uneventful after Benwick. There is one notoriously low bridge at White Fen Farm, but even with a breeze it wasn't much of a concern.

I pulled into the marina and headed for the diesel pump. I was again pleased to see that there was nothing already on the mooring by the pump. I don't much like tying up to someone else's boat, specially if I can't speak to the owner to ask if they mind, and it's a relief not having to bother. 

The wind seemed to be picking up as I left the mooring to wind round in the residential part of the marina. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before how this marina appears to develop its own micro-weather systems. This is usually in the form of a wind strong enough to blow the boat against the homes of the residents. I've got myself into trouble on several occasions over the years. The slightest imprecision is mocked mercilessly and rewarded with the fear that sweeps in quickly when an impending disaster is looming. As I've gained experience I'm not so much worried about hitting other boats as I am crashing into the sides of the narrow channel under a footbridge across the marina. I like to line myself up to do it in one manoeuvre, but sometimes the wind pushes me too far in one direction and I have to reverse and take another run at it. Reversing exposes me to the whims of the wind and there is often one boat moored very close to the bridge and the panic begins to stir again. This was one of those times and evidence that the wind was revving up for another bit of fun. The turn out of the marina is a sharp one and with the line of boats moored up outside reducing visibility one has to edge out in hope that nothing is coming along the river too quickly to evade collision. I've never hit anyone at that point, but it has been close at times. It being the end of October, there was little likelihood of that happening. I'd been out on the river for three or four days and hadn't actually seen another vessel moving during that time. 

Under the road bridge and I'm on to the stretch of river through the centre of March that is protected from the wind on both sides. I pulled up on to the town mooring for a comfort break, to check the boat over, head into town for a few provisions, to prepare some food to nibble for the next part of the journey and fill a bottle with water to sip. I thought it would be pleasant while the going is good to get as far as Outwell Basin. From there I could call in and visit a friend. I could decide whether to take a further trip down to the edge of the Middle Level navigation at Salters Lode. This would add at least another couple of days on to my journey and turn it into a reasonable few days away, albeit one that had not been without event.

Heading towards the railway bridge over the river that marks the edge of the town I was reminded of the year before when I had made this journey. During covid lockdowns in 2020 the reeds and weeds had been allowed to take over. I had to free the prop several times on the stretch of water as I approached the bridge. I hoped the weedcutters had been out and made the river more boat friendly.

Approaching last year's disaster area

As it happened I need not have been anxious. I cruised through without any issues and was soon past the last of the moored boats and back on to open river. Of course, open river, means open to the weather and what I had not realised was that the wind had indeed picked up a lot more than I thought. I should have thought to consult the weather charts before setting off. An extra night in March, or even Benwick, would not have caused me any problem. Had I consulted the forecasts I might have noticed that winds gusting up to 50mph were a possibility.

Captain Marsh on open water at last

Now the wind was really picking up again

Euphoria, over-confidence, relief and stupidity make for a a heady mixture. I cruised past my home mooring determined to get to Outwell and some friendly company. I arrived at Marmont Priory Lock and it was, as usual, set against me. I chugged up against the lower lock landing with the centre rope in hand. I've performed this manoeuvre many times and didn't foresee any likely problems. However, even though I knew the little basin at the lower entrance to the lock often has its own wind system too, I had not anticipated that stepping off the boat would see the wind gust so hard as to threaten to tug the boat out and across the river before I could tie it up at either end. Simply put I could not hang on to it at all. I was being dragged towards the river. I had to get back on to the boat at all costs. I grabbed at the stern rope and pulled the back end in far enough so that I could at least get back on board. In the meantime the wind had pushed the bow right out across the river and into a shallow zone where I knew I could be grounded. I could not steer the boat in reverse, the wind does that! The intentions of myself and the wind were often at odds. My only choice was to reverse the boat away from the bank. The further I got the stern end out into the river the harder the wind blew the bow round the wrong way. At this rate I was going to end up jammed between the two banks. I had to bring the stern back into shallow water and try not to ground the boat along its entire length. Eventually I was stuck against the far bank. There was no prospect of getting to Outwell. The wind would undoubtedly be even fiercer if I tried to tie up at the upper lock landing. I needed to get to a place where the river was wide enough for me to wind the boat round. I had to pole myself away from the bank and in a moment of reprise from the worst of the wind refloat the boat. From there by shunting in reverse for a couple of metres and correcting the heading with a burst of forward gear and back into reverse again before I lost too much of the distance I had gained I gradually reached a spot where I judged the river to be slightly more than the 15.3 metres I needed to swing the boat round. That whole manoeuvre took me about two and a half hours and I was exhausted by the time I had turned the boat round. I headed back for my home mooring and hoped I would be able to tie the boat up without further incident.

Of Stormy Passages And Abandoned Voyages

I should have stayed in Ramsey overnight. At least I was moored safely. I looked at the position of the sun in the sky and decided to take a chance on trying to get to Benwick. This was one of my more optimistic and stupid ideas. I was losing the light and had no prospect of reaching the public mooring at Benwick before dark, so I began to search out a wild mooring spot. I had passed several potential places on the way, but this was becoming a matter of considerable urgency. The wind was also picking up, which is never a good thing. Given a choice and wind direction I’d have probably moored with the port side of the boat to the bank, but the reeds were too dense and the bank of the Old Nene was dangerously steep. I found a place that looked a bit safer on my side of the river and thought I’d be able to pull in close enough to disembark. Unfortunately I couldn’t get as close as I would have liked. The wind was also blowing me away from the bank, so if I was going to moor I'd have to do it quickly. I threw ropes, club hammer and mooring pins on to the bank and, having committed myself to the enterprise I had to go through with it. It felt dangerous, actually it was dangerous, and I restated my promise to myself to give up wild mooring. I used my rapidly diminishing energy to pull the boat in as tight to the bank as I could and staked the centre rope high up on the bank. It had to be the centre line, because had I staked the bow or stern lines first the boat would definitely have been torn away and swung across the river at the opposite end. Having secured the centre as best I could I pulled the stern in as far as possible, because this looked like the position that would get closest to the bank. Then I just pulled the bow rope in tightly  and hammered in the stake. With the boat staked fore, centre and aft I felt that was the best I could achieve under these conditions. I was not confident the pins would hold, but I had to get back on to the boat. Feeling very carefully with one foot at a time I edged my way down the bank trying to avoid sliding into the water and finding another submerged stake to embed into my leg. I still bear the scars and some residual soreness from where I'd slipped off the gangplank at Stonea two or three years ago and had no wish to repeat that experience. There were still too many reeds and nettles obscuring the land or water that lay beneath, but my shuffling found what felt like the edge of the bank at a point where the boat was closest to the bank. There was still far too much water between the bank and my boat for my liking, but for the second time on this trip I had to employ a leap of faith and try to get one foot on the narrow gunwale while I scrabbled to grab the tiny edge where the side of the cabin meet the roof. I have regretted many times the lack of a grab rail on my boat and this was certainly one of them. The gunwale was above my starting point on the bank so I was actually leaping out and upwards. I launched myself at the boat and it was scary for sure. I don’t quite know how I made it back on to boat and remained dry and kept my leg bones and ribs intact. I’m just relieved my legs are long. I edged my way along the gunwale to the stern end, which was the closest end, negotiating the ropes that formed an obstacle, but which were the only things stopping me being blown out into the river. Exhausted, I closed the stern doors against the wind. I really should have stayed the night at Ramsey. 

Supper that night was simple and quick. I climbed into bed under two duvets and slept for a couple of hours. After that I had very little sleep going over the options and likely consequences of making a wrong decision. When dawn began to light up the sky I found myself avoiding going back outside to assess how I’m going to retrieve my ropes, pins and club hammer without falling in or losing the pins and/or hammer and/or boat. Breakfast first I decided. That was just a banana, some orange juice and my morning dose of tablets. 

It was difficult to tell where the bank started under these reeds

Fortunately the wind had dropped a bit by the morning and daylight made the whole proposition look a lot less frightening. I released the mooring ropes, starting at the bow and threw the first two mooring pins and club hammer into the well deck. The boat was staying put, but would move the moment I repeated the leap of faith, which this time I had to do with the final mooring pin in my hand. Once again I made it and thanked my parents for bequeathing me long legs. At least now I was back on the boat I could crawl along the roof to put the ropes where I needed them to be. 

I decided to get to Benwick and, hoping no one else was already there, was going to moor securely and take my time over a very leisurely breakfast, sitting on the bench on solid ground at the village mooring with the boat tied securely and tightly to the mooring. About five minutes after setting off I passed a tree on the opposite bank. Had I known it would have been a safer anchorage than leaping on and off the boat in twilight. Tying up to the tree would have been easier given that the wind would also be holding me in place - oh well. Fortunately the mooring at Benwick was indeed unoccupied and I was at last able to breathe properly and release all the tension that had built up over the preceding twelve hours.

This is what a proper mooring looks like!

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 9 (Ramsey By Boat part 2)

Do the locals like buskers? 

It’s difficult to say. Having got the gear off the boat, a task in itself given the narrow ledge at the mooring, I wheeled my trolley along Great Whyte (a street, not a whale) until I found a space just past the bus stop where the pavement widens. Three older people were occupying one of the nearby seats and I checked whether they would be disturbed if I played some music. They welcomed the prospect with enthusiasm, although I wondered how much of that was fuelled by the open cans they were nursing. 

They were actually interested in the songs and not just the instruments. One, whom I somewhat meanly identified as Ciderman, told me he had lost his wife of twenty-five years in the summer and the experience was clearly still very painful. As I played, he danced, sometimes wobbling worryingly close to the busy road. After the first song he offered a critique on my delivery (“what you should do is … “) and invited me to his birthday celebration this weekend. He refuelled at the B&M across the road and when he returned he crawled round the pavement examining at very close quarters the internal mechanism of the drum kit while I was playing. Small children had done that, but never before had a fifty-nine year-old man! He was also intrigued by the guitar with its internal effects. He was open, interested, very complimentary about my work, but nevertheless not quite in control. Curious locals watched this unfolding pageant from the other side of the street, from their parked cars and from behind shop window glass, but none came close enough to drop a coin in the hat. Sadly they refused Ciderman’s  marginally coherent exhortations to come closer and listen to “this great songwriter”! 

The reality of busking: earnings = 99p

Towards the end of my set I realised my audience was probably keeping others (the ones who may have had some coins to throw in the hat) away, although by this time the crowd had grown to include a number of young women. One seemed to know one of the original trio and she had been joined by friends who had been joined by their friends - you know how it goes. One of the girls asked if she could take a selfie with her friends and me. Then she was distracted by something else. Like on so many other occasions, singing in the street drew in many people I would generally never encounter otherwise and they thanked me for the best afternoon they’d had in ages. Ciderman apologised for being so drunk, but even through his filter of alcohol he got what I was singing about, particularly when I sang “Damn You, Enchiladas”. He almost told me the story behind it and listened while I filled in the specifics. He was very quiet after I sang “In Your Place”, which I was secretly dedicating to him. Somewhere behind the outward appearance was a fascinating, intelligent and well-read mind and another lesson to me in not judging by appearances.

High Lode

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 9 (Ramsey By Boat part 1)

 The day after busking in Huntingdon I decided I needed a few days away in the boat. It had been far too long since I'd been out on a trip. I set off from my home mooring and a few hours later I arrived at one of the Middle Level Rural moorings, about which I have written before. Never actually having tried them out to see how useful they were I headed for Skylark, near Stonea, which is the nearest one to me. Here is a video describing what I found.

I did have a second video showing how difficult it was to moor at Skylark, but Blogger tells me I've exceeded my allocation of space. As I tried to pull the boat in it grounded out in shallow water a few feet from the bank. Somehow I managed to throw some mooring lines on to the bank and jumped, hoping I could reach the bank without falling in and/or losing the boat. I just about made it, but could not pull the boat in much further. Although time was getting on I had some late lunch and decided to try and get to the next nearest rural mooring at Ramsey Forty Foot Village, which was still a few hours away. I arrived as the sun was dipping, but at least the water was deep enough to be able to moor the boat safely - that is if I don't count the number of times I slid down the steep, slippery bank on the wet grass and nearly into the water. This so called "rural mooring" looked rather more like it was situated in the middle of a housing estate.

The following morning I was able to have a leisurely breakfast while I watched an angler set up his fishing spot on the other side of the water close to the bridge in the village centre. I was pleased to see that, even though he pulled his car on to the verge between the road and the river it took him longer to empty the boot of his vehicle and set up than it takes me to set up my busking rig. I felt very smug.

After that I headed towards Ramsey Town, where I hoped no one else had moored. The plan was to unload my instruments from the boat on to the trolley and wheel them into town. Ramsey is approached by water down a narrow waterway called, "High Lode". As it went by Bill Fen Marina I thought I would top up with diesel. Of the three marinas on the Middle Level I think Bill Fen is the most attractive. It is privately owned and the owner has created not just space for boats to moor inside a flooded compound, but also a beautiful wildlife haven. I'd phoned ahead to make sure I could get some fuel. The pump is at one end of a mooring place so boats the size of mine have to wind round and reverse in. There is plenty of space for such a manoeuvre and I was easily able to reverse gently into the space. As I've written before, there is no control over direction when reversing. The wind does its thing and takes the boat where it will. To aim for a specific space one needs to use quick bursts of forward gear to correct the heading before resuming in reverse. It is an interesting way of moving and can test the skill of the boater, specially if there is much of a wind. Thankfully I was able to sidle up to the mooring without mishap, even with people looking on. As any boater will tell you, providence saves accidents up for when spectators are present.

The groundsman at Bill Fen was struggling to get the pump to share its bounty. I could see a mist rising from my filling pipe, which struck me as something I'd never before noticed. It was also making strange sounds that did not sound like the satisfying gurgling of a diesel pump in delivery mode. Seeking further advice from a long time resident we all came to the conclusion that the fuel storage tank was empty. I was hoping that nothing other than air had been pumped into my fuel tank. I didn't fancy having to clear blocked fuel pumps, pipes or injectors; specially injectors given the problems I'd experienced a couple of years ago.

I continued down Ramsey High Lode and turned the boat in the tight space to moor where I knew I could get out quickly should I need to. I set up my trolley and loaded it with instruments ready to find a busking spot in the town, about a fifteen minute walk.

Of Busking & Old Nol At Prayer

This afternoon was an unseasonably beautiful one, so I had to go out busking. Even when I’d finished and was packing up people were still dropping coins in the hat ... although I do appreciate that could be a somewhat barbed comment on the performance! 😅😊😏

I did enjoy a very nice couple of hours though, so thank you Huntingdon! You’ve seen photographs of me, so here’s one of Old Nol (Oliver Cromwell) at prayer that I passed on the way back to the van.

Of A First Boat Trip This Year

 Several months ago my son came to visit. He doesn't come to see me very often, so it was rather lovely. Even better was that he had decided to come and have a look at what needs doing to the boat to get the engine through a service. I'd much prefer to give him the money for doing a job for which he is qualified than someone else. Unfortunately, months later he still has the engine handbook and the service is still to be carried out. He did say one thing which I found helpful though. He spelled out for me what the smoke means. The white smoke apparently means the engine is not getting sufficient air to aid combustion. That gave me a clue as to how to tackle a problem. Several years ago I fancied that oil was spitting out of an air intake. The oil spillage was certainly coming from somewhere in the vicinity, so it was worth a go! I had a spare filter which I screwed on to the inlet. I wondered if this had become clogged with oil and was not drawing sufficient air. A not very close inspection suggested that that was indeed what was happening. The filter had collapsed and looked like a face that had been sucking a lemon. I removed the filter and fired up the engine. After a couple of minutes this particular smoke problem was solved. I determined to clean up the oil instead, until I can find where it is actually coming from. As it happens, it is not a huge problem despite being a cosmetically irritating one.

With the boat now in reasonable working order I decided to take it out and see what happened. 

I headed towards a parish mooring a few miles away where I met up with musicians Steve O'Kane and Fiona McBain. We spent a lovely hour or so together and the boat behaved impeccably. Hmm, time to plan a few days away.

Of A Sad Goodbye & A Feel Better Treat

Tuesday was a very sad day. I said goodbye to a friend of nearly fifty years. We were best friends at college and have remained so over all these decades. She never made it to her threescore and ten. Our music teaching careers may have taken different paths, but we both maintained the passion for communicating the joys of engaging with music with children and adults. Beatrice was a force of nature. Her sisters were happy, proud and exasperated to tell us how she had been a "wild child". It was quite something to meet them after all this time too. I was very, very happy to meet the daughter of her late husband. Beatrice was always talking about her (they were very close in age) We met Beatrice's future husband for the first time together when we studied music at college. He was one of our tutors. I had actually known of Peter Jenkyns for a lot longer than that, though, since he was a published composer of children's songs and I had sung his "Little Spanish Town" when I was still in junior school. I also remember taking part in a music festival, though I can't remember whether or not our school choir sang "Little Spanish Town", but Peter was one of the adjudicators. Sadly Peter died decades ago. His was the first humanist remembrance service I attended. Over the years Beatrice and I supported each other through some very dark times. Somehow we managed to laugh at anything, no matter how serious. Someone I spoke to at Bea's funeral observed she had the dirtiest cackle in the world. It's true, although that cackle brought me so much joy. Bea had been ill for years. By last July it was clear that her time was becoming short and we hadn't been able to see each other since the covid outbreak and subsequent restrictions well over a year earlier. I wrote about taking her a living room performance and I shall always treasure that experience.

The funeral was attended by two, or maybe three, hundred people. What a testament to a life so beautifully lived. It was an outdoor humanist service and her wicker casket was lowered into the earth in a wooded glade. So perfect. So apt. There was not a dry eye among the mourners when one of Bea's sisters played Fairport Convention's "Who Knows Where The Time Goes?" over the sound system. Farewell Farewell.

This is so Beatrice!

I've been working on a new song to remember her by. I don't know that I'll ever get it right, but I'm going to try.

I couldn't bear the thought of driving straight home so I went into St Neots and set up my rig in the main street to sing my blues away. As always it was a very calming experience. I also met Punky Ian who told me quite a lot of stuff about the universe and what it has in store for us ... who knows where the time goes?

Of A Bookshop Busk

I enjoyed a long busking session yesterday in Downham Market. I was outside the West Norfolk Deaf Association Bookshop for three hours in celebration of its fifth anniversary since opening. Normally completely solo I shared the day with John Preston, Yve Mary B and a man called Stuart. It is one of my favourite busking places and the people in the bookshop are always incredibly friendly. It also happens to be a very well-stocked bookshop and I recommend a visit to any visitors to the town. It was also, for a few very wonderful months, a monthly venue for musical performances. Unfortunately circumstances saw that period forced to come to an end.

There always turn out to be more people passing by this spot than one might expect and yesterday was certainly no exception judging by the tips. Of course, many people wanted to donate to the WNDA, but several were also generous in tipping individual performers. One man sticks out in my mind. He stopped for a while during one of John's songs and decided we needed to be lectured on how to perform for the public in the street. He said he had been observing us from a shop across the road, but I think he just made that up. Apparently we ought to have been raising spirits or moving people to action in the face of the problems facing the citizenry. It being my turn to sing next I sang "Obstacle Race", which he acknowledged was an upswing in the mood. He went on to cite the failure of the Brexit project as an example of how we should be addressing ourselves to doing something positive. I would have sung my "Referendum Rag" to him, but he'd had enough and went to fix other problems around the town. It was John's turn to sing a song, so I lost the moment, but after that I sang it anyway.

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part Nine (Downham Market)

Today was a busking adventure of a slightly different kind. No.8, The Old Bookshop, was celebrating its fifth anniversary and had invited some local musicians along to play outside the shop. Since this was not on land owned by the town council I did not need to get prior permission, just turn up and play, which I did. I thought I was last on the list which began with someone called Stuart, continued with a set from the rather excellent Yve Mary B. John Preston and I turned up at the same time, so we played a song each taking turns until he had to go and I just carried on. I ended up playing for about three hours which was rather a lot of fun. As is usually the case in Downham Market, friends turn up out and listen for a bit before moving on. John sang his songs acknowledging our increasingly barmy world in his characteristically apocalyptic baritone. His guitar playing is somewhat idiosyncratic. One has often encountered bass players who ruin their playing by trying to play like guitarists. John is quite the opposite. He plays guitar like a bass player and has just added a small amp and some effects too. It is by no means the sound of his four-piece band, but it is an engaging and interesting style. 

After one of his songs a man approached who happened to be one of those experts who always have ideas about what one should have done instead. "You should sing more upbeat songs. I've been listening from across the street and you are too gloomy. No one will give you any money. People want to be cheered up, not driven to suicide!"

That was, of course, very rude of him, but he felt entitled to pronounce his judgement. He may have been listening from across the street, but I don't think he could have been listening for long because he did not seem to have registered that I was the singer of the previous song and my style is very different from John's. I don't think he had listened to John's lyrics either, because they are often double-edged and very witty. As I was waiting for him to finish he decided that we should be using our talents to write about the important stuff, like the effect of leaving the European Union. Given that most people in the town voted to leave the EU one might have assumed he was also a leaver, but it turned out he was in favour of remaining. I'd have treated him to my "Referendum Rag", but he'd had enough and wandered off.

The sun carried on shining.

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part Seven (Spalding)

Once again I have to apologise for months of inactivity on here. It has been very eventful. If I remember correctly I left Part Six having just had a TIA in Norwich. As a result of that experience I spent a couple of days in hospital and had a a few mostly inconclusive tests. I was also grounded for a month and wasn't allowed to drive. Of course that means no more busking either.

When I recovered from that and was strong enough to load up the van with the instruments I revisited old haunts and managed to get back into the busking habit again. It was indeed great fun. It has been a long time and so much has happened, but I'll just add a few mostly shorter essays in order to try and catch up. 

Today I went back to Spalding and met some of the lovely people there on their "Pumpkin Day" The town was very busy and, despite the continued worries about the Covid pandemic and its latest mutation, families were out in force. Several people came up to talk and the citizens were incredibly generous.

I have been mostly in writing mode this week - blog essays and a new song under way - so I’ve not made time for busking since last Saturday. However today the weather was so beautiful I really had to go and perform somewhere, didn’t I? I had promised myself I’d go back to Spalding after my last visit there, so today was that day. As before, the people were lovely! I used to go when the tulip carnival happened, but today was apparently pumpkin day. There were so many smiling faces, the market was throbbing with families and there were so many stalls it took me a while to find a spot where I could set up. I found the doorway of a closed-down shop and used that to spread out from. The only other street entertainment, apart from amplified Adèle being pumped through a sound system by a local rock school, was a Morris side. So many people wanted to stop, listen and thank me for my music. So many children wanted to dance. Some Poles and Latvians wanted to have photographs taken with me, and that was like being in Venice. Spalding really is a rather splendid place. 

Thank you Spalding! I'll be back 😎

Of A Return To Spalding

 I have been mostly in writing mode this week - blog essays and a new song under way - so I’ve not made time for busking since last Saturday. However today the weather was so beautiful I really had to go and perform somewhere, didn’t I? I promised myself I’d go back to Spalding after my last visit there, so today was that day. As before, the people were lovely! I used to go when the tulip carnival happened, but today was apparently pumpkin day. There were so many smiling faces, the market was throbbing with families and there were so many stalls it took me a while to find a spot where I could set up. I found the doorway of a closed-down shop and used that to spread out from. The only other street entertainment was a Morris side apart from amplified Adèle being pumped through a sound system by a local rock school. So many people wanted to stop, listen and thank me for my music. So many children wanted to dance. Some Poles and Latvians wanted to have photographs taken with me, and that was like being in Venice. Spalding really is a rather splendid place. Thank you Spalding!

Of Thoughts On Busking

I have explained the story of why I turned to busking in my mid-sixties as a source of income this year. For a while I didn't realise that there were rules, laws and Byelaws that govern the work of the street performer. During my first couple of weeks I simply went out, set up and played. Most of those sessions went off without a hitch. I only discovered that rules existed after receiving two "yellow cards". The rules can be complicated and they vary a lot between towns. On a nearby Borough Council website there are rules that specifically mention the main town, but there are two other towns in the Borough and they don't get a mention. What the Borough Council has left out of the website information is that each town council has its own set of rules and byelaws. I've been stopped from busking in the other two towns. In one, busking is limited to market days, a Friday and a Saturday, permission must be sought and granted for each performance and a copy of one's Public Liability Insurance must be lodged with the town council. In the other, busking is prohibited in or near the Bandstand or along the seafront. The main town centre does not limit performance places, but maximum time in any one spot is limited to one hour. In another town outside this area I went to County Council, District Council and Town Council offices all within the same town and could not find anyone to give me any sensible or helpful information. I ended up setting up in a good spot in the pedestrianised town centre and talking to one of the "town centre wardens" who was actually most helpful and accommodating.

Thinking further afield some places require a prospective busker to fill in an application form in advance and agree that town's code for street performers. Some of these want a photograph and a registered name and address. Some want to see a YouTube video as part of the application process. Some require the performer to wear an official badge. Some require the performer to carry a copy of their PLI. All of this assumes that busking performances are planned sufficiently in advance of the proposed visit and take no account of health, weather or other personal challenges to going out on a specific day.  Some councils allow the sale of personal merchandise while others forbid it. Some only allow it with the purchase of a trading licence. Remembering whether performances are unlimited in time or limited to two-hours, one hour or half-an-hour and how long should be left before being able to return to a particular spot (sometimes an hour, sometimes not on the same day) can be confusing. Some towns specify and limit busking spots, some require a spot to be booked in advance while others say set up anywhere, but be prepared to move on if requested by a business owner. Some allow amplification while others don't. Most say that if amplification is being used it should not interfere with other activities. Some specify a minimum distance between different acts, some specify not to set up within earshot. Some say that once the hour or two-hours are up, a busker should be willing to surrender the spot to another waiting performer. Some claim to have devised their rules to avoid the danger of busker wars breaking out. That may be a possibility in a city housing a large and concentrated population, but I have never seen such a thing. Since setting out on this path most other buskers I have encountered have been very supportive and considerate of each other. The only problem I have encountered was with the "karaoke soprano", who probably wasn't aware of how loud she was.

Some towns make a point of selling themselves as welcoming of street performers. Some of these have a reasonable, laissez-faire attitude to performance expecting performers to manage amongst themselves according to some unwritten "Busker's Code". Many acknowledge that street performance contributes something important to the ambience of a town by adding colour and joy. Some places ban performance altogether and any attempt to flout such a rule is very heavily "policed" by private security companies. One often needs to be able to distinguish between municipal precincts or privately owned ones. The rules allowing performing in either kind of space are not always clear, although a private space is more likely to display a prohibition notice if they don't want buskers.

I suppose this chaos of rules and the insignificance with which most people regard street performances mean there is less likelihood of national law becoming the norm and setting the precedent, so it will remain incredibly confusing, specially to the newcomer. There is, thankfully, no such thing as a "busker's licence" although there are private security firms that appear to think one is needed. Most of this confusion I am learning to negotiate ... mostly requiring a quick trawl through a council website. However, there is an attitude I find difficult to deal with and that is where the rules are there simply because someone thought they were a good idea for "keeping the peace" whatever that may mean.

As noted in previous essays I have been prevented from working for eighteen months. All my work was cancelled with the first lockdown. Fortunately I live frugally and decided not to avail myself of any of the funding available to others while I had some savings that would keep me going. However, busking is not a high-reward activity. I count it a win if I earn back what it costs me to park the van, but I rarely reach the hourly 'living wage'. The best I have managed was a late in the day decision to drive to a town fifty minutes away and play for seventy-five minutes one Monday. I took £35.32 but that included giving a CD to someone who gave me a very generous tip. The parking fee was £2.00. That is very much the exception and I would say I usually expect to manage about £5.00 an hour. Among the poorest examples over the past months are:

• one day of busking (required to move on every thirty minutes with no return to the same spot that day) - no cd sales allowed, earnings from tips £15.35, parking fees £10.00;
• half day of busking - tips £6.33, parking £5.00
• half day of busking - tips £0.00, parking £4.00
• on the day of my medical emergency I played for about an hour and earned £6.02 in tips, with parking at £6.00

Some people, thankfully not a noticeable majority, equate busking with begging. Clearly I am going to disagree with this point of view. I have worked hard to develop my playing skills over several decades and a song can take me weeks or months to write, compose, learn and rehearse. I earn nothing from creating my music until I am able to perform it or sell a recording. I have yet to recover my costs of recording from sales. It could happen at some point in the future, I suppose, but it hasn't happened yet. I do not consider sharing my music, the fruits of my labour, in the street to be begging. I am offering my skills to people who choose whether or not they like it enough to offer me a tip. I understand why a local council might choose to regulate the sales of merchandise. However, buying a trading licence at many times the cost of a cd, when a single sale during a day's busking is definitely not a given, is throwing away my hard-earned cash. By selling my own CDs I am unlikely to be depriving a trader of their sales. My recordings are not available through traditional distribution networks so they never reach the shops. Of course, these days, the majority of smaller towns don't even have what we grew up calling a "record shop". The banning of CD merchandise is often simply a mean-spirited response from a local council that likes to generate rules. To put this in context, in my first twenty-five days of busking I sold four CDs. With sales like that, I am unlikely to put anyone out of business apart from myself!

I am a self employed sole-trader, who keeps good records of income and expenditure. I am scrupulous in declaring my income and pay all my taxes. I don't like dealing with forms and record keeping so I employ an accountant to deal with making sure my records are in order each year. I do, however, find I resent greatly having to go cap in hand to a local authority begging for a spot to perform, a place to carry out my work. I resent even more that they can decide on which days I am allowed to work when, for example one council only gives permission to busk on a Friday or a Saturday. How is one expected to earn during the rest of the week? I suppose there's always the dole or universal credit ... oh wait 😠

I feel another campaign coming on.