Of Subliminal Mysteries

I think Ive spent most of my life being confused and full of questions. Had I been born an Elephant's Child I would have been accused of satiable curtiosity. The questions mostly become stuck in my head these days or fly out of it so quickly they are never voiced. I guess a lifetime as long as mine may have knocked some corners off some of the more jagged questions, apart from those that query the inequalities of circumstances, still I can't help but ponder. I daresay I've already remarked somewhere among these essays that my questions have often led me into trouble, but still the qustions come. 

As I write this the time has just passed mid-day. I woke up early this morning with a dream song still reverberating in my head. As is sometimes the case I was dreaming of a school music workshop, an activity that featured in my life very prominently over many years. Four boys dressed in something I took to be far-Eastern or south Asian attire formed a line and began to sing a song made of vocables, rather than words. As they sang they danced into a space in front of the rest of the class and the line curved into a circle, at which point I woke up. However, since the music was still so loud in my head I grabbed the manuscript book I keep close to hand and transcribed the tune along with the sung syllables. I didn't have time to go back over it, because my other notebook, the one in which I attempt to capture snatches of lyrics, poems or ideas to be developed into such, had fallen open at idea number 322, dated April 2022. It was just a couplet and the rest of the page was blank, but these four years later I finally saw where the song could go. Now I have the skeleton of a new song, cross-referenced in my lyric book and music manuscript notebook and I have no recollection of what was my original concept four years ago. I only know I haven't broached this subject or storytelling style in any of my other work. There is a kind of refrain containing (at the moment!) the line "Follow, why? Follow, where? ..." I guess the mysteries are finding a voice in the song.

Yesterday I spent the day signing up to or renewing subscriptions for boat related organisations. I've never been through Stanground Lock and I fancy travelling out in that direction, specially with the cott blocking my way in my normal direction of travel. Consequently I am now Friend of the River Nene. In fact I was so keen to avail myself of their facilities I think I've paid twice after getting a bit confused following instructions on their website. I had plans for this morning, including cycling into the village with my application form and membership fee for the Well Creek Trust and basket for fresh vegetables, but every time I have attempted to get ready to carry out my plans I've been struck by yet another new tune idea. In between mixing seeds, fruits and grains for breakfast and medical routines popping the pills that are supposed to be keeping me alive along with boiling the kettle for a hot compress, followed by massaging my eyes and applying ointment for a recently diagnosed eye condition with enough hot water left over for ablutions, I've had to stop and write three tunes. Again I've no idea whether they are any good, but why, after months of little in the way of creative ideas, have the ideas started to tumble out of my head again? It happens from time to time, but normally I'm not in a situation where taking the time to actualise what is in my head is convenient or even possible. I first became aware of this phenomenon in 2005 following a serious change in my personal circumstances. It got quite bad. I would be woken up several times a night with the clamour of the music in my head. This was when I first took to keeping a manuscript book nearby at all times. I had been very unproductive for about thirty years and I felt a responsibility to record all these tunes that appeared to be coming as a gift from the muse. I would also have to leave for work early knowing I would have to stop driving more than once to be able to make a note of yet another new idea. I was afraid that ignoring these tunes would leave me dry again and I couldn't risk that. Friends observed that I was becoming a little obsessed and no doubt it was some form of hyper activity after spending so many years in depression. Whatever was the cause, it was exhausting, even if it supplied some of the best tunes I composed for The News of the Victory. Eventually I had to let some of the tunes go just so I could get some rest and the episode calmed down after a few  months. These days, in between new ideas, my head is littered with ear-wormery leaving no space for my own thoughts. This noisy mixture of sound that goes unnoticed by anyone else, gets quite jumbled up with sounds that pop up over the radio or on a podcast and I am left asking myself every time I compose whether anything I have written is actually original or a plagiarised rebranding of someone else's work. I suspect it's probably closer to the latter, but often I don't know for sure. And, oh Best Beloved, I promise I have tried to keep a little more balanced.

Returning to the major topic under consideration it is a mystery to me why, when I have an idea for a blog essay, I don't seem to be able to get straight into it. There generally has to be some irrelevant diversion. Apropos of nothing so far, it is a complete mystery to me why my boat collects massive quantities of cott around the prop, while other boats cruise through known weed patches untouched. I believe I may have made reference to this mystery a couple of essays ago. 

Meanwhile out in the real world, why are the loaves of bread I make so inconsistent when I turn them out of the pan? I only use a breadmaker, so the variations can only be in the ingredients or the amounts, rather than the processes. Usually they turn out elegantly enough, but sometimes the end result of more like a large rock cake! I've had two rock loaves recently and don't know why. I'm guessing that the proportion of flour to water has varied sufficiently to make a difference, though I do measure everything as carefully as I can. I've been through five breadmaking machines over the past twenty-five years, but this one has started producing these mutant loaves. Why?

Thankfully they taste okay, so now it is lunchtime and I shall cut myself a slice or two, slather them both with humus and garnish them with onion. Then, O Best Beloved, I shall disembark with my bicycle and go about the day I thought I had planned

Of Another Ending Or Just An Hiatus?

For many years it has been my great privilege and pleasure to organise a monthly session in Downham Market, Norfolk, for creators of original music and poetry. I inherited a "folk and acoustic music night" when the previous organiser needed to move on to other things. I'm trying to remember how long ago that was and I'm guessing around ten years ago, maybe more. 

These evenings started off at a café and shop specialising in selling and cooking locally produced food and beverages in Downham Market High Street called The Hop And Hog. It also had a licence for selling alcohol. The songwriter, musician and (presently four times published) author, Nico Dobben, knew the owner of the café and, along with musician and agit merchant John Preston, started the music and spoken word evenings. It was a place where one could order a home-cooked meal and enjoy not just the produce of local gardeners and smallholders, but also local musicians.

Sadly the Hop And Hog went out of business and we lost that very nice venue. If we wanted to carry on a new space for music was required. Rescue came when the new manager of Denver Windmill offered us a room at the mill. Although out of town the room was a good size albeit not easily accessible. One needed to be able to climb steep stairs inside and outside the building and dodge round the millstones to reach a room more usually used as a workshop space for teaching bread-making. It was during our time at Denver Mill that I took over the project. Seeing the number of very fine poets and songwriters among our regulars I felt that there was an opportunity to make a feature of original creations. Thus was Downham Songwriters & Poets created. People who wanted to perform covers or traditional songs had increasing opportunities among a growing number of open mic nights in the region. Again, sadly, there was trouble at t'mill and it too went out of business; we lost another venue. Was a pattern developing here? The Mill has since become home to another open mic session every month and also hosts regular festivals, the next one of which will be in one week's time.

In need of a new place for Songwriters & Poets I contacted the landlady of a pub back in Downham. I felt our numbers may improve if we were able to find a venue back in the town itself. For a few years we shared the bar at The Cock with locals who just wanted a quiet drink and, being a Friday night, members of the Norfolk Symphony Orchestra after rehearsals. The orchestra players disappeared after a while of tolerating us invading their social space and it was an ongoing issue to encourage a listening audience when people just really wanted to go to their local boozer for a night out. The number of people although good at first became a shrinking one and that made more apparent a tension between the political views of the regulars and the bunch of left-leaning dissidents who invaded their space. I found this quite an interesting situation as it gave me an opportunity to listen to and discuss with people completely outside my own echo-chamber. However, the differences came to a head in June 2016 on the day after the referendum to leave the European Union. Most of us were reeling from the way the vote had gone. As we gathered before the session began we moved chairs and tables into position in silence. Many of us were close to tears. The remain lobby had lost the vote overwhelmingly in our portion of the Fens. Our evening eventually got underway and was in something approaching full-swing when the vicar came in and delivered a sermon castigating "you lefty layabouts" who had never done a day of "real work" in our lives. He headed off any suspicion that a vicar might be accused of the same thing when he declaimed he had been a steel-worker in his pre-vicaring life, which he clearly felt qualified him for delivering his lecture. I had never spoken to him before and he knew nothing about me and, I suspect, nothing about most of the rest of our group. There was even less chance of any of us setting foot in his church after that experience. It was completely uncalled for and an arrogant imposition to interrupt our event. If ever there was a case of a man of god misreading a room this was it. Of course, the evening fell apart at that point and after that night we never went back.

Obviously we required yet another venue. There were other pubs in the town so we were not short of places to try. I took advice from those of our number who lived in Downham and one person sounded out the owner of The Crown. The Crown had a history as far as folk music was concerned. It had been a home of the old Downham Market Folk Club in the 1970s and possibly the 1960s and 1980s for all I know. My band, The News of the Victory, had played in the upstairs function room a couple of times in the 1990s, so it felt that moving to The Crown was a bit like a homecoming. They also had a number of function rooms, even after the upstairs hall had been converted to guest accommodation rooms. We were shown to The Stables that were occasionally used as a dining and function room and which had seen several changes of use since its venerable coaching inn days. We were told we could arrange it how we liked for our evenings. It was a completely separate space from the rest of the pub so there would be no need to disturb the regulars who weren't interested in the music and poetry. It was a good venue, with very easy access via our own entrance. There was no rent to pay with the pub benefitting from more bar sales and with even an option of food. For a time it looked like a good long-term solution. Sadly, once again events overtook us. The pub owner also owned The Jenyns Arms, a well established pub/restaurant at Denver Sluice. The Jenyns Arms was a popular, foodie restaurant. At some point the cellar was flooded and a lot of furniture was in danger of ruin. The Stables at The Crown was the only option for storage, so we lost that room. However, we were offered another room there. The Fox Dining Room was more compact and much closer to the bar. It was the space which felt most like the folk clubs I had known from my teenage years of going to folk clubs, although I don't recall another with a grandfather clock. The downside was that it was only accessible by a flight of five stairs, which were sadly beyond the ability of some of our regulars to manage. Then came covid and for us, as well as for everyone else, everything had to shut down.

Once we could eventually think of meeting again, we needed a space. A priority was for accessibility. One of our regulars suggested we try Discover Downham. It was the town's heritage centre, not quite a museum, though with plenty of artefacts on display, that had been converted from the old fire station. It was a nice enough room but lacking any of the atmosphere of any of our previous venues, there was no bar and we had to pay for room hire for the first time. There were also strict getting in and getting out limitations marked by the appearance of caretakers who jangled metaphorical keys. It did have a car park and our entrance was from the car park so in that sense it was convenient, but I never did get used to a complete lack of atmosphere apart from that with which our wonderful contributors - both performers and audience - endowed it. It definitely put the "function" into "function room". I acknowledge that the committee had attempted to add atmosphere via the display of artefacts and notices about the history of the town, but it certainly was not like any of our previous rooms with its fierce fluorescent lighting and noisy heating fans. I think the lack of a bar and having to pay for a multi-purpose space made creating an atmosphere more challenging. It was more like going to a parish meeting.

Like anything though else we got used to it and it has been a joy to be involved with some wonderful evenings of song and poetry there. We also attracted a small and loyal audience to support the performers. We had some people turn up speculatively and some grew into contributors to the evening's entertainment.

Now, though, it is time for me to hand it on to someone else. I don't know what Songwriters & Poets will become, though I suspect it will go from strength to strength. Many thanks to everyone who has turned up to support the evenings during my tenure. I have laughed, wept, shared my songs and poems and I have cajoled, counselled and encouraged new, aspiring  and returning performers. These last few years have provided a richness of local creativity that I shall treasure. It also made me feel part of a town I have always felt had something special, even when I have never lived there, except for times when I moored my boat nearby. I shall no longer be able to maintain that feeling, though for these years past I felt part of the extraordinary scene that Downham Market has encouraged. Maybe if I ever have to move on to land there are plenty of worse places to end up.

Of Dancing & Inheritance

I love this photograph, though my prosopagnosia strips away some of the pleasure. My son assures me this really is my parents, even if I can't see it! What joy there is in dancing! My mum and dad loved to dance and this photograph expresses that joy perfectly. I think she radiates joy in this image. A love of dancing runs in the family. Had she lived, my beautiful mother would have been a hundred years old this year. 

Sadly she didn’t live to see the next three generations enjoy dancing - it is, however, a wonderful inheritance from two lovely people. My father went to tea dances twice weekly until a few weeks before he died. In the long-ago days before covid, the innoculations and my two strokes here is that legacy, three generations of my family dancing to my band, The News of the Victory playing my composition, "The Divine Miss M". For me, the very worst thing about my degree of recovery from the strokes is that I no longer have the confidence to dance beyond a bit of shuffling about.

Of course, the legacy carries on and the ripples spread far beyond family. My mother would have been so happy to know that her granddaughter set up and leads this institution while her great-granddaughter has graduated from a college in the USA having completed a course in musical theatre.

Of The First Busk Of The Spring

It has been a long, cold, windy, watery winter. It was another sunny day today and it would have been such a waste to stay home on the boat when I could be out playing music in the street. Recent weekends have been tempting and then the weather made a choice to stay in the warmth and shelter of the boat even more tempting. There is also the competition with the karaoke crews in town who start off at about 8am and keep going until the market closes at 3pm and the streets clear of people. Yesterday there were no other people singing through cranked up p.a. systems and I was able to set up and enjoy myself for a couple of hours. People passing were very generous, so I guess some of them enjoyed my music as well. The man who dropped a fiver in the hat told me he plays guitar too (a Gibson Hummingbird apparently). It feels good to be getting back out there and doing my Marshlander thing.

I am clearly out of practice. Today is the first time I've sung in the street this year, but songs I've been singing in the boat to try and get my fingers, feet and voice moving deserted me at diverse moments. It wasn't a concert, it was street music and another instrumental verse as folk were ambling or dashing by made few odds to them. It is strange how the memory decides not to cooperate in the middle of a song as I try in vain to recall lyrics. I could understand if  these lapses happened in the same part of the song each time, but it's nothing like that. Holes can appear anywhere in the song where the lyrics should be and that is always frustrating. However, I do know that as I get out and play more regularly again, the words will reappear and reassert themselves.

At least busking still brings me joy!

Of Tales On Two Wheels

I love getting out on the bicycle. I cycle up to the lock most days in the boating season and into the village two or three times a week for fresh produce from a farm gate. Sometimes I cycle up to another village if a letter needs posting. My bike folds neatly into my boat and is a joy to ride. Sadly I feel the effort required to cycle at the moment, even here in the flat Fens, but there is nothing like a ride in beautiful fenland as the earth bursts into life with the energy of a new spring. I haven't had to light the stove for two or three weeks now and I don't have to wear a hat to bed at night and I rarely need to connect to a shoreline for electricity. Yes, I love this time of the year after a dreary and grey winter.

Today I needed to replenish fresh fruit and veg supplies. I bought potatoes (new and old), carrots, calabrese, sprouting broccoli and apples. I suspect some of these may not have been grown on the farm ... I was tempted by the pointy cabbage, but decided to give it a miss this time. On the way back I took a few photos. The only trick now is to work out how to import them into this blog. Such things used to be a lot more simple, but my phone no longer seems to speak to my laptop the way it used to. The computer is about fourteen years old and I can only run it when the sun is shining because the laptop battery no longer holds a charge for more than a couple of minutes. The operating system has upgraded as much as it is ever going to, so my work around is to send e-mails to myself.

Here are some beautiful views by the lock. The empty lock-keeper's cottage was bought a couple of months ago by friends and it is a joy to see how they are bringing it back to life.

My electronics may be temperamental, the boat and the van may decide not to cooperate every so often, a guitar string occasionally snaps or a harp reed clogs up, but somehow the bicycle never lets me down.  

Of Ways To Fill A Moment And Exercise the Brain

Since my second stroke, four years ago, I have found myself having to cut down on the amount of stuff I do. I wouldn't admit to lethargy exactly, but I don't have the energy or the confidence to undertake multiple music and dance projects and I have decided to prioritise. The covid pandemic and two strokes saw me stop working almost altogether with other people. I didn't feel it fair to risk another bout of illness that would affect the livelihoods of fellow musicians and disappoint anyone who had booked me/us for their event. I guess other musicians deal with the increasing risks of an aging body in different ways. I have nothing but the greatest respect for some of my favourite performers who are continuing to find the energy to perform well into their seventies or eighties. I find myself being more wary. I'd like to be braver, but at the moment I'm not. It is only in recent weeks that I have been able to walk without the wobble and the shuffle that the last stroke bequeathed me. I didn't think the old man's gait would disappear, but for the most part it has and for that I am grateful. Now there are other issues and lugging the equipment, specially my drums, from the boat up the bank to my van is a bit of a struggle. I use the struggle as an excuse for not braving cooler, wetter and windier weather to get out and busk. I know that if I just get on and do it I will feel all the better for it. I am awaiting some medical tests and perhaps a positive outcome will restore some of the confidence I seem to have lost. In the meantime, I wonder what I do that is of any use to anyone?

I like to help out at the lock. If a hire boat comes by I grab my bicycle and cycle up to the lock to see if the hirer is confident enough to get through. For many people it is the first lock they have experienced and that experience can be stressful if they feel the pressure to try and remember what they were told while they were still in the marina before being let loose on the open river. They have mostly had just a few minutes of instruction while they were champing at the bit to get on with the day's hire. While there I share a few tips on how manage some of the manoeuvres that I think could be useful as they complete the journey. I'm aware of being an interfering old geezer, but most people seem to be grateful for the help and by the time I get back I will have managed a two-mile bicycle trip. A couple of times a week I cycle into the nearest village to buy fresh veg from a farm gate stall. I buy what's available and in season and that is a seven or eight-mile round trip. Yesterday I think I cycled about fifteen miles and I consider that a reasonable achievement.

When I was recovering from the second stroke I was given visual, memory and logical puzzles to check whether I'd suffered any intellectual impairment. I have found some games requiring similar strategies so I like to start my day with these and imagine that I'm actually keeping the brain working. It is incredibly frustrating that I forget everyday words and proper nouns in conversation as I have yet another "senior moment", but the word or name I've lost usually surfaces eventually, unfortunately that often only happens several hours later when the word is no longer required, but at least it usually comes back!

I have spent the best part of twenty-five years struggling with the French language and spending a small fortune on books and courses that rarely seem to help. I "studied" French for five years in school (actually I spent quite a lot of that time standing in the corridor after being sent out of the class by the teacher) and even with that as a foundation I have always struggled when in France. My partner, P., fluent in several languages, says I know more French than I think I do, but I still can't keep up with conversation and frequently zone out with the sheer effort of trying to keep up with any social interaction. I added a number of apps to my phone over the years and again, most of them have fallen by the wayside. However I do use a couple nearly every day. I have been using Duolingo for 658 consecutive days. It's not perfect, but I have kept going with it, which amazes me. I also tried Jumpspeak for a few days and decided to subscribe. There are glitches, but it is improving with most of the updates. Although I am still only operating at a basic level on Jumpspeak it does offer me the chance to speak, listen to and try out more conversational idioms than the slightly more traditional Duolingo. I assume some of the aspects of French in Duolingo will eventually include more of the everyday language I hear when I go to France. I began at the beginning rather than try to second guess the standard I had achieved. Duolingo does match to the Common European Framework of Reference for Languages (CEFR) and I think I am currently learning at A2 level. It may not be perfect, but at least I am doing some speaking, writing and listening every day and I really hope that each time I go to France I am a little more proficient than the previous time. I hope that eventually my French family will see that they don't feel so frustrated with me for making such little progress with learning the language. 

I try to go to Venice every couple of years. I have been six times so far and even had two lessons in rowing Venetian style. It is incredibly difficult and requires balance which is something I haven't really had in abundance since the stroke. I hope I am strong enough for a third rowing lesson next time I go which will possibly be next February. A few months ago I realised that rather than have no idea about the Italian language I already had access to a tool which will give me a grounding in the language when I next go to Venice. I added Italian to my subscribed language tuition on Duolingo. From nothing I can now understand and speak a few words and phrases and am currently working towards A1 CEFR proficiency. I tried some Italian on the barman in the pizza restaurant near Storey's Field on Sunday before I went to see Gigspanner. Charmer that he was he asked if I were Italiano. He said that my pronunciation was good! Che uomo affascinante!

From starting as a complete beginner in Italian I may have caught a language bug. I have a Polish acquaintance who I realised early on in our written exchanges that he was probably using a translation app in his messages to me, since mostly they are written in good English which doesn't seem to be matched by his spoken English. I found a translation app on my phone which I started to use when I was chatting with him online. He was really surprised, and seemed very pleased that I was interested enough to take the trouble. Again it occurred to me that I had no idea about how the Polish language is constructed so I added Polish to my daily diet of language learning. There is a massive amount I am hoping will soon be explained because I don't get the logic of most of the constructions. I have sought out charts of verb conjugations online to try and see how it works. It is also one of the languages I don't think P. knows much about, so I am fairly certain he will be interested when we are finally able to spend some time together again. I think I shall need my friend to show me how to write some of the unfamiliar characters by hand (e.g. ł, and ę along with others I can't find on this keyboard without downloading another language overlay!) and I'll just have to try and get to grips with new accents on letters, pronunciation and noun endings. I'm still trying to work out whether Polish nouns have declensions ... that's probably very ignorant of me, but again, I have yet to grasp why words change their suffixes or just their final letter. I can tell you that "the duck is eating bread" though ... kaczka je chleb!

When I was a teenager I had some sort of romantic interest in Celtic mythology and aspired to learn Cornish after seeing Brenda Wootton and John The Fish in concert a few times and, of course of hearing Brenda's beautiful singing. All I could find was a phrase book aimed at the casual tourist and I learned very little about the language. However, on a visit to Wales I was thrilled to find the Welsh language still being spoken by regular people and that was as close as I could manage at the time. I bought myself a Teach Yourself Welsh book, the yellow and black one, but made no progress at all, because I had no idea whatsoever about pronunciation, so after making a few attempts to learn anything at all I gave up. I think I still have that book in storage and I am going to have to seek it out because I added a fourth language to my daily diet of language study - Welsh. Yes, it means learning how to make some new sounds not used in any of the other languages, although I suppose a couple of years of German at school has helped with some of the sounds required for both Polish and Welsh. Remembering that many letters don't sound like English letters and that some diphthongs are completely different and don't sound anything I could have guessed in my most vivid imagination, it actually feels rather exciting.

I may not be making as much music as I probably ought, but my days are full enough when I am between boat trips. I have a vague idea for coming up with a song about my language learning journey, but I don't know what it will be or how it will work yet. Don't hold your breath, but it could happen. Now I have spent the day writing this so I have a few short language lessons to complete to make it to day 658.

Of Busking Friends

You wait for one footdrummer to arrive and three turn up in the same place! I had to give my phone to someone to photograph three Farmer Footdrum players on the same patch of grass at Freaks In A Field 2025. All three of us have a lot of busking and performing experience to share even if we are often in different countries to do what we do best. From left to right in the photo Marshlander, Ruben Reeves and Cam Cole. 

Of course you know more than enough about Marshlander ... Ruben is from Australia and Cam is from everywhere including the second series of the television series, Ted Lasso. Both Ruben and Cam have a lot of their work on YouTube. For three musicians who use the same type of instrument we all have different syles and ways of playing. Perhaps our ways of working with the footdrums are almost as different as the styles of music we play.

And here I am with my friend, August Radio Project. We met up when he played the musical sections of the More Wonders Of Our Universe science show in Boston in 2025. I should learn to smile more. After all I was very happy to meet him in the flesh at last and he is very, very good at smiling!

Of The Joys Of A Septuagenarian Fanboy

It's surely a given that I've always loved music. As a child I heard it on the radio and on the collection of fragile Bakelite 78rpm records owned by my parents. If you dig deep enough through my early memories you will discover that rather than risk their precious records being broken by a clumsy, but enthusiastic three year-old who simply wanted to hear music and dance, they would teach me to use the family's wind-up gramophone. Apparently as a two-year old I could pick out any song from the collection of records anyway. Adult members of the family often tried to catch me out, but it seems they never could. No one knew how I managed to identify individual songs on the A or B side of a stack of discs and I certainly couldn't tell you now. These days I can barely remember what's on the latest cd I have bought. I suppose I should really say something about the importance of dance in my family. That will have to be for another post.

Live music was a treat reserved for an end of the pier variety show during an occasional day out, a London park bandstand encounter or an even rarer family holiday. It was under the last of these circumstances that the first live music performance I can recall is a set by the Buddy Rich Big Band, though, of course, I had no idea of the significance of the band leader. When The Monkees became an irresistible phenomenon I was completely caught up in it and begged my parents to take me to their first London performance at The Empire Pool in Wembley. A year later my tastes had expanded and my parents took us en famille to the Babylonian Mouthpiece Show at the Royal Festival Hall featuring Tyrannosaurus Rex, Roy Harper, David Bowie and Steffan Grossman. After that I went to as many gigs and concerts as I could. I was indeed fortunate that I lived close enough to several excellent venues and the Hyde Park free concerts were just a train and tube trip away.

Last night I enjoyed the Gigspanner Big Band for the umpteenth time. 

Gigspanner Big Band at The Apex, Bury St Edmunds a while ago stolen from the band's website - I'm in the audience but obscured.

Gigspanner Big Band at The Apex, Bury St Edmunds a while ago stolen from the band's website

Most members of the band have become, at the very least, acquaintances and I would venture so far as to say that one has become a friend. I cannot praise highly enough the joy that the skill and constant invention and enthusiasm of the six experts in their metier brings me each time I see them. The set list may look the same or similar, but no night has ever been truly like another. Last night was no exception and I felt they were even stronger than the last time I saw them. As people they are all thoroughly lovely and I do so enjoy spending time in the company of the band members. Despite being very short of savings after the recent boat troubles I bought a weekend ticket for this year's Ely Folk Festival this morning mainly because they are playing. Of course, Ely Folk Festival is as big as I ever like to go these days in terms of the number of people in attendance and it is spread out over a site large enough to offer me some breathing space. Last year a committee member who had seen me on the Kingfisher Stage a couple of years previously asked me if I had got my ticket yet. When I declared I probably would not be coming he said to let him know if I wanted a ticket. I had planned to go to Strumpshaw Tree Fair last year, having never been before, and they clashed. In the end Ely won and I am really pleased it did. I had a great time and I wanted to "pay" for my ticket by playing some guérilla sets around the site, which I did, including playing for two or three hours by the entrance to the field before any of the official programme started up. The stewards were very happy and very complimentary. Another memorable encounter was an impromptu duo with my friend Fara, improvising around Lean On The Tiller for our mutual friend, Nick Penny. I'd like to do the same again this year despite having now purchased a ticket through the official source. 

I also managed to get back to the It's Not The End Of The World Festival, Freaks In A Field and Banterfest. They are all very different styles of festival, but all are deliciously bijoux and I feel more joy when I meet up again with friends from previous events. Not the End and Freaks are also very affordable ... The Sanger Stage is also my favourite stage to play and Dave Sanger took it to both events. At Not the End Of The World I played two sets on that stage, opening and closing the Friday evening. The Sanger Stage is a traditional showman's stage drawn by horses and is certainly a thing of beauty.

Marshlander on the Sanger Stage at It's Not The End Of The World 2025

Ticket prices are an important consideration for most people. Apart from the fact that I don't like big festivals or big concerts I can't afford them anyway. I'd much rather see, say, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown in a club setting such as Club 85 in Hitchin, Esquires in Bedford or The Lexington in Islington. Even at my age it is a joy to discover music that excites me. Music I can say I have found recently that really excites me includes the work of Ren, The Gulls, The Big Push and other Brighton area buskers including August Radio Project. I may have mentioned previously my love of the Norwich-based project, The Neutrinos and Klanghaus. I try to see them as often as I can. Recently I came across a flurry of activity concerning the Quebecois duo, Angine de Poitrine and I would certainly like to see them perform their magic in a live show. Three dates on the upcoming tour were advertised as being in the UK at less than £20 each and all were sold out. They will be returning to the U.K. later in the year, but the ticket prices have doubled already. Of course, live performance is just about the only way bands have access to people who will buy the merchandise that keeps them touring, but I have a price above which I cannot afford to go. Tickets become available for some new events by Sparks later this week. They are, of course, much bigger and more popular than they have been since the mid-1970s. I'm trying to work out if I can afford to see them this year. I suppose the question is, now the tickets are so much more expensive, can I go without going to see them for the sixty-first time?

Of Testing Weed Mitigation

Of course after spending so much money on the boat I was very keen to try out the new weed mitigation measures I had had fitted. Unfortunately the weather was rough for several days and I did not want to take any chances in case the rope/weed cutter and the weed baffle plates did not perform as hoped. Also I felt I wanted to get used to handling the boat again if the new bits of kit affected the performance. 

Finally I set off in hope on Friday afternoon and took a slow trip to Upwell. I needed to top up the water tank, so Upwell was as good a place as any. It's a pretty mooring with plenty of space for three fifty foot boats to moor. As I approached I saw two boats were already there. One had tied up near the water point and the other was at the opposite end of the mooring. They had left a space in the middle just big enough for me to squeeze into. Happily there was barely any wind, so I could show off my boat handling skills without any risk of the wind putting me to shame. I knew both boats and I had chatted with one of the owners several times. He'd been on this mooring for a while and I'd come to consider him an habitual "overstayer". Boats are only allowed to stay for up to thirty-six hours on Well Creek public moorings. I'd forgotten that the last time we'd talked he had had an engine problem and had been forced to stay in town, where the limit was forty-eight hours, until he could fix the problem. This time he had another problem. His engine room had been filling with water and the engine itself was actually up to its waist in the Old River Nene! Apparently the stern gland was leaking and he was worried about the procedure for replacing the packing in case he made it worse. After all, no one lives on a narrowboat and intentionally turns it into a submarine! He was waiting for the cavalry to arrive. The other boat I had seen many times, but hadn't met the new owner until now. He turned out to be a very cheery and articulate gentleman who was gradually lining up his ducks to move aboard full time. We spent several hours in deep conversation over the next few days whenever we encountered each other. I think we shall become friends.

The following day, Saturday, I decided it was time to conduct the test and headed off towards Outwell, Nordelph and on to Salter's Lode. Obviously testing the anti-weed devices was the main object of the exercise, so rather than stop overnight in Outwell, where I have friends living on both sides of the Basin I went through the village and out towards Nordelph. Because I am still running-in my refurbished engine I was not pushing the engine hard. However, as I closed in on Nordelph I slowed to tickover speed. Received wisdom is that moving as slowly as possible through cott weed is the best course of action. It shouldn't have the opportunity of getting the prop in a stranglehold and a gentle touch of reverse gear is supposed to unwind any weed wrapping the propellor and prop shaft in a slimy embrace. I think my optimism is reflected well in this first video.

My journey didn't actually progress as hoped. A couple of times I became so clogged up with cott I lost all control over the boat and had to stop and access the weed hatch to clear the prop. Still, twice was a vast improvement on the last time I passed this way. I was thinking that the weed cutter and baffle plates were actually making a difference. The journey to Salter's still took a lot longer than it should have done owing to my very slow speed and to the stops to clear the prop. I stayed the night at Salter's Lode and mardled a while with the lockkeeper and her husband (the previous lockie) and it was lovely to see them both again. Of course our conversation could be relaxed because the lock gate mechanism had broken some days previously and no one could get through to the tidal section of the River Great Ouse anyway. Karen was making the very best of her unexpected and extended holiday to plant out a raised bed. 

I had a comfortable night and a late start the following day. I saw Karen and Paul in the garden so went up to bid them farewell. As we were talking a woman walked by and stopped to chat too. She'd been travelling on a widebeam with two friends and with which I'd been playing leapfrog since it first passed me on my home mooring a few days before. We'd done a lot of waving, but this was the first time I had had an opportunity for any kind of conversation. I hadn't noticed the boat moor a couple of boats behind me at Salter's Lode, so I don't know when it had arrived. I turned my boat round where the river was wide enough and set off, but the return journey was anything but peaceful. Thankfully there was still no wind to speak of and it started well enough. I stuck to tickover speed because I was not in any rush and wasn't quite sure where the Sargasso Sea of cott actually began. As it happened the journey towards Nordelph became the stuff of my worst fears. Even before reaching the first of the moored up small GRP cruisers I had to stop and get down into the weed hatch. Once I got to where the boats started to be moored I became very stressed and exhausted as the prop clogged up again and again and again. For the first time ever in my experience the engine stalled twice, stopped by the sheer volume of cott the prop had picked up. It felt like clearing the blockage took much longer as the weed cutter blades seemed to hold on to the slimy threads of cott and I could mostly only pull off tiny amounts at a time. March was definitely too early in the year for the cott to be this thick. Despite that I collected a huge pile of the stuff on my trad stern deck after picking it off the prop. 

After the fourth stoppage I was aching from the core-withering workout of weed removal and was taking a breather when a family of four passed me in a small electric powered fishing boat. We had exchanged greetings on their way out earlier in the afternoon and they weren't altogether surprised to see me stuck in their village's notorious weed spot as they returned home. Dad called out asking if he could help and I replied that a tow would be handy! To my delight and surprise he agreed. He let his family off at their house and circled back to grab the bow rope I threw out to him. We managed to progress a few yards but his engine battery began to fade. Undaunted he said he had another one on charge so went back to get it. We made a few yards further progress when that battery too began to give out. We wished each other good luck and he set off home. I slipped the boat into gear and am not sure whether I got even as far as two metres when the engine stopped. In that tiny distance I had collected enough cott to stall the engine. I unscrewed the weed hatch AGAIN and and pulled out more threads and clumps of weed. As I stood up to unfold myself and stretch before resuming my bums-up worship at the weed hatch I heard the unmistakable chug of a Lister engine. As my "friends" on the widebeam chugged by I called out requesting a tow to the bridge, which I knew to be the limit of the worst of the cott. If a man on a vastly under-powered electric boat was willing to help why wouldn't a fully-equipped boat with a working diesel engine offer a similar courtesy? I never got the chance to find out because without even looking at me, obviously stuck diagonally across the river, they carried on. As they passed someone called out something, but I didn't catch it over the engine noise. I only know that had the situation been reversed I would not have hesitated to try to help, even if it meant two boats would end up being stuck. I can't be the only person to call out to check that all is well if ever I see a stationary boat that is not obviously moored up! To be honest, I was truly astonished by their lack of concern for a fellow boater. Eventually I cleared the prop (again!) and fired up the engine (again!). Inevitably I ground to yet another halt after another couple of metres, right next to a moored up GRP cruiser! This was nearly the very worst thing that could have happened. The only thing that might have made it worse still was if there had been a wind. Thankfully the weather was kind and the air was still. I was close enough to the cruiser to push against it with my hand to stop my boat touching it. I had to get away from the cruiser and the only thing I could think to do was to see if my barge pole was long enough to reach the bottom of the river so I could propel myself forward and into a space between two moored cruisers. I had the pole on the roof close to me and I deployed it hoping I could punt myself into a safer space. The pole hit the bed of the river and kept on sinking into the silty peat. I feared I was not going to hit anything hard enough to push against, but I had just enough pole to manoeuvre myself away from the fragile cruiser. It stuck in the mud and again I feared losing it, but as I twisted it came loose and I drove it back into the mud to push myself a little further. I had wondered if I could actually reach the bridge in the centre of the village by repeating this action, but there was no chance of that. I came to rest a few metres beyond the endangered cruiser and once again unscrewed the weed hatch and assumed the position. I was still picking out chunks and threads of cott two or three hours later as the light began to fade. Fortunately the boat had barely moved ahead or astern during that time, but I was completely exhausted, very stressed, hungry and thirsty, having not had anything except a biscuit since breakfast, many hours earlier. Although I was untethered I could not do anything about it. I fired off an SOS e-mail to the Middle Level Commissioners explaining my situation and requesting assistance, but they wouldn't see it till Monday morning. There was nothing for it but to drift as I made some food in the galley and ate disconsolately. I lay down on my bed for a very fitful few hours of sleep, waking pretty much every hour to check that I was still at a safe distance from the moored cruisers. It was not a good night. Had there been any wind I would have been in a terrible situation.

The following morning at about 7.30 I phoned the Middle Level Commissioners and got through to the on-call engineer, who said he would get a message to the navigation officer, Kev, a marvellous chap who has got me out of sticky situations a few times over the years. After breakfast I resumed digging out the weed and I was still doing that some hours later when Kev turned up in his 4x4. He'd had to meet some engineers at Salter's Lode to try and work through the situation with the broken guillotine gate mechanism. 

After some discussion he decided he could tow me along the river from the bank until he reached a roadsign that was blocking his way. That would be very useful, even if it did not take me as far as the bridge I wanted to reach. He has towed a few boats along there over the past couple of years and he has actually worked out a system for doing it. I tied another ten metres of rope to my centre line and threw the rope to him. He in turn tied it to the towing strap on his truck. I knew that if I was being towed I needed the engine running and the prop as clear as possible so could make any corrections to my heading as the wind and current risked fishtailing me from side to side. There were still many boats to pass before I was clear of the worst of the weed. Somehow we made it. We retrieved our ropes and I edged very slowly under the bridges at Nordelph and out on to the open creek. I knew there was still the risk of scooping up some cott, but it would not be as risky as it had been for the last mile of the waterway. I managed to get beyond Gladys Dack's before I was forced to stop by the weight of weed reducing my momentum and steering ability. From there I was able to make my way cautiously along Well Creek, slipping the boat into reverse every time the prop wash pattern changed and I made it to Outwell without needing to stop again. It would probably go without saying, but I slept really well that night.

A final thought on this trip is that the jury is still out regarding the efficacy of the weed mitigation alterations I have made to my narrowboat. The boat is due to come out of the water for reblacking at the end of June so I shall persist with the upgrades until then and make a decision as to whether I keep them or not. On the one hand, they seem not to have been remotely successful in coping with the serious inundation of cott at Nordelph - and may even have made its removal more difficult - but I'm not sure yet how effective they are on a waterway having navigable depth and "normal" aquatic flora conditions. It is just possible they do actually help with most types of weed. The blade device is sold as a "rope cutter". When I stopped at Upwell after leaving Outwell I had to unwrap a strip of elasticated fabric and a plastic bag from the prop - annoying, of course, but much easier to deal with than cott weed. A bit further on, emerging from the lock, I acquired a plastic animal feed bag. I suppose once my engine has been properly run-in and serviced I should be able to check whether upping the revs helps, though the thought of shredding plastic in the river is not a happy one.

 

Of Bunging On Another Thousand 2

My savings were nearly depleted. There was, however one more project to undertake and I knew it would probably come close to that extra thousand. 

Every time I take the boat along Well Creek I collect cott weed round the prop and shaft. Cott weed isn't the stuff with stems or the stuff that looks like underwater cabbage Cott weed is this boater's nemesis. Whenever I pride myself that things are actually going rather well there is cott weed. Like a snuggly blanket it collects around the prop and eventually the boat loses all forward and reverse thrust along with any control of the steering. That leaves the boat completely at the mercy of wind, currents and anything else Mother Nature wants to send my way. The very worst part of Well Creek is through the village of Nordelph en route to Salter's Lode, although I have had some awkward moments (for "moments" read "hours") going through Upwell and Outwell too. 

With my boat the first I know there is a weed problem is when I see the wash pattern change. I have learned to read my prop wash carefully and when I see the signs it is time to stop going forward and ease the boat into reverse. The theory is that this unwinds anything wrapped round the prop. It works at first, but in particularly bad places like Nordelph the prop is soon overwhelmed again. If I haven't been paying close enough attention I sometimes hear the pitch of the engine change and the engine, struggling to work, throws out black smoke in protest. If I ignore all these signs the engine generally keeps going but I lose all control over direction and speed. That is annoying enough, but when I am passing moored boats it can be terrifying. Were I to travel with a crew I could at least ask someone to fend off the danger, even when in truth my twenty tons of steel is the danger to any "yoghurt pot", the affectionate name we condescendingly use for glass-reinforced plastic (GRP) cruisers as it appears to loom at its mooring.

I've spoken to a few boaters who have fitted rope/weed cutters to their prop shafts and have checked out a number of YouTube videos. The theory seems sound. I decided that I would get one fitted. The boat has to come out of the water for the fitting and using the slipway just about doubles the price. Still, if it works it will be more than worth it.

The boatyard ordered one from T. Norris Marine in Chichester. We had to wait for a while because they had an upgrade to the original and the stocks had not yet arrived. I took the boat into March this morning and by this afternoon the work had been done. Alan at the boat yard suggested making and welding on some weed baffle plates too They used to fit them to all the hire boats they made. In theory these prevent the moving propellor from dragging weed up from the river bed. In for a penny, in for many pennies  ... all to the good if the measures work.

Rudder and skeg before weed baffle plates are fitted

Weed baffle plates cut out and welded to the skeg and swim

"Hopefully it's evil enough to do the job" was my response to Alan's declaration that the rope cutter was an "evil-looking thing". We'll find out in a future video!

Of Bunging On Anther Thousand 1

As any boater knows, BOAT is an acronym acknowledging the costs of ownership. Many people think that living on a boat is cheap. While it may be less expensive than owning a dwelling of bricks and mortar, in no way can it be considered "cheap". All homes require maintenance, but the risks of not maintaining a boat are probably more perilous. After waterways licence fees, insurance and boat safety certification there are the costs of interior and exterior upkeep. I'm afraid the only kinds of these types of upkeep I am fanatical about is regular reblacking the hull and engine servicing. Everything else is dealt with when it becomes urgent. I am probably a very bad boater. My boat is not shiny either and does require some external paintwork to be patched up. If I do get round to wielding a paintbrush I get as far as a dab of red oxide after which the weather changes and I generally lose the will to add undercoat and topcoats. I'm booked in for reblacking at the end of June - £££!

A couple of weeks after arriving at the boatyard in March I returned to Calcutt Boats to collect my beautifully restored and rebuilt engine. They had even repainted it. Naturally I was hoping the paint wasn't only cosmetic.

Here it is being put back into the boat. It was obviously not the easiest of jobs lifting it over some sheds on the quayside and into my engine bay!

Naturally I was anxious to take the boat out and see what the repaired engine felt like. It was bootiful! Quiet, more or less smokeless and now I have to treat it carefully during a running in period of up to one hundred hours, I'm looking forward to getting out and about again. Another thousand? This came to seven thousand.

Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 5

So here I was, moored up at the marina, having arrived in plenty of time to drive to my hospital appointment in Peterborough. While I was away Alan and Gerald took my engine out of the boat using the teleporter - that's the agricultural/industrial lifting machine, not the invention of Star Trek! I wasn't there to see it happen, but the arm of the teleporter will extend over the top of the sheds on the quayside and with a little "this a-way, that a-way, left a bit, right a bit, up/down" they lifted the engine out of the boat and set it down in the shed. 

My hospital appointment took longer than expected for two reasons. I arrived in plenty of time for my 2pm appointment, but was kept waiting for a couple of hours. During the appointment the doctor put drops into my eye to dilate the pupil. I hadn't been warned about that and had to wait for the drops to wear off before I could drive again. I didn't get away until well after 6pm and I probably should have left it even later before I started driving, even though I felt safe enough. On my way back to the boatyard I stopped off at my lockup to empty my van of the stuff I usually keep in the back to make sure I had space to load up the engine. When I arrived back at the marina I found my engine at the back of the shed ...

Engine on dry land

The following morning (Thursday) the engine was hoisted again and loaded into my van.

Engine being loaded into the van

I set off for Calcutt Boats, near Rugby, where they were expecting delivery of the  engine. It would be there in good time to take advantage of the space that had come up the following Monday, when they stripped, rebuilt and replaced all the bits that needed sorting after the breakdown. They were stress testing it all day Wednesday and Thursday and needed time to fit the upgrades I had requested (a twin-belt alternator having a more than double the output of the old one and a spin-on oil filter housing as suggested by Gerald of Fox's to make services easier) and spruce it all up ready for collection the following week.

In the meantime my boat was poled and pulled over to a spot opposite the workshop quayside that was to become my home for the next fortnight.

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 partner 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.