Of Belonging, Membership and Being An Utter Tool!

The human being is a social animal. Anyone who doesn’t belong to a group tends to be viewed with caution by those who do. The demands made by the group of its members often influence the modes and the degree to which loyalty is expressed. Demands such as a membership subscription may enable the group to carry out its intended purpose and such shared payments can smooth the way in enabling the group members to take part in their shared activity. Pretty much stating the B.O.!

The human species also espouses contradictions. It’s a part of being human. Even fully paid up members of a group may consider themselves free-thinking individuals no matter how much of their individuality they have surrendered to the group. “I am a member of this gang because I think this or that" can so easily become "I am a member of this gang and so I shall think this or that". Some organisations, including religions and political parties exact a penalty for daring to deviate from the group's aims and priorities. I was raised in a high demand religious cult and coming out in much later life prompted the local ecclesiastical authority to request a meeting and accuse me of flouting the "law of chastity". I hope he felt as demeaned as I felt annoyed. I had known him since he was a child and in all that time I had never done anything more than sit in church to help my then wife with the children. I certainly had not professed any belief, since that had abandoned me long before. I did not consider myself a member of the flock, nor did I accept he had any position of authority in my life. Church had become simply a place I had to be to keep relative peace in the family. My wife and I had met and married as teenagers. Within six years I had come to the realisation that I no longer believed, but I had made what I thought was a serious commitment. I tried to support her priorities until I could no longer do so. I found myself as co-babysitter in church for more than a decade.

I joined the Ecology Party in the 1980s and was a member when they changed their name to the Green Party. I even stood for election in a borough council election in 1986. I was surprised to receive as many as 59 votes but very relieved not to be elected to the borough council. That left me free to start looking for jobs doing something I much preferred to do, namely music. When I moved out of the town to another part of the country I let my Green Party membership lapse and have never rejoined. I have felt almost tempted since Zack Polansky was elected leader and has been incredibly articulate in espousing many of the same thoughts as me on so many issues. However, I have decided that being a member of a gang is really not all that great when they start to make demands that one should think the same thoughts. I'm happy enough to add my ballooning weight to the throng in demonstrations and at rallies, if I can see the point of an action, but I'm not tempted to join or rejoin a gang. I will admit to a twinge of something approaching nostalgia every time someone calls for people to join up to increase the numbers in the party and add to the money available to fight campaigns. One of my favourite people, a kind, articulate and caring medical professional, a town councillor near where I moor much of the time, had their party membership revoked after using their professional knowledge and research to offer a different point of view to the prevailing group think on T issues in LGBTQIA+ matters. I don't know the details, but the party lost a good member who was willing to stand up for the main principles in the Green Party manifesto. As I understand the situation my friend wanted to explore nuance, but hardliners in the party would not tolerate nuance. The current leadership has said that the Party can be inclusive as long as any member is broadly in accordance with established principles. That is fair enough. Otherwise what is the point of people joining together for a common cause? My friend's expulsion went beyond this consensus. It was a witch-hunt and we've seen the same kind of expulsions happen in other political parties as well as organised religious groups. 

Does the same thing happen in the worlds of sports, the arts or other fields of human endeavour? They are certainly tribal enough. From time to time I have found myself parrotting a phrase or idea I have heard from someone else. Perhaps it seemed apt or amusing or poignant. I'm not always convinced I fully subscribed to the actual idea and it is only when someone takes the trouble to express their thoughts on something I have said that I may have been forced to confront my assertions and revisit them. Our society is all the poorer when nuance is seen as betrayal and something to be punished. A change or reconsideration of a thought may be derided as a u-turn. Whether the simplification of ideas is a deliberate ploy to mislead or an honest attempt to make an argument accessible to all, something is frequently lost in the reduction. It makes me sad when people seem not to be able to talk ideas through to find a place where different priorities might meet. "My way or the highway" leaves little room for the power that argument can offer to sway a decision. The way leaders express themselves gives permission to members of the gang to behave in good or bad ways. Why is it so often in bad ways - storming the senate, wearing masks to root out and expel people of other cultures, standing on cliff tops to gesture and shout at the sea to repel so-called "invaders" who are not invaders at all, but simply fellow humans in need a safe place to live? Were I going to "invade another country" I would probably choose a more robust method of travel than an inflatable raft. However invading a neighbouring country, manipulating the law to recruit the internal forces of law and order into dragging people away to the courts for merely sitting in a public place and holding a handwritten sign to express dissent are all crazy power games. Under threat of losing their membership, their citizenship, their jobs or their pensions the powerless will feel emboldened by the size of the gang and pride themselves on their ability to follow orders. The largest mob with the most amount of power wins and a thought-through argument does not figure in the process. I wish I saw more evidence of people who could and should know better following orders to enforce some sometimes arbitrary rules to a good purpose, but it feels somewhat rare. Maybe it's simply that the good examples happen in the background and aren't deemed worthy of attention. Only one political leader has actually discussed priorities that moved me to something other than dismay or anger. Hearing Mothin Ali discuss his passion for gardening was rather lovely. Hearing him described by those who disagree with his point of view as a dangerous terrorist is very upsetting, but I'm still not rejoining the gang.

Being the contrarian that I am, I have signed up to membership of a couple of waterways support groups that campaign and work for facilities I feel may be of benefit, but I'm still not joining the gang!

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 The Last Tree

I shouldn’t have been around to witness this. I should have been on the first of five trains that day that would eventually take me over the Swiss border and back again into France. Unfortunately the abuse of rail workers by management and governments in France and the UK meant that I had to put my plans on hold for a few days while the workers were forced into standing up to the bosses. 

Every now and then, workers from the drainage authority turn up. The task of the day determines the vessel in or on which they whizz past creating more wash than any hire boat. Generally I wave and they ignore. One could become a little sensitive to this were one so disposed. I convince myself it is neither a personal slight nor an instruction from management that they avoid being seen to fraternise with the natives, but rather the necessity of being focussed on the task either at hand or impending that contributes to a general air of surliness that pervades these encounters. That doesn’t prevent such dourness radiating vibes of barely concealed aggression. I’ve seen that aggression given voice in the responses to perceived criticism on social media pages. I’ve no wish to mess with some of these über-masculine types in the real world who make me a little nervous. I’ll continue to wave and they’ll probably continue to ignore. 

I’ll hazard a guess that my fascination with aquatic and peri-aquatic bird life is no secret. Friends frequently send me photographs of kingfishers and I’m always staggered that other people have managed to capture the beauty, wildness and utter indifference to humanity of these amazing creatures. That they can skim the water so close to the surface and at such velocity elicits feelings from my deep well of awe. I think they truly live their lives at a difference pace. We probably appear to them as snails might appear to us. You might remember some of my close encounters with kingfishers since I have referenced them often within these essays. Families of kingfishers have used the bank opposite me for their nesting burrows for generations. The farmer here remembers seeing them using the same burrow sixty years ago. I am pretty sure that he holds them in at least as much affection as I do. I know he feels very strongly about protecting their environment. The burrow is a hole in the bank protected within the roots of a well-established (white?) willow. I don’t know how long this tree has been growing, but it is the only tree on that side of the river for possibly a mile in each direction. This makes it an incredibly important tree. It is home to many species of fauna and provides respite and shade to many others. Swans hang around for days when they need a place of shelter or shade. I have seen many species of the usual garden, river or woodland birds rest among its branches and some less usual ones as well including pheasants, herons and hawks settling to roost. What is very much not part of the Fen landscape is tree cover. Some farmers have allowed small stands of woodland to develop away from watercourses, but these are mainly to provide cover for game birds. Trees growing along the banks of the Fenland waterways are few and far between. There used to be more willows between “my” willow and the lock, but these were heavily coppiced a few years ago and are still recovering from the shock. They no longer appear to sprout any growth. One perception among people round here is that the authority hates trees and they would prefer to see their river banks looking like a well-tended lawn. I don’t know how true this is, but when I see how any trees are treated I can see why so many people think this way. Presumably a “lawn” is easier to tend than a tree. I’m guessing that there is a balance between maintaining the bank of a water course that suits the requirements of all its stakeholders, of whatever species, and the ease with which that bank can be maintained. One day many years ago, some workmen turned up to take the tree down. The farmer, fully tooled up, discouraged them from their intention very, very quickly indeed. I love it that he loves the tree too.

One day recently one of the weed cutting boats fitted with a hydraulic rake arm arrived. It was accompanied by a powered raft carrying three men in several layers of high visibility protective clothing. One of them pull-started a chainsaw into life and with a lot of shouting began hacking away at the branches of the willow. Naturally being very anxious that the tree not be damaged I climbed out of the boat and watched, fixing them with a very hard stare (yes, thank you Pooh). They wouldn’t have heard me above the noise so when the chainsaw powered down I hailed them and tried to remind them that the tree is the only home for many species. “Please be careful of the kingfisher burrow,” I called across to them. Families of kingfishers have been using it for at least sixty years.”

“No kingfishers here, mate,” came a somewhat irritated reply. 

“I’m still seeing them,” I responded. “They use those low branches outside the burrow to perch on while they are fishing. There’s not much else they can easily use.”

Clearly irritated by my interference he pointed out that there were plenty of perching places on my side of the river. Of course, he was correct in that they often perched on my tiller, my prow, or the grabrail of a nearby houseboat. One day the farmer’s grandson had been fishing and a kingfisher even perched on the end of his rod; the grandson didn’t dare breathe! The nuances of further discussion did not seem to interest the workman. The chainsaw fired up again. I went to find the farmer. I thought he’d want to know. Fortunately he was at home and came down the steps to the river. He tried to attract the attention of any member of the work crew, but they were on a mission. When the chainsaw stopped again for refuelling he took his turn to hail them. I was dismayed at the amount of growth they had cut back. They were now very close to the burrow and several branches overhanging the river had been lopped. I was in two minds about this aspect of the job. From spring to autumn the river is much busier and boats heading towards the lock are forced out into the river by the overhang. That’s no problem until something is also heading this way from the lock. I assume that heading off a collision with any of the moored boats was probably a reason for the carnage. My concern was that they were going to trim off the overhang today before coming back to finish the job later. I decided to phone the drainage authority. I was pretty sure they’d appointed a conservationist to the company. I spoke to the receptionist, “Could you please call off your boys? They’ve cut the tree back enough for boats to get by and I don’t know how much more damage they were planning on doing.” The man I needed to speak to was in a meeting and would call me back. Meanwhile the farmer’s discussion with the trio of doughty vandals had taken a distinct turn southwards and a torrent of abuse came our way. I’m not quite sure what caused it, but I did hear, “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business and get back on your little fucking boat!” Apart from the fact that the farmer didn’t live on a boat of any size or purpose, resorting to that kind of abuse was a realisation of the testosterone-fuelled aggression I’d been anticipating all along. While the farmer could easily deal with any amount of that, specially had they been on the same side of the river, he decided to make a phone call of his own. The person he was calling was in a meeting …

Everything went quiet. The helmsman of the workboat was on his phone. I went back on to my “little *** boat” which, incidentally, was several metres longer than theirs and managed to speak to my friend, Nick. Nick is writing a book about kingfishers as it happens and was due to submit it to the publisher for proofreading the following day. Nick assured me that the kingfishers would not be using the burrow at this time of the year. They’d be quite likely to be patrolling some of the dykes between the fields where it was less exposed. I could expect them to start pairing up again in a month or two when the burrow would come back into use. 

It stayed quiet. The workboats moved up towards the lock and their next project. I’m pleased to say they did leave some of the lower part of the tree and here’s a photograph I’ve just taken from the galley window. Whether it would have been cut back any further without us intervening I couldn’t say, but I could give them the benefit of the doubt and hope that they didn’t not want a confrontation any more than I did.

The willow on the right was joined by an elder that colonised the space on the left a few years ago

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 Living Room Concert & An Afternoon Busk

I had a lovely opportunity to perform a few songs for a dear friend today. Some years ago she had a traumatic brush with cancer and was forced to undertake some radical and life-changing surgery. We've been good friends for about fifty years. She has been in remission, but sadly the cancer returned in several vicious new variants. It was obvious that time was limited. I was very keen to see her again, but with covid lockdowns and other restrictions we have had to be content with occasional phone calls. More recently she found those too exacting, so we have resorted to instant voice messages when she felt strong enough.

We first met each other at college when we studied music together in the early 1970s. When we had to work on projects in breakout groups we'd always work together with John, who sadly passed away shortly after we left college. Bea was a constant source of comfort and joy. She made it possible to laugh about anything. Today she would be laughing about the indignities brought about by her cancer. She is one of the most cultured people I know, yet would absolutely refute anything resembling such an accolade. While a friend and I went to the local cinema to watch the recent live broadcast of Wagner's "Die Walküre" Bea was in the audience at the Royal Opera House for two or three days as a treat to herself of one last Ring Cycle. Had I known I would have scanned the audience on the cinema screen more keenly.

By mid-day Bea is generally too exhausted to continue sitting up, so I had to get to hers by mid-morning. We chatted and laughed and I brought in my instruments. It was such an immense privilege to be able to share a few of my songs with this dearest of friends. She knew the songs I have recorded on my CD, so I sang a few from there and a few others that she hadn't heard. It was such an intimate and uplifting experience and I am so pleased I was able to share this time with her. Of course, by mid-day, she'd clearly had enough so as she was retiring to her bed I packed up my instruments and left. Close platonic friendships are such special and rare events. I never knew what to make of the times she introduced me to her friends with "... we went to college together; pity he's gay"!!!!

The weather that day had been a bit dull with occasional spots of rain, but by the end of the morning the sun was shining. I had my instruments and my voice was warmed up. I needed to go busking.

I drove into Hitchin town centre and was able to use the council information centre to book a two-hour slot at one of the town’s three designated busking spots with the aid of a very helpful assistant. Bravo Hitchin! Thank you too to the generous public. I had to get the instruments out of the rain a couple of times, but otherwise it was a very enjoyable experience. I may be back! 

Of A New Direction In A Third Age

I have a new career! The months of lockdowns, scaremongering, lies, isolation, separation from my partner and barely believeable truths in the news media have taken a toll. I had no idea that I had lost so much of myself during this pandemic. As already reported, all the work I had in the diary disappeared over a three-day period in March 2020. It was not replaced and 2021 has been very bleak professionally. 

I have always been a nervous performer and every gig I have ever played has involved an effort of will. Of course, once on stage some inner monster takes over and, once it's all over, I have been glad to have seen it through. I rather thought that making an effort to perform online like so many others have managed to do might help, but it didn't ... not at all. If anything it compounded my sense of insecurity. Pretending to project to invisible people was frustrating because I made just as many (if not more) mistakes. I tried recording videos to share online, but that hasn't worked either. The same holes in my memory manifest themselves no matter how well I think I know the material. I can lose a word, a whole line, a chord, even a rhythm and the whole edifice wobbles alarmingly. Any improvement has come with the speed at which I can manage to recover. Strangely, these losses are not predictable. They never appear in the same places. I've come to the conclusion that it's not actually having to face the audience that I find difficult, but something much more subtle and I have never really been able to pin it down. This is one of the reasons busking in the street has always seemed a masochistic way to behave. I have always admired people who have the courage to do it and wished I could be one of them, but I'm not ... or so I thought. 

A couple of years ago I was booked to play on a busker's trail for a local festival. I was surprised to find I enjoyed it, but I could never undertake it again without having somebody's "official" permission to set up and play. Then, ten days ago, something snapped. I had a moment of insight and sadness that so much of me that had been invested in working as a musician had been stripped from me. I had also lost what was left of my mojo and creativity. Very few new songs have been completed and only a few new ideas have been started in these lockdown months. I have been becoming even less visible than the singer of "Grey". No new work was being offered and I was slipping into retirement as an ex-musician. 

It was a beautiful Saturday, so I loaded up a guitar, drumkit, harmonicas and guitar-stool and drove the twelve miles into the town where I no longer hold the monthly Songwriters & Poets evenings of the pre-pandemic era. By the time I arrived the market was packing up. I thought I could just set up outside the Bookshop, but when I walked across town, the Town Square was almost empty and, better still, not on a slope. I rolled out my Ghanaian mat, made from recycled plastic bags, set up my drums and stool, slipped on my harmonica harness tuned my guitar and, for the next couple of hours, sang and played to my heart's content. It was such a liberating experience and I was not expecting that. This felt like the start of a new chapter. I cannot believe how much fun I had playing to mostly indifferent people. A few of them took a few minutes to sit on some nearby steps or on a bench just within earshot. Some people stayed for a few songs. Small children danced and jiggled, one was pulled on to the dance floor by a grandfather. A few people dropped coins into my hat and in that couple of hours I earned enough to cover the cost of the fuel for the van to drive there and back again to the boat or nearly enough for my next order of organic vegetables. I had gone over much of my current repertoire and I was thrilled. This was the first time I had played in such a long time that my voice was going and my fingers were sore. When I arrived back at the boat I realised I was also physically very tired. Although most people walked across the Square completely ignoring me that actually felt significant and important. They were completely at liberty to listen or not as they wished. Additionally I was not beholden to any promoter or event orgamiser and had no cause to feel the overwhelming responsibility of trying to ensure that whoever had engaged my services was getting their money's worth. I have always felt this responsibility to be a huge burden over decades of performing and I think it has been a big factor in ensuring I never sleep well the night before any booking. 

In the nine days that followed that experience I have been out busking six times and have loved each experience. I also took up an unexpected offer of a pub garden gig. Each time I've gone out I've met many new and interesting people. Some days have brought unexpected reconnection with old friends. Some people want to come and chat, to discuss my unusual instruments or tell me about themselves (Pink Floyd's lighting engineer, anyone?). Some people walk jauntily through the precinct in time to the music and with a spring in their step; some acknowledge with a nod, a smile, a wave. In addition to some generous coinage from a few passing folk, I have been offered food, stories of incredible adventures, the aforementioned gig (no money, but food and great publicity ... oh right, that old chestnut 😆), an ice lolly to cool me down when it was very warm yesterday and one person even bought some merchandise! Quite by chance one of my oldest friends, who's been living in Eastern Europe for years, happened to walk across the town square in West Norfolk on Saturday while I was singing. We first met some forty-nine years ago when he lived in London and this was the first time he'd been to Downham Market ... 

I'll never make my fortune busking, but it is good the days I break even. Only one day saw no money in the hat. Unfortunately I had to part with all the previous day's earnings to pay for parking. However, with magic like I've experienced so far I shall keep this new gig going while the weather is in my favour. 

Frustratingly, my van has developed a fault, which cannot be addressed until at least the end of the week, so I'm stuck on my mooring at the moment when I want to go out and play in the street. However, at least I can take some time to tell you about it all. For the first time I feel I am able to acknowledge myself as a musician rather than a fraud with musical aspirations and I love being completely independent as a performer. I have also started work on a couple of new songs. They may even get finished ...

Letters To A Kingfisher - 7

 Dear King,

You've eluded me for such a long time, but here you are. 

You were sitting on my stern fender for ten full minutes before I took a chance to reach for my iPhone to take your photograph. I think the rain must have distracted you from seeing me as I slowly, so, so slowly, moved my hand ...

Thanks for letting me snap the photo though. You flew off shortly after, but came back a few minutes later. I've got to know the routine now - fender, tiller, roof and off.

I'm sorry it's not a brilliant picture. It does not do you justice. Maybe I should have cleaned the summer house windows. I've been thinking about saving up to buy a camera for a while. Then I wouldn't have to rely on my obsolete phone or huge tablet for taking photographs. I have two or three friends who take the most extraordinary wildlife photographs and I'll never match their standards, but I'd like to think I could do better. Maybe one day I shall.

Love and respect to you,

Marsh

Of More Sad Goodbyes And Floating Free

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

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

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

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

Of A Placeholder Update and Downloadable Music

I do apologise AGAIN for not adding anything to this blog for such a long time. I began with such good intentions too.

I have been out and about in the boat and I have been performing to promote the album a little and have been very pleased that it has received plays on BBC Radio Cambridgeshire, West Norfolk Radio and Future Radio. I have also been busy with other projects, mainly ceilidh bands, and drum workshops, but other musical projects too. I have even played drums in a rock band for the first time ever and had a lot of fun doing that. I was offered a busking spot at a small festival recently which was also a lot more fun than I anticipated. I didn't earn much and didn't sell any cds, but I did earn enough in about an hour and a half to feed myself that day - result! I have also finished a couple of new songs for the first time in months and I am happy with those. I've even trialled them at the monthly Songwriters nights I run. Did I mention the extraordinary Lâg/HyVibe guitar I've had for the past six months? I must do a bit about that in a future blog essay.

This week I have been drawing together some thoughts on the Byelaws that are being proposed for this waterway. This follows the introduction of new laws last year, which conferred the necessary powers on the navigation authority here to make these Byelaws. Not really good news, unfortunately, but hopefully some of my objections will strike a chord. It is amazing how many powerful people are not really aware of their actions on others; or is that just people in general?

I've experienced losing a couple of musician friends suddenly and unexpectedly in the last few weeks.  I suppose I'm at that age when this will increasingly become a feature of my life. I've been asked to read one his poems by the widow of the latest to go.

Much less drastically, but also unexpected and unfortunate, I have had some gigs cancelled that I thought were settled. As one door closes, another one slams shut! It wouldn't affect me so much if I had a proper job (or any job I suppose) maybe? Perhaps more busking ...

I just thought I would mention though, that FINALLY I have got round to sorting out putting some music on Bandcamp. That means people who want to buy a download instead of the physical cd can do so. Naturally the download is cheaper, although it is nice for us musicians that customers, followers and fans can add a little extra if they would like to. This is the place ...

https://marshlander.bandcamp.com

I understand some people prefer not to use PayPal. If you buy from Bandcamp I believe it doesn't have to go through PayPal unless you want it to.

At some point I have to address the daunting prospect of redesigning my websites I have to reflect what I actually spend my time doing these days. It's another one of those jobs I've put off for years. Work begins on costumes and masks for February's 2020 Venice Carnival very soon.

Of Another Unexpected Encounter

... Approaching the boatyard on the edge of town and still crawling along at about 2mph I heard a sound from behind me that made me freeze. Dogs ... yapping.

Some years ago I had a neighbour, Yappy-Dog Woman. This is how I met her.

I bought my present boat from the Bodger and the Fireman who had bought it from the Chippy who had sold up and moved to Bulgaria.  The Chippy sold them his boat for a song and they thought they would tidy it up and sell it on at a neat profit, which they did ... to me. The Bodger lived on his 60' narrowboat on the next door mooring and, a couple of years after selling me my boat, couldn't resist adding to his fleet by buying what could only be described as a floating night club now up for sale. He had first seen the shiny boat with the chromed interior, polished aluminium walls and ceiling, the mirror-tiled bar and the programmable disco lights some years earlier and, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, had coveted it since. He bought the boat which left him with a surfeit of boats for the available mooring space. He advertised his 60' boat on e-Bay. There were no takers for several months and he became despondent. His face did light up though when, in the fulness of time, he received an enquiry from a woman wanting to move up from Plymouth. She had no boating experience whatsoever, but fancied a change from living in a house and having neighbours the other side of a shared wall. She gave the boat a thorough looking at and liked what she saw. She commissioned a survey and the report came back positive. The Bodger offered to let her stay on the boat for a couple of weeks to see how she liked it. Apparently she liked it well-enough and stayed all summer. The Bodger had no idea whether she would ever pay up the agreed price, but eventually she paid a deposit and his blue face turned a little more pink as he began once more to breathe. As summer drew to a close, Plymouth Lady gave the Bodger the balance. He waited several days to make sure the cheque cleared and, on confirmation that the transaction had indeed concluded, they had a formal celebratory drinks party on the boat to which I was invited.

The three of us imbibed our favourite poisons (water for me and wine for them). Someone suggested a game of Scrabble. I used to enjoy playing Scrabble. I had a Scrabble dictionary and had spent some time learning useful two-letter words. However, by majority vote, my "Scrabble Dictionary" was deemed invalid, while the 1950s Chambers English Dictionary was decided by the two of them to be the reference of choice. I lost the game by a long way since very few of my words were in the Chambers and I had to miss several turns. None of the two-letter ones I had learned were in the Chambers either. After the second glass of wine I noticed a change in the atmosphere. The woman became increasingly abusive, loud and unpredictable. It didn't take long for me to decide I needed to leave. I was almost sorry to leave the Bodger in her gentle clutches, but I figured a man in his late sixties ought to be able to look after himself or deal with whatever was coming next - and I knew he was actually rather hopeful. The thought of that made me shudder, but by that time I was well beyond caring what happened to him. The two of them had turned rather horrible.

Within days she returned to Plymouth to wind up her affairs there. This seemed to take longer than expected, but the solitude and peace were what I enjoy most about living here. Eventually, though, she reappeared like a hurricane except that, this time, she had two Yorkshire terriers in her van. I heard them coming from miles away. This was the first that anyone of us at the farm were aware of her two boys. There were already five dogs living on the farm (along with three regular visitors, who were mostly well-behaved). Their arrival, however, signalled the beginning a a new kind of hell.

Around that time I was working on a complete new repertoire for a ceilidh project and the first performance was almost imminent. I did not realise it was possible for dogs to yap twenty-three hours of every day for months on end. These dogs excelled. I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever attempted to compose and arrange music to the overwhelming accompaniment of yapping terriers, but I would not wish that on Salieri were I Wolfgang Amadeus himself (and I assure you I have not one smidge of that man's genius ... nor any other as it happens). With a deadline fast approaching I was really struggling. I explained the situation and I pleaded with her to try and give me some peace to finish, but she didn't get the urgency. She was my new neighbour and I should learn to be more tolerant. Somehow I got through the writing and the gig was actually a success of sorts. My tunes came to have titles like "Dog In The Drink" and "Two Terriers And A Chainsaw". There may have been a connection.

Things didn't get much better. She used a shared cancer diagnosis to make friends with the Horse Woman, a powerful ally to have. She managed, though, to alienate everyone else for miles around. I have no idea what kind of skill it takes to upset the owners of the village chip shop, but she possessed it by the bucketload. She upset publicans and punters in most of the pubs within a six mile radius. She complained so hard and so often at the Bodger, that he bought a riverside plot forty miles away and left the farm after living there for more than seven years. She was rude to the Engineer, who spent a lot of time trying to work out just what the Bodger had done to his boat while he was living on it. She ordered people around; resistance was futile, specially from men who were deemed chauvinistic simply by nature of the sex listed on their birth certificates. As it happens she only called me a sexist a few times, but it hurt more when she accused me of "turning" the larger of her two male dogs who started trying to mount the smaller one. "What have you done to him? He's never behaved like that before!" she exclaimed. She spent all day shouting at the dogs and, when not shouting at them to "shut up", was perched on the foredeck of her boat, having loud and prolonged telephone conversations with traders who had failed to meet her exacting standards of whom there were many. It was a nightmare. The only relief came when she fell in the river (twice) in her first fortnight as my new neighbour. She couldn't get out of the river and on to the bank without assistance. After the second dip the Farmer fixed a ladder in the water against her mooring for the next time ... I was called out to tow her broken-down boat back a few times too.

I was there the day she went too far. For nearly thirty years a very nice couple from the Midlands had a mooring for their small cruiser at the farm. They came to visit two or three times a year. They also had two terriers. These, however were kept under far better control. Yappy-Dog Woman's boys had psychological problems. They were rescue dogs who had been raised on a puppy farm and treated poorly by (of course) men (chauvinistic ones too, no doubt). One of the Midland terriers decided to assert his superiority, presumably to shut up the neurotic yappy dogs. It was behaviour I had seen amongst the dogs on the farm many times - dogs doing what dogs do, nothing too serious. However Yappy-Dog Woman was having none of this. She asked me what I would do. I said I would leave it and let the dogs sort themselves out. She broke off the conversation she was having with me and may have thought about my reply for a nano-second before launching into a high-speed conversation with herself that ended with something like, "I'm not having this!" She fair stormed along the bank to let go at full shriek at the Midland Woman. I had never before heard Midland Man or Midland Woman swear, but there ensued such a high-octane exchange of profanities that I had to leave the scene.

There were two further incidents following this exchange. The first was that the Horse Woman gave Yappy-dog woman her sailing orders, "Be gone by Friday or I'm cutting your ropes!" Unfortunately a few weeks later Midland Man had a heart attack and died. Horse Woman regrets the way she ganged up against the Bodger. It is the only time I have heard her express regret.

"Yap! Yap! Yip! Yap! ..."was coming up from behind and it froze my very blood. I turned round to see a familiar green boat. I try not to hold too fast to grudges, so I hailed Yappy-Dog Woman as she surged past. She didn't recognise me at first, because my boat is a different colour these days, but she returned the hail.

It took me ten or fifteen minutes to catch up with her. She had pulled into a place to moor next to the town park and was engaged in a row with another boater who was there before her. Her skill at upsetting people remains almost without parallel in my personal experience.

Of Lords, a Baroness, Old Friends And Voices From The Ether

Well that was a weird day. I spent the most of the day in Committee Room 4 with assorted members of the House of Lords. When I switched my phone back on a text message popped up from a friend and colleague from Storyboat days (check the link on the right). Then as I was walking back to where I was staying in West Hampstead I thought I heard a voice call my name ...

The encounter in The House of Lords was the latest round in my opposition to the Middle Level Bill. It had its first readings in the Commons in 2017 and I attended and spoke at the Committee stage in January 2018. My own MP has never responded to anything I have addressed to him over the years, including three e-mails regarding this Bill. In the Commons debates our opposition attracted a little minority support, but each debate was upstaged by something to do with the European Union - one being on the day Article 50 was "triggered". The second reading fell foul of Theresa May's ill-judged vanity election in 2017 when one of our two most outspoken supporters, Stewart Jackson (Con - Peterborough) lost his seat. I rather hoped that would be the end of the Bill, but it wasn't. The incoming Labour MP, Fiona Onasanya, appeared to have other priorities and we never felt she understood or supported the arguments we were presenting. This meant that, when the second reading eventually took place last October, we had just one MP up to speed with our case, although a few props to the new MP for Cambridge who did speak out too. Unfortunately, as it was to prove, our robust supporter was the infamous Sir Christopher Chope (Con - Christchurch). During his thirty years or more as an MP, I have rarely considered myself in agreement with his point of view on anything. It was a difficult pill to swallow to realise that he was our main support in the Commons, but I remain grateful for that support and for the clear way in which he presented his and our objections. That makes it more of a pity that his demand for closer scrutiny of the Voyeurism (Offences) Bill, expected by many to pass through unopposed, will end up being the one thing for which he is likely to be remembered when his Parliamentary career eventually comes to an end.

The Middle Level Bill was passed through to, and debated in, the Lords and was sent through to Committee to undergo scrutiny. A couple of weeks ago I attended the House of Lords Opposed Private Bill Committee, this time for four days (which proved not to be long enough so the Committee had to be reconvened last week), and once again I was called upon to explain my opposition to the proposals, which I did in my forty-five minute presentation before the Lords Thomas, Hunt, Tree and Brabazon and Baroness Bakewell. It was an interesting experience and I'm going to come back to the Bill in a future post. For now I just want to get some new diary entries up and visible.

On the Tuesday about which I started writing this essay the Committee finished at 1pm. Their Lordships were otherwise engaged for the remainder of the day. Our little crew went down to the commoners' café to discuss our progress and buy our expensive sandwiches and herbal infusions - not for the users of this café the fabled subsidies afforded to members of both Houses. I switched my mobile phone back on and up popped a text message from Andy, my friend from Storyboat days. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of decades and hadn't even spoken on the telephone for many years. His message was reaching out to me in the hope that I was still using the same number. Of course I am and that was how we found ourselves chatting in a West Hampstead coffee shop later that same afternoon. I love meeting old friends. People sometimes express surprise that I am still in regular contact with friends from my school days and from college. I don't see anything odd in that at all. If they were good enough to be my friends all those years ago the least I can offer is to remember something of the experiences we may have shared and solidarity during the experiences our adult lives have brought. These days such contact is so much easier than it has ever been before the world wide web brought us all closer together. Admittedly friends drift apart for many reasons and there are many with whom I have not maintained contact. That's okay too. I daresay some of them would be horrified to see how I live these days.

Walking back to M's flat (another friend from my school days) where I was staying during the week, I thought I heard someone call my name. I turned to see a cyclist some way down the street resting with one foot on the ground and another on a pedal. I didn't recognise anyone and another man was walking by so I assumed they knew each other. As I turned to continue on my way I distinctly heard my name being called and turned again. This time the cyclist headed my way. This was weird, I don't know anyone in this part of London ... surely? He started talking and it was clear he knew me from somewhere. Damn my prosopagnosic tendencies. There was something about his manner and his voice, but naturally I could not recognise his face at all, so I had to ask. It turned out to be George, a composer I met at a composers' forum last year. He stopped me a couple of months later in Tate Modern. This was now a year after that our only prior contact being those two short conversations a long time ago. It doesn't make sense to me. I am in awe of how some people remember faces. I wish I could do it, but I seem quite unable to do so.

As a post-script, while writing this I have been popping out of the boat to push it away from the landing stage when another boat comes by. I've tried tightening my mooring ropes, but the river rises and falls according to the whims of the engineers at the big sluice gates into The Wash, so tightening my lines is often unproductive and occasionally dangerous. The wind and the wash of passing boats rub my boat against a couple of fenders I have in place to keep me from scraping off even more paint. I have tried yelling at people to slow down and it really doesn't make either of us feel any good, so these days I just climb out and attempt to hold the boat away from the side. If they really are going too fast I make a slowing down gesture like I learned to do when I was learning to drive. Most people just give a cheery wave back. I also avoid eye contact, because I am pretty sure I would be glaring at them and I don't really want to be that mad, angry boat bloke. Tilly 2 just came by and Paul, the owner said, "You don't remember me do you?" Of course I didn't ... argh! We met last summer, when we shared adjacent moorings in town and later in the boatyard when he had engine problems while I was in for a service. Apparently I gave him a cd. He said he showed it to some other people and they said they knew me. We talked about the Middle Level Bill and he thanked me for taking the trouble to stand up for boaters.

As a post post-script, I've just had a text message from another school friend. I think every time I have seen him since we left school he has been married to someone different, which is neither here nor there, but I can't help thinking about the heartache he must have experienced, although we all find excitement in our own special ways I suppose. Again I haven't seen him for years and he's coming over on Wednesday. I'm attending a Prom Concert tomorrow at the Albert Hall. I have a great life.

Of Men In Distress

I don't know how it works that £16 can buy a permanent place to stay, but that’s what he said. How could I argue? The poor man was clearly very distressed. It was not even six in the morning and already the homeless were out and about. Being homeless, perhaps he’d been out and about all night and it hadn’t been the kind of night I would have wanted to be outside; not at all.

I came down to London yesterday. I arrived about 8.30pm and stayed overnight with my dear friend from my schooldays. As usual, M and I discussed our latest political adventures, art and music. We shared our news to the gentle accompaniment of his newly discovered ukulele chords while I noodled on the guitar I had restrung for him a couple of weeks ago. We mardled till gone eleven and he called time first. He had to be up at five for work. I had to be up at four to get a train to Paris.  

There seems to be a hierarchy of platform information on the Bedford to Brighton line. During the night plans can change in an instant. This was a phenomenon I first encountered when, for a while, I used Leagrave Station regularly. The same phenomenon seems to affect West Hampstead too. It was while I was mulling over the implications of how a train that had been due on Platform One in four minutes had become a train going to another destination in fourteen minutes that my train arrived ... two platforms away. Maybe it serves me right for staring at the half-occluded moon through the screen of tiny, gently falling snowflakes. There was no way of knowing that the new arrival was actually the train I wanted, but there were clues. It was heading in the right direction, there were only two stops to St Pancras International and check-in time was approaching. I ran with my large suitcase and heavy backpack up the stairs to the footbridge, along the footbridge and down on to the new “right” platform. I don’t know why or how this happens. It’s not as though West Hampstead is in the middle of nowhere. I hurdled the gap to mount the train, but the necessary exertion felt rather extreme and, as I sat in the train with the doors closing, gasping to catch my breath  and hoping my heart would hold out for the remainder of the day, I realised once again that I am not a fit man; certainly not in the traditional sense and barely in my own imagination in any other sense.  

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but checking in for international trains is so much more civilised than checking in at an airport. Having ignored those signs that now forbid taking suitcases on the escalators, I was making my way to the Eurostar entrance at St Pancras (with as much optimism as I could muster after a night’s sleep lasting one hour and forty minutes and a fierce attack of insomnia) when I passed a lonely piano. No one was there to tease music from its keys and strings, but I was vaguely aware of a couple just ahead of me - at least without looking directly at them they looked like a couple - until one half, the male half, shuffled my way. I am very familiar with that shuffle. He was coming to ask me for money. Being about to go through security I had taken all my change out of my pockets and put it into the pouch strapped to my waist. Since it was still only 05.45 I hadn’t anticipated meeting any homeless person who needed money and hadn’t got my “buskers pocket” ready with the £10 I usually budget for a day in town. His opening gambit was to hold open his hand and display a modest collection of silver and copper coins. I couldn’t make out everything he said, but he was clearly very distressed. It seemed he had been trying to raise enough money for some sheltered accommodation. In three days all he had managed to beg were these few coins. He seemed convinced that £16 would secure him somewhere to stay tonight and on nights to follow and I think he was facing a deadline, or at least he seemed to feel he was. He said people had been very unkind. He looked as though he’d had a rough time. He had indeed been through the wars. He told me he had been in the army, bomb squad, and had also been shot. He’d fought for his country, it had affected his nerves and he hadn’t expected to be treated with the contempt he’d encountered on his return. He kept pulling at his sleeves which revealed informal tattoos and patches of what looked like red dye. “I’m not an addict,” he declared, “but here’s where I was injured”. I lost his thread at that point as he explained that he was so upset that so few people seemed willing to help.  My judgmental side was about to explain that no one should feel obliged or coerced into giving him anything, but looking at the pathetic handful of coins, I broke my usual rule and pulled out my wallet. I fumbled around for a five-pound note and offered it to him. “That’s really kind of you,” he said, “but what good is that going to do me? If I don’t get the sixteen pounds soon I shall lose my bed. I can’t spend another night out in this weather. I can’t stand living in this world where people are so unkind. I’m going to finish it.” He made a slicing motion across his throat with his fingers. I would love to have had enough time to sit him down with a cup of tea and encourage him to share his story, but I needed to get my train. I put the fiver back in my wallet and on impulse pulled out a twenty and pressed it against his hand. “Sixteen pounds is what you need today?” He had been on the verge of weeping when trying to articulate his situation, but now the tears flowed. He grabbed my hand and thanked me over and over. It was reward and embarrassment enough to be able to conjure in my conscience a little hope that this small gesture would help take some of his immediate worries away. I’ve known depression and I’ve known suicidal despair, but I could not begin to imagine what this man had been going through, nor did I really know why he needed that precise amount of money. I know I’ve been lied to by people begging in the streets before, but that isn’t the point and nor does it worry me as much as the fact that they were forced there in the first place by circumstances likely to have been beyond their control. Were I in that position I think I would learn to do and say whatever I could to get through a day if I hadn’t died first. The handshakes clearly weren’t enough. He threw his arms round me and locked me in an embrace. My first thought was alarm. I didn’t want to have to deal with head-lice if he had them. I have enough difficulty communicating in French without having to take a trip to the pharmacie. This thought was quickly quashed by shame. When was the last time this man had been hugged? I pulled him in closer and held him until he was ready to pull away. Still thanking me he started backing away and wishing me a safe and happy journey. I hope he has an hour or two of relief from his  burdens. London’s mayor is currently running a campaign in support of relief for rough-sleepers. No one should have to sleep rough. This man has obviously fallen through the net and he cannot be the only one. Two of the last three or four rough sleepers I have met and spoken to are talking about suicide. One of them may even be dead; he had a plan. Just one is too many. Such talk is unlikely to be a coincidence. Homelessness is becoming an increasing problem and is affecting more and more of us. It is an indelible mark on our collective conscience and, unless this nation looks closer to see what is really happening out there, it is going to become much worse. I hope I don’t meet you on the streets.

Of Yet Another Loss

I started writing this a few weeks ago. I just couldn't finish it at the time, being so upset, so I thought I would edit and finish this short essay and post it.

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I did not expect to be writing another note about bereavement quite so soon. I found out today that a dear friend died last week. He was two years away from his seventieth birthday and that just seems wrong. Then I gave some thought to the people who lived under a public spotlight and who, over the past couple of years, have also died far too early.

It doesn't seem possible that we knew each other for more than thirty years, but I've just done the sums and we did. I met him through work. He was a teacher and I had a job flitting about from school to school doing musical things as I went. Somehow we just clicked. He invited me round to his and I met his wife, while they were still together. Occasionally over the years I have encountered his now grown up children. All of them are lovely people. When I was dealing with coming out, he heard about it over some kind of bush telegraph and he was one of the first to phone me up, arrange to meet and to offer support. He understood my situation exactly, because the same thing had happened to him.

We were not the kind of friends who were always on the phone or who met up very week, but he was the kind of friend who always had a listening ear and I hope I was able to reciprocate from time to time. I think I did.

One day, soon after the news I had an almost overwhelming urge to phone him. I needed to talk about my loss and he is the friend I would often choose for such delicate conversations. It was like a punch in the chest to realise that he wasn't going to be able to take my call and that never again would we be able to share these intimacies. It's not even as though I could claim we were best friends because I don't think we were. We did, though, have a connection and we could mardle for hours face to face, on the phone, or typing in an internet chat room.

His friend count was remarkable. He knew everyone. He networked without any of the pretentions that often accompany networking. Parties at his cottage on the coast were wall-to-wall people of whom I knew perhaps only one or two. The guests were invariably male, professional, partnered and gay. Gay and "sorted" - or at least giving the impression of being sorted. I wonder how many had ever played matchmaker for him. I wonder how many had at one time, or perhaps many times, been his lover. He often found a man to love who turned out to be a bastard. I have sometimes wondered if I was one of those men, but I've been told by a few people that he thought fondly of me. I'm surprised I even came up in conversations. I don't know if that made it worse or better. He went through a long phase of returning to being with a man who often treated him badly by going off with someone else. I used to tell him he deserved better treatment, but he was loyal and kept letting him back into his life.

The trouble with my friend was that he never knew how not to be a friend. I don't think he found the off-switch for friendship and ex-lovers mostly remained friends. We talked about it a lot. 

The funeral was extraordinary. The large parish church was full and I was one of maybe fifty or sixty people who had to stand throughout the service at the west end of the nave behind the pews. So many people, like me, were able to confess that he had been one of the first to make contact when we moved into his area - even the vicar who led the service. Unlike the parties at his there were many people at the funeral I had not seen for years. Some, as is usual, had faces I couldn't match with names and, of course, I had to deal with the embarrassment of failing to recognise some people I thought I knew well. However, we all had similar feelings. He loved people and he was gone too early.

Of Turbines, Memorials And Collapsing Mics Now Open For Business

I went to the first night of a new open mic evening on Friday. The event was intriguingly named the "Collapsing Cabaret" and was held in the café at the Green Britain Centre in Swaffham, Norfolk. I once knew this venue very well. In a previous life it was called The Ecotech Centre and a community music organisation for which I undertook a number of projects had a broom-cupboard of an office and an equipment store there. If I was never really sure of the main function of the place then any specialist function is now even more obscure. In its defence I think it is looking for a distinctive purpose and identity and it shouldn't really have a problem because, physically, the building is very distinctive. For a start it's big and the sloping, south-facing wall made entirely of glass is designed as a solar collector and provides heating. One enters the building from the car park (now fitted with recharging points for electric vehicles) into the extensive exhibition space behind the glass wall. In Ecotech days there was an exhibition focusing on aspects of generating power and there were also opportunities for temporary exhibitions too. A friend of mine once curated a travelling exhibition on the lives of travellers. This was especially appropriate because there is a traveller site at the bottom of the hill and directly below the A47 bypass - one of those off-the-shelf brick and concrete traveller sites banished to the outer edges of a town where it could not be seen, forced into a space where no one I know would want to live and consisting, as has become customary, of hard-standings and utility buildings divided into plots by the local council that look as permanent and as alienating as the modern overspill housing estate where I grew up. Nowadays, though, the exhibition space in the Centre exhibits little other than tables and chairs.

The original Ecotech Centre was built in the shadow of a large wind turbine, Swaffham's first of two, which claimed to generate half the town's electricity needs. I always suspected it was more complicated than that. It was never clear to me how this worked, or how fluctuations in power requirements were met. There was no sign of storage for the 3.1 million units of electricity being generated annually from its 1.5 megawatt turbine. I suspect it was more a statistic for purposes of comparison than any real description of function. One of the music projects we worked on came to a head in a performance under that same shadow. Working with the excellent composer, Duncan Chapman, schools and community groups devised a piece using (as many of Duncan's compositions seemed to at the time) barrels of water, stones and submersible microphones. Alongside these were other tools of his trade, including early (and by that time superseded) samplers and signal processors for live sound manipulation. In contravention of any health and safety nonsense we had sent a fearless fellow musician up the tower to lean out of the access hatch some sixty-seven metres above the ground to suspend a microphone somewhere near the hub of the turbine with a view to capturing and processing, in real time, whatever the sound turned out to be. The trail of daisy-chained XLR cables down the stairwell and back to the mixer used all our available cable resources. The concept was as audacious as it was pointless. Try as I might, while artistically dropping and aesthetically swishing stones around in buckets of water, I could not hear what we were supposed to be amplifying and processing beyond a bit of humming and wind noise. Perhaps the single dynamic vocal microphone was not fully up to the task of picking up the subsonic subtleties of the sixty-six metre rotor span of the turbine, or perhaps the basic p.a. was incapable of reproducing the more dramatic elements of the sound colour palette, but everyone else seemed jolly pleased with the outcome. My confidence had already taken a recent knock when, at a music technology conference, no less a person than the founder and president of the Roland Corporation, Ikutaro Kakehashi, had made me sit in several strategically microplaced chairs when demonstrating his new invention of 3D sound from a pair of stereo speakers. I had to stay behind for several sessions while my fellow voyagers oohed and aahed in appreciation of aeroplanes on the screen that apparently flew over their heads. In the end he gave up and I felt like the little boy in The Emperor's New Clothes. I carried the burden of my own impairment into future projects and he went on to sell the massively expensive RSS (Roland Sound System) to discerning audio facilities.

Friends once held a memorial service at The Ecotech Centre for Ooblydoobly - The Fenland Fool - who died tragically early while living in France. Ooblydoobly, a professional clown with his trademarked makeup painted on an egg somewhere - was once the partner of my ceilidh band's original fiddle player and on nights off from fooling he occasionally played violin himself albeit in a different ceilidh band. Even more occasionally I'd be drafted into that band to dep on guitar. The first time I played for them the band was playing for a private ceilidh in the ballroom of the Great Northern Hotel hard by Peterborough Railway Station. During a break from the dancing Oobly (I hope he wouldn't object to such a familiar form of address) reappeared with a number of implements and began a juggling routine - a rubber chicken may have been involved as were a number of sharp or otherwise dangerous objects. The climax of his performance came when he produced some hitherto hidden torches, set fire to them and proceeded to juggle them on the expensively and inexplicably carpeted ballroom floor directly under one of the ballroom's ostentatious and expensive crystal chandeliers. He knew exactly what he was doing and how to provoke a response. Lovely man that he was I don't think I could have coped with him in my class when he was a teen. My own modest efforts to provoke my aggressively unpleasant, boring, coffee-breathed, quacking French teacher would clearly have paled beside any japes he could have devised. My best effort arose when I found a copy of the textbook we used in class at a jumble sale. It was the best thruppence I ever spent. I would sit at the front of the class in contravention of custom and write notes in it, in ink, which unfortunately mostly went ignored. It was only when I hit upon the sonic ecstasy of tearing paper very slowly that my purchase evoked the desired result. I was sent out into the corridor regularly thereafter. My misbehaviour was ultimately somewhat self-defeating in terms of language acquisition though - how was I to know I'd end up with a French boyfriend decades later? However the same acts took on a considerably more successful outcome in terms of my chosen career, which has often made effective use of unorthodox sound sources. Sadly I didn't find out about Ooblydoobly's memorial until months or maybe years later. I felt I knew him well enough to have been invited, but I wasn't. Conversations that begin, "Do you remember ... ?" always provoke a little twinge and I would like to be able to remember, but of course I can't. It was by all accounts an event laced with unintentional mishap fully worthy of Mr Doobly, and I would like to have witnessed the ingenuity of the parcipants wrestling with how to sink a nine foot pole bearing the memorial plaque into frozen earth when no one had a ladder, a hammer or indeed any tool beyond a spade and a post driver to facilitate the task. During fallow times for fooling he would take supply teaching work, specialising in modern foreign languages (French and German). He said he didn't like teaching, but I suspect he was good at it. However it clearly fed his depression and his heart problems and we spent many hours discussing approaches to tricking bored adolescents into learning. He did have a huge advantage over me though. He could, and often did, resort to juggling. Just as I wasn't there for Ooblydoobly's memorial I wasn't there when the drummer of the same band was similarly remembered some time later. His distinctive feature was his circus drumming style and an array of dreadfully unimpressive-sounding home-made woodblocks mounted on his kit. That band was one of a kind.

Meanwhile, back in the Green Britain Centre there is a space that serves an excellent purpose. The café serves delicious vegan food and, once the intrusively noisy cold drink refrigerators were switched off, it was a good space for a cabaret, even a collapsing one. The evening was fronted by the always delightful John Preston and it was good to share the stage once more with him and other friends including Nico Dobben (whose cd album, "Songs Of Misery And Pain", has sold very well in Downham Market) along with poet, playwright, author and activist Jonathan Toye and to encounter some new voices too. One passionate performer delivered a lengthy homage to Pete Seeger without actually mentioning Mr Seeger's name and, having listed a number of his famous protest songs, handed out hymn sheets and bade the audience join him in singing an unaccompanied "Puff The Magic Dragon". That was a first for me, especially in that key. It is a song I have generally tried to avoid, being ideologically at odds with much of its sentimentality and artificial rhyming and on account of it being in possession of a tessitura beyond the range of most who might find the melody otherwise attractive. I would have been happier to sing "Where Have All The Flowers Gone", which I consider clever in its simplicity and clear in its message, but our passionate performer had an advertisement planned, which was somehow connected with a dragon. Unfortunately, by then I'd lost the thread. Onward. While not the first time I have encountered a karaoke singer at an open mic it was intriguing to enter another performer's world that was definitely more showbiz than folk. I was forced to confront some of my own prejudices for sure. On the other hand this audience was forced to deal with Marshlander's world for the first time when I sang "Flying" (about throwing people off buildings), 'Grey" (about precrastination during the writing and composing processes), "Cruiser" (about clandestine bisexual encounters in a woodland setting) and "Dear Mr. Carter" (my response to an inarticulate and hilariously upsetting letter from a local functionary three days after I buried my father in his cemetery). I like to think that I am more fun than I make myself sound. Most definitely a first for me, though, was having a human microphone stand - there being no boom stand available. All in all, a fun night in good company with some good music, idiosyncratic performances and great food served throughout the evening.

The plan is for these evenings to continue on the first Friday of the month. I shall probably go again, specially if the juggler who closed the evening with "something more cheerful" and undoubtedly more fruitful comes back too 🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊. Jannine, the powerhouse behind the vegan café, thought much of the evening was rather dark. "That's what you get for calling your child, 'Irritable'," observed Jonathan.

Of Sitting For Old Churches

December disappeared more quickly than seemed decent for a month equipped with a fullness of thirty-one days. It was an odd month, though, because not only did it seem afterwards to have disappeared quickly it also felt as though it took an excruciatingly long time to happen while I was in the middle of it, especially for the weeks I was living on my own. This essay explains a little of what happened.

During the Grand Boat Repaint last August some friends asked me to consider house-sitting while they went away on holiday to The Other Side Of The World for a few weeks at the end of the year. I am pretty sure they thought this would be a jolly jape, not to mention a mutually beneficial scheme. They saw me as being doomed to a cramped and cold existence on my boat and they had an old house in need of a bit of security. These are the friends who would not take a "thanks, but no thanks" in answer when offering me a bed for a few days when what I actually wanted was to spend August living in my van as the boat was being blasted back to bare steel. I had a lot of other things to do during August, so I had genuine reasons for not taking up their offer, but I failed to find excuses for turning down the invitation for the last few days of the month. I went to stay. They were indeed lovely hosts, but I was really looking forward to getting back home to my newly repainted boat after four or five days and may not have been the most gracious of guests.

I thought about the offer of a stone and mortar dwelling for December and eventually agreed to look after their house. Obviously it would be doing them a favour and I do find it hard to resist an offer to do someone a little kindness if it is at all within my power. This offer though had one or two advantages. Their "house" is one half of a deconsecrated church (the half with the church tower) in a remote part of the Fens. They said a house like theirs needs people in it and that I could invite whomever I wanted for company. Since it was Christmas and New Year, I could even host parties there. Of course, P. was the first person I thought about. I know he likes the house and it was going to  be lovely to have his company there over Christmas. Not being on the boat would mean we would have all that time together without being forced to squeeze past each other several times a day, even though the squeezing past had long ago morphed into a lovers' game that never fails to amuse. Then I realised it would be the first time ever I would be in a position to be able to invite my children and their families over for Christmas. I thought also that an Old Year's Night with friends and the sharing of music and poetry would also be pretty good. It began to look like a more attractive offer.

What they didn't know, and what was holding me back, is that I am always very wary of leaving the boat in cold weather. I am terrified about returning home to burst pipes and the floor awash. The first year on the boat I left one of those oil-filled radiators running on a low temperature and came home from France to an enormous electricity bill. Other years I went through the rather odd boating ritual of "winterising" the boat which, as far as I could tell, meant emptying all the water out of the calorifier and the cold water tank, disconnecting the main pump, leaving the taps open, isolating the gas bottles from the galley appliances and hoping for the best. Of course, the longest I had been away during the colder months before was six days. This time I was being asked to be away for six weeks.

Fortunately, my friends' house is mere yards from a navigable river. The obvious solution was therefore to take the boat with me and keep an eye on it daily. I had walked along the river bank in the summer and, while mardling with some of the less aggressive looking boaters, managed to make tentative arrangements for a temporary mooring for December for what I would normally pay for my own mooring. Then I began to do the sums. Two sets of mooring fees, diesel for the journey, but the biggest outlay would be for the river license I would need to travel on this waterway, which was managed by a different authority from the one where I am normally resident. Navigable inland waterways in England were once mainly managed by British Waterways and the Environment Agency. When British Waterways lost the gig The Canal and River Trust took on the franchise. There are a number of other smaller waterways authorities too, but these two are the largest players in the game. I am normally resident on water managed by neither of them so I would need to spend several hundred pounds on a license to cover me for up to two months. Where I live there is actually no mechanism for registering boats, so in order to get a license, I would need to be registered - obviously at yet more expense. Despite my general antipathy towards adventures, I still thought this one would be worth it.  P., though, is far more cautious about what he sees as unnecessary expenditure and tried to talk me out of it. We started to add up the costs and it was clear we were possibly approaching a four-figure sum once we threw everything into the mix. Another consideration was that this was happening during the same time that Karl was going to be be returning to install the new canopy for the cratch (see earlier posting). I couldn't fairly expect him to travel those extra miles. In the end the decision was made for me. I discovered a stoppage (a closure of the waterway) about a mile from my home mooring to allow for river dredging was in the offing. If I didn't manage to get back in time I would be stuck the wrong side of the stoppage for three months. That would not be convenient at all, so I decided, reluctantly, against taking the boat. I planned to visit the boat every couple of days and to keep an eye on it.

I became a church mouse at the beginning of December. The church had had time to cool down from its usual inhabitants' heating habits. There were two forms of heating - a large wood burning stove in the large kitchen and an even larger pellet-guzzling boiler/stove that fed the hot water system and a rudimentary central heating system in the living room. This beast took up almost half of the living room space. The rituals required for getting it to fire-up and stay functioning were elaborate. It had its own specialised sooty vacuum cleaner and matins consisted of the sound of the vacuum sucking out the previous day's unconsumed, but burnt, offerings. The beast fed on pellets made from compressed sawdust which fed into a sacrificial chalice, via an augur mechanism, from a huge hopper on the back of the burner. Starting up the boiler involved the use of a blowtorch applied in a thirty-second blast until some of the pellets glowed sufficiently strongly to stay aglow in the stream of air that was pumped up through the chalice containing the offering. Each day was a dies irae. There was a straightforward electrical timer attached to the assembly and I had taken lessons. I had even filmed the instructions on my tablet for later private study as I had been receiving them. I knew what to do. I also had the name and telephone number of the local heating engineer should there be a problem. He had installed the boiler and, it had been alleged, knew all its foibles in a disconcertingly intimate way. What could possibly go wrong? I was equipped for everything - everything, that is, except how cold I would be. I kept the boiler working until it switched itself off at 11.30 each evening, but I could not get the radiators to warm up at all. The boiler was also well enough insulated to prevent any convected heat warming the air anywhere in its proximity. After a few nights of near frozen hibernation I went back to my boat for my hot water bottle. This, along with three duvets on top and my sleeping bag (which I always keep in the van) opened out underneath the bottom sheet, did actually help me stay warm. I did not get up very early for the first few days unless I had to go to a school for work. I needed the sun to shine so that I could at least imagine what being warm was like. This was my routine until the boiler packed up altogether and I was forced to boil kettles for my hot water too. This wasn't so different from being on the boat after all ... until I ran out of logs for the wood-burner.

Not having permission to expose my friends' home to intrusive scrutiny
here is a peacock - one of the daily visitors to the garden who came
for his breakfast. He would sit on the step and lean against the glass back
door to the kitchen. Since both my friend and myself have long been fans of
the music of John Fahey, he could only ever be called "Clayton".

I do find old buildings fascinating and this was no exception. Much as I love strange corners and hideaways, this was also the home of my friends and I had no interest in peering into spaces beyond what was necessary to ensure all was well and to locate cookware, cutlery and any other bits and pieces necessary for the day-to-day. I was uneasy enough looking for clean bed linen! This was an issue of trust. Snooping is not an honourable way to repay any such trust as they must have had when considering asking me to house-sit. Something one of them said to me before they left, though, made it sound as though that was what he was expecting me to do and that any curiosity would be quite normal. I thought that was weird enough, but when in later conversation with an acquaintance who asked me how much of my friend's underwear I had used (actually, he said used), I could only think WTF!! Seriously, is this how other people behave? At the end of my six weeks I had no idea where any of his or his wife's clothes were kept apart from a few coats on a hook near the front door and a virtual Imelda of footwear that lined the walls in the bedroom I was using. I mention this mainly because it helps explain part of the picture in the next bit of the story and partly because I still can't believe such behaviour was actually expected.

On my first day there I had a look in each of the rooms just to make sure everything looked okay. There was, however, one room on the top floor to which I couldn't open the door. I assumed it was either locked or that my friends knew about it. I didn't really give it another thought until my children and grandchildren came to visit just before Christmas. I gave them a tour round the house and it was only then that I noticed that the floor near the locked door was wet. I had been told there had been a leak somewhere and thought this was residual from that, so I put some towels down as per the written instructions left for me. A day or so later I had to roll the carpets back. Eventually the floor had dried sufficiently for me to be able to force the door open enough to be able to squeeze into the room. Once inside, though, I saw water running off one of the oak ceiling beams. I had been warned about roof leaks and there were buckets set out strategically and perhaps I should have been more curious and pro-active. Unfortunately this water was also dripping on to a book shelf and on to stacks of craft materials. I moved everything that was under the worst of the flow and found more buckets and towels. I also went up into the attic to look at the roof but that actually seemed dry and I couldn't see water coming in from the outside. There were, however,  two cold water tanks and an expansion tank (this last being way above my reach and I would need a ladder to get anywhere close if that's what I needed to do). The water tanks were underneath and behind a barrage of stuff, which I moved by torchlight. Eventually I found the cause of the leak, a stopcock valve that needed replacing or tightening. Water was not just dripping, it was flowing along the shaft and on to the floor of the attic and from there into the room below. I found the main stopcock and shut off the water. Now, not only did I not have heat, I didn't have water either. This was turning into a bit of a nightmare.

There was nothing for it. I would have to interrupt the holiday and get some advice about what they wanted me to do. Among his many skills he was a builder and he had installed the plumbing so he knew his way around. I fired off an e-mail and received an answer some hours later. At least now I knew where to isolate that part of the system so that I could have running (cold) water in the kitchen and bathroom. It took a while, but eventually I located an adjustable spanner and tightened the stopcock to the point that it would now probably take two weeks to fill the bucket I'd put in place rather than two hours. The advice about the heating was to clear out the hopper and see if there was a jam. I'd already tried this twice after having looked for a similar problem via YouTube, but I did it again just in case I could do it better this time. In fact I cleared out that hopper many times over the next few days trying to locate and release a pellet or sawdust jam. The effect of this jam was an insufficiency of pellets being released into the chalice to keep the fire alight. As it happened this was not the problem at all (which may explain why I couldn't fix it), although I wasn't to find that out until near the end of my stay. Calling the official installer/engineer was out of the question for another week or so, because he was in his "other house" in France with his family. The best I could do was to try and get some more logs so I could light the woodburner in the kitchen. I didn't know where my friends got their logs from, but fortunately a mate of "the engineer" (the one who had helped me wth my boat and whom I mentioned last year) sells logs. I sent a text message to him and he sent back his mate's phone number. Within twenty-four hours I was half a load of logs better off and a ton worse off. It had been longer than I realised since I had needed to buy a large quantity of logs. These logs were really good, though, and burned beautifully. I really didn't expect them to be so good. At least now a huddle round the stove was an option.

There was an outcome. The boiler engineer returned from his French sojourn and when I phoned him on the day of his return he was on the doorstep within the hour. There was no jam. The motor that drove the auger was not working properly and needed replacing. Luckily this man knew that this Heath Robinson system had a similar motor for driving another bit of the boiler that had long ago packed up. He dug into the guts of the beast and cannibalised the other motor. At last the boiler started to work. Once it was working I also discovered the need to switch on a pump in the upstairs bathroom to circulate water from the boiler to the radiators. It never did become warm, but at least the chill was off the air - five weeks after I first moved in and a week before I eventually moved out.