Of Covid (and other stuff) ... Or A Further Attempt To Catch Up With Myself

27th January 2022
The plan was to make some use of the beautiful break we had in the recent unbuskerly weather to get back out into the street. Inconveniently, someone I sat next to at a meal a couple of nights ago tested Covid +ve yesterday afternoon. Consequently I’m being antisocial for a few days. So far, so good and I hope to get out again soon. I was, however, delighted to play a living room concert yesterday morning, before we were sent the news of the test result, for the dear friends who hosted the meal.

In other news I’ve been taking the opportunity to work on songs that will hopefully make it on to the next album. Do people still append advisory stickers concerning warnings about lyrical content?

28th January 2022

Okay, it was too good to last. There were seven round the table for the delicious Burns' Night meal on Tuesday. One was a carrier and tested positive the following afternoon. By Friday I felt the cough and cold symptoms coming on, but still tested negative. By Saturday I was positive and so were three others from around that meal table. Take care out there, folks.

2nd February 2022

Apologies for the lack of news. I’m now on “day 6” of my covid isolation and am still testing positive. This hiatus has played havoc with my rehearsal schedule for a solo gig at the end of March and, of course, I’ve been unable to get out busking for the past week of lovely weather. I am really looking forward to getting back on to the guitar stool as soon as I feel up to it! Progress does not, though, appear to be completely linear, so I’m not sure at present when that will be. On the creative front I have managed some snatches of various melodies on the occasional 3am insomnia shift, which may find their way into a song from my manuscript book at some point. I appear to be dreaming in D minor … which, I am informed, is the saddest of all keys.

4th February 2022

Day 8 and beginning to feel more human at last. The instruments are out and it’s time to get back to practising. There’s a whole week to make up, so to get on with it!

11th February 2022

Though still testing positive on Day 13 the GP tells me I'm a free man if I feel up to it. It seems I am "COVID Resolved". It's A Beautiful Day - wouldn't that be a great name for a band - I'm feeling well, the instruments are loaded, next stop Ely.

It is really cool to be back out on the street. Thank you, good people of Ely.

14th February 2022

Happy Valentine's Day to my much missed partner, P.

I nearly managed to get into Wisbech today, but I’d forgotten my trolley needed some maintenance after Friday. It took me an hour to fix it - you know that thing where you have to keep going back to the boat to fetch the right spanner? I loaded up the instruments, but by the time I arrived on the outskirts of Wisbech the rain had started and I had no wish to give the gear another soaking. Oh well, I’ll see if I can find a gap in the clouds later on in the week. I hope everyone is having a grand day. I’m going to try and get along to The Limes in Fakenham on Wednesday evening. I have a song or two that don’t fit into the busking set I’d like to sing.

A Sprint Through More Days Of Busking ... Or Another Attempt To Catch Up With Myself

Following my trip to and from Ramsey by boat and the adventures that surrounded the journey I'm drawing close to revealing why I had so much reporting back to do. I am hoping I shall be able to remove the placeholder warning soon and let people know I'm up to date!

A few days after returning the boat to my home mooring the weather calmed down enough to go out busking again. Hooray!

5th November 2021
I ordered some guitar accessories from the excellent Music Street in Huntingdon earlier this week. While I was picking them up today it was only right to do a bit of busking. At a couple of points I had quite a semi-circle of listeners, some of whom hung around for several songs. Thank you Huntingdon people for listening, dancing and for your generous tips. I never thought I was writing songs for people to dance to. My dance compositions have always been written for the ceilidh projects, but it’s such a lot of fun to see people engage with the music however they choose to express themselves. I’m loving the busking experience. If the weather’s okay I’ll be looking for a spot in Diss soon.

7th November 2021
Since I was going to a concert near Diss tonight I went early and found a good spot in the town centre to busk for a couple of hours. It was worth the effort. Before going to a place for the first time I try to find out if there are any rules. Typing the key words “busking in Diss” into the search engine brought up what appeared to be a bit of a saga in the local press. It appears buskers have been causing annoyance. “One man turns up every day. He always stands in the same place outside a particular shop. He always sings the same songs.” The local council website suggests that buskers work on learning a broad repertoire … As I wandered round the town looking for my spot I didn’t see any other buskers. That’s good because I forgot the measuring tape although I’ve never worked out how to measure to ensure I can’t be heard from 30 metres away ...

15th November 2021
Setting up for busking in Ely this afternoon. I had to look for a different spot because there were street people near where I’ve busked previously and I didn’t want to interfere with their trade. I wondered if I were too close to shops and too tucked away to be seen. People still dropped money in the hat including the shopkeepers either side while many compliments about the music were forthcoming. One shopkeeper tipped after the first song and came out to tip again near the end. Thank you Ely!!

22nd November 2021
I knew Huntingdon was a good place. A return visit to Music Street for some new music gear meant more busking further along the road. A kind lady walking by thought my feet looked cold, bought me some socks and dropped them in the hat.

As it happens I hadn’t planned on looking for more socks. My sock locker on the boat is rather full, but that may be because I haven’t worn socks for most of this year. As I was coming to the end of today’s set three men turned up. I’d seen a couple of them before when I’ve been to the town. I overheard one of them explaining to the others that the tent he lives in had been damaged. He mentioned the location and he’s camping wild. I felt his need of socks was greater than mine so I asked him if he could use them. He was so grateful he said he was going to wear both pairs tonight. I’d cut my set short because I was getting cold. At least I can stoke up the stove on the boat and get warm. I can only imagine how difficult the nights are for him now the weather has taken a turn for the colder.

13th December 2021
I’ve been spending the evening drying out my guitar and drums after a wet afternoon busking in Wisbech. Slowly and gently does it!

15th December 2021

I only came to King's Lynn for a solo busking session once, many months ago. I ended up making a loss after paying for parking, so I thought I'd give Lynn another go and see if my prospects were any better nearer Christmas. As it happens, King's Lynn seems to be quite popular with buskers. I think the pedestrianised town centre and relaxed rules help. Lynn has its regulars, including Graham who sings popular songs from the pop music decades and Jane (I think ...?) who sits on a blanket on the ground to play her recorder. Sometimes there is a young man who rocks up with a keyboard and plays under the overpass near the betting shop. Today there were some musicians from out of town playing some rather listenable Western European and South American tunes. By the look of their guitar case the locals had been very generous indeed. I set up and the south end of the High Street, where covid has ravaged the independent traders, and where I didn't interfere with anyone else and played for about an hour. By that time I still hadn't earned back the car park fee that set me out of pocket from my previous visit. I reckoned anyway that, according to the rules for buskers, I'd reached my time limit and was obliged to move. I pack the gear away, strapped it on to the trolley and shuffled further along the High Street to set up outside an empty telephone shop. Many more people stopped to listen, to talk, to nod, to smile and I am no longer out of pocket. 

South end of the High Street where it is VERY quiet.

18th December 2021

Thank you to the good people of Downham. Today was my third busking town this week. I set up in the town square to start with, but although it’s one of my favourite spots it was a bit too quiet, even after more than an hour playing there. 

When I spoke to the man from the council a couple of days ago he asked me to make sure I didn’t get in the way of people who would be queuing for vaccinations. I took that to mean there would be no objection to me playing on the market place side of the town hall, so I decided to move and set up alongside Groovy Sue’s ethnic clothes and artefacts stall, specially since she had already asked if I would. 

I spent a couple of hours there in addition to the hour at the first spot. By that time I was feeling the cold, so I packed up alongside the market traders. Nice to see several friends who stopped for a brief chat at various times of the afternoon too.

About to head into town and outside the od fire station that will become our future
venue for the reconvened Songwriters & Poets nights

Of Another Scary Journey

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

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

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

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

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

Approaching last year's disaster area

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

Captain Marsh on open water at last

Now the wind was really picking up again

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

Of Stormy Passages And Abandoned Voyages

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

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

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

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

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

This is what a proper mooring looks like!

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

Do the locals like buskers? 

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

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

The reality of busking: earnings = 99p

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

High Lode

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Busking & Old Nol At Prayer

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

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