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 Fire And Ice

 I haven’t written much about the boat recently. To be fair until the past two or three days I haven’t written much about anything. I think I’ve caught up with the most recent busking news, but I’m going to bypass a lot of what I missed out last year. It’s not as though anyone needs to see a blow-by-blow, day-by-day record of the life and times of old man Marsh. Although I may have to share some of the many ways I didn’t die during the past twelve-month, as recorded in my nine-minute song, “Breakfast For The Creepy-Crawlies” … I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

For most of last year, I had no heating inside the boat. Of course given the record-breaking heat we experienced during the summer that didn’t always matter, but my back boiler burst in March, soon after I got home from hospital after the stroke - did I mention the stroke? I’ll have to look back and check. 

Over those heat-crazed months I tried to find someone to effect some repairs for me. I suppose there really is a labour shortage because I couldn’t find anyone able to help. The closer I examined the on-board log-burner with integral back-boiler, the more I realised I was completely out of my depth even to try. So many bits had fallen off the stove, lighting a fire was going to be risky. Even the wooden frame surrounding the tiling was being scorched and I didn’t fancy being another statistic. Friends offered to help, but many didn’t have marine experience. I wanted a bona fide job carried out by an engineer who could be properly accountable. I spent months waiting for heating engineer after heating engineer to get back to me as promised or simply to return my calls. I approached the engineers at the boatyard. They build boats, for heaven’s sake, but they wouldn’t touch the job, they’re not allowed to do stoves any more! Eventually I put out a plea for names to other single-handed boaters on Facebook. I received one promising suggestion. To cut a long story short, Des from Ship Shape Stoves came out to the Fen, dismantled my stove and took it away to refurbish it. A fortnight later, at the end of October he came back and reinstalled it. When I say “refurbished” the only salvageable parts were the two side panels. However, he did a great job and I’d recommend his work to anyone. It was such a relief not to have to put on extra clothes to go to bed! Since then I’ve had heating more or less as required. 

The past couple of weeks has seen the river frozen over and the boat frozen in. I was certainly pleased to have the stove back working. 

Then there are mad dogs and Englishmen. C was someone I didn’t know although I was to find out later that we had met each other across the table during the 2018 Middle Level Bill discussions in Parliament. He was trying to get his boat through to Ely, but in the words of Ernest Shackleton, “Oh deary, deary me!”

He’d passed my boat one day, but didn’t make it as far as the lock. He was stuck in the ice for several days. The day after he’d passed my boat I cycled up to the lock and saw he was stuck. I checked he was okay and we had a long chat. He didn’t need anything at that moment. Over the next few days he tried shunting ahead and astern, but didn’t make a lot of progress. In the end he gave up trying to get to Ely and decided to ride the thaw en route to March. 

I heard the ice breaking long before I saw the boat come round the bend. He stopped in the middle of the river and was sometimes standing on the bow and sometimes balancing dangerously on the gunwhale thrusting his barge pole in and out of the river to break up the inch-thick ice rather than risk damaging a neighbour’s grp cruiser by crashing straight through it. Not bad for a septuagenarian cancer survivor, I thought, but still barmy. I started up my engine and began shunting forwards and backwards in an attempt to break up some of the ice around me to relieve some of the pressure around his boat. Eventually he drew level and said he’d had to try and get back to March because he’d been stuck in the ice for ten days and ran out of water several days ago. I knew having no domestic water was a serious business so we manœuvred his boat alongside mine and tied him to me. I connected my water hoses together and within an hour we’d filled his water tank. At least he could wash now!

We may still see some of the world from different points of view, but I am very pleased to have got to know the man a little more. My memory of our previous encounter was not particularly positive. We probably have more in common than that which in the past has divided us; a good lesson to learn, I think. 

Of Grooviness And Straightened Times In Wisbech

Today was the last time I’d be able to busk locally for a while, so I went into Wisbech for my fourth day of busking this week. I parked the van in one of the free, unlimited time car parks. I don’t normally use this one since it’s further to wheel the trolley of instruments and my trolley is more strong-willed than any one might find in any supermarket. I locked the van and was about to set off when I was stopped by someone who wanted to know where I got my “costume”. “This isn’t a costume, these are my clothes,” I pointed out and I mentioned that I bought them from Groovy Sue's market stall in Downham Market. As I started to amble my way out of the car park towards the town centre a man caught up and started chatting. By the time we’d got to the top of Post Office Lane we’d discussed, among some quite personal stories from his life, what I was doing, what sorts of music we like to listen to, relative health concerns and he told me about his job. He owns a business straightening out the chassis of vehicles that have been involved in road accidents. I wish I’d met him in July! At the parting of the ways we stood and chatted for several more minutes. With incredible generosity he opened his wallet and pulled out a tenner insisting I put that into the hat to sweeten the pot and show an example to other people! Of course I gave him a cd in return since he’d not heard me play a note. He was also the third person this week who wanted to suggest ways I could earn better money than by busking. I’m fascinated by this notion, which I suppose is a throwback to times when street entertainers were thought of as little more than beggars. What I love most about busking is that I get to meet so many cool people. Some of them don’t realise quite how lovely they are. Some are going through tough times and want to talk. I value greatly these encounters. Of course I am there to play my music and sing my songs, but sometimes busking feels like therapy - perhaps for all of us. I thanked him for his suggestion and pointed out that I like playing in the street not only for the reason already stated, but also because I’m not working to anyone else’s schedule or their agenda. I’m doing this because it’s what I want to do and I love it. Of course, sometimes an offer of a festival gig or a house concert comes through someone seeing me playing in the street and I generally enjoy those too. 

As I wheeled my way through the town market place my busking friend, Alex, was already at his post and had been for a couple of hours. We greeted each other and he asked where I was going to be. He’d come and see me when he’d finished. True to his word he turned up  later. Quite by chance I happened to be singing, “Damn You, Enchiladas”, which he says is his favourite. 

When I’d finished my set and was packing away I was approached by a polite and shy young teenager, “Excuse me,” he said very quietly, “I hope you don’t mind, but I really like your outfit.” Sixty-seven years old and cool. Can life get any better?

Of Busking At A Village Market - Return To A North Fen Village

 Yesterday I went busking in a larger village near where Lincolnshire meets Cambridgeshire. I thought I’d give Friday, the regular market day, a go because last time I managed to pick half-day closing and there were very few people in the street. I didn’t have to worry about parking, because last time I was here someone told me to  use the space in their yard. That meant I had as long as I wanted and not the two hours street parking I had during my last visit. I found it interesting that the main shopping street is actually closed to traffic until 2pm on market days. Sadly I arrived too late to take advantage of people shopping, but the day was greatly enriched by the encounters with people who wanted to talk and had interesting things to talk about. It was also notable that so many people thanked me for coming to play music in their village and asked me to come back. These encounters make the whole busking experience so worthwhile. The offerings were modest in comparison with everywhere else I played this week and I actually earned less than the time when I played with no shops open. I was very moved that several people offered their widows’ mites. 

I tried out two sites, the first was in the market next to a greengrocery stall and the second one was outside outside the church. As I was deciding where to set up I met three traders having a conversation in the middle of the blocked street and I asked how long the road was closed for. “Till 2 o’clock,” they answered. I explained I was going to sing a few songs. They looked doubtful and told me to watch out for the market inspector who may or may not have a point of view on my intentions. One of the men offered, with a canny and winning grin, to sublet his trading licence to me. “How generous!” thought I …

For the greengrocery spot, normally a two-hour roadside parking space on non-market days, I was obscured from people approaching on the other side of the street by some of the traders’ vans. This meant it wasn’t actually the most effective place to be. I thought to sing a few songs to see what happens anyway, before moving elsewhere. A woman working on the stall came over to listen or chat a few times when she wasn’t needed to sell the produce. She thought it was lovely that someone should take the trouble to offer a street performance in such a relatively small place and made a point of thanking me and telling me how much she was enjoying my music. As the traders began to pack away I wound up my set and began to load my trolley too. An hour’s work had netted me about £3.50. This wasn’t my most profitable day. I decided to move to the other side of the street and set up outside the church, you know the one with the tallest extant wooden spire in the country.

This second spot was close to where I played last time which, counter-intuitively, was better even though it was further away from the shops. A woman stopped to talk (she was worried about my feet being cold, of course!) and I offered her a song about what I can see as I look out of my boat’s windows. She very much enjoyed “Lean On The Tiller” and was embarrassed she couldn’t find enough ready cash to give me. “Nobody carries cash these days,” she lamented. I told her not to worry and that it was lovely to have someone stop to listen. After she’d completed her shopping, she came back and pressed a five-pound note into my hand. “Put some coins on top of that so it doesn’t blow away,” she suggested. I reached into my bag and pulled out a greetings card. People who give me paper money don’t go away empty-handed if I can help it. “But,” she said, “I already feel like I’ve had a personal concert …” That was true, but not everyone who pauses in their day is willing to acknowledge such a barter. The exchange, on every level, was rather lovely. 

Parents with small children stopped to listen. The children feel so grown up when they are given a coin to drop in the hat. Sometimes I think they’d prefer to hang on to the coin, but it is usually donated eventually. For these children I like to sing a nursery rhyme, something that I think they’ll know. I love to watch their faces as recognition slowly dawns. Some listen with serious intent, some shine like the sun, some join in with the actions they’ve been taught at home or at playgroup and one or two even sing along, specially with the last word of each line. At one time I was surrounded by a small crowd representing all the generations. I can’t remember ever having blocked a pavement before. This was a first. The crowd splintered and broke up, leaving just one man. I’d guess he was a few years my junior. He asked if I knew any Neil Young songs. I explained I only sang my own songs. We fell to talking. He loved music. He’d been such a devoted punk that people called him after the name of an infamous bass player who in turn had been named after a hamster. He reminisced about listening to John Peel and how sad it was that he’d died. I’d listened to John Peel ten years earlier than him when Mr Peel arrived back in England from the USA in the sixties and took up playing records on the pirate ship, Radio London. I asked my new punky acquaintance, “Where were you when you first heard the news of John Peel’s death?” He thought he’d probably been at work, but wasn’t sure. I told him I was about to climb a stairway between streets in Lyon, when someone I’d only met that day brought the news from England. I recalled how devastated I was and Punk and I instantly felt something in common. As we talked he let slip personal information concerning tragedy, health challenges and loneliness. Again he was embarrassed that he didn’t have enough to offer me a decent tip, but he reached into his pocket anyway and pulled out a few coins - definitely the widow’s mite. I offered to sing a song specially for him and asked what kind of a song he’d like. “Something thoughtful and melancholic or something slightly jollier?” I offered. He opted for jollier and I had to bring to mind what would be something suitable. I told him the story behind “Damn You, Enchiladas” and he was not sure about how a child with autism, two types of cancer and at the age of fourteen being given a life expectancy of just three more days could possibly be jolly. I told him to listen and see. As I sang and played he moved rhythmically and joined in on the choruses. While I was singing I suddenly realised that enchiladas could be metaphorical ones as well as the literal ones in the song. When I finished I pompously shared my new insight. Next time either of us dip into depression I’m going to try and sing the chorus very loudly to chase away my metaphorical enchiladas.

“Damn you, enchiladas, you may have beaten me this time  but I will get you next time round.” I challenged him to do the same. He couldn’t grin, but he smiled. “Maybe,” he muttered  

I may have carried on in that spot for a while longer had I not had to get home and cook something to eat before leaving for Songwriters & Poets in Downham Market. I could have afforded a bag of chips thanks to the lady who pressed the fiver into my hand, but I was saving the money towards something more nourishing. I’m glad the weather was more busker-friendly than the previous day. ⛅️

The day’s encounters weren’t yet over. Just as I was loading up the trolley and strapping down all the gear who should turn up, but Ruck Sack Man from earlier in the week. He carried the same mysterious backpack and wore the same charming smile. He apologised for being late, but he’d been held up though he had more ideas for how I could earn more money. He asked if I would go to his village and set up in a spot near a church. He even offered paper money to put in the hat to help make it worthwhile. He was sure the people from the church would like my songs. He thinks he could get me more work in churches. A theme was developing. We talked for a while longer and walked together until we parted ways at the junction with the main road through the village. Am I reading too much into his enthusiasm? I’ve not taken the bait but I’m marginally curious. There are many songs I don’t include in my busking repertoire on account of adult themes and explicit lyrical content. Maybe it’s time to give them an airing and see what happens then …

Thankfully Songwriters & Poets turned out to be a rather good evening!

Of Not Waving, But Drowning … In Thetford

For months, maybe longer, a gentleman by the name of Mike Harding-White has been inviting me to the twice-monthly open performance evenings he puts on in Thetford. I’ve never made it. I don’t think he’s ever seen me play, but he is so keen for me to come that I’ve been feeling guilty about never going to one of his evenings. He was also in Bury last week, but our paths didn’t cross. Since I can no longer blame Covid or my stroke for not turning up, I really intended to go to one of his sessions this month. Then the river froze. 

I told him I would try and busk back in Thetford on Thursday. I enjoyed it last time I was there. There may not have been many people, but they were interested and generous. Therefore there will be a busking trip to Thetford today. The weather forecast declared a <5% chance of rain. Just as I’d set up and was about to start a man dropped a pound coin in the hat and warned me I’d brought the rain with me. 

He wasn’t kidding. I got through the first song and was already quite wet through. Of greater concern, though, were the instruments. I covered the footdrums with the towel I usually sit on and put my guitar back in its case.  I was hoping the innovative electronics of the built-in HyVibe system were robust enough to withstand a mild drenching, not to mention the Lâg guitar. The rain eased back a little so I unpacked the guitar again and played the footdrum pedals through the towel. It kind of worked and the rain and I came to a grudging understanding. Mike turned up and we actually met at last. He stayed for pretty much the whole time I played. He took photographs and video on his phone. I may be able to share some of them eventually.

My previous experience of Thetford was pretty much repeated. There weren’t a lot a people, but a steady stream of passing shoppers, slowed down to walk by and some even stopped to listen to a song or two. People, nodded, smiled, thanked me and walked in time with the music as they passed by. It was a lovely friendly experience and Thetford will definitely stay on my list for a return visit. Mike turned out to be super-friendly and keen to get things happening in the community. He said his evenings already attracted about twenty people. I really shall make an effort to get to one of them. 

However, tonight I’ll be drying my clothes and instruments!

Marsh in Thetford by Mike Harding-White

Of Busking Back In King’s Lynn

There is sometimes a plan. It happens occasionally. I have already made a plan to busk in Thetford on Thursday assuming the weather does not prove detrimental to the instruments. I told my Facebook followers that I'd try to remember to give an estimated time of arrival once I have an idea how the day was going. “It's Tuesday and the river is still iced over. I haven't decided where I'm aiming for later today ... possibly Wisbech, possibly even Lynn. That doesn't help does it?!

***

I make a lot of typing errors. Why do ty think that is?

a) I can't type

b) I can't spell

c) the letters are so worn on my keyboard that my version of touch-typing is actually typing by guesswork.”

***

I made a decision. King’s Lynn it is …

I’ve lived in the area around King’s Lynn, known locally as just “Lynn” since the mid-80s. For the thirteen years I last had a “proper job” I was based in Lynn. That came to a stop a couple of years ahead of the last century following redundancy. The precarious joy of self-employment was something I discovered in 1998. I guess for a number of reasons my relationship with the town has had its complications. Since taking up busking I’ve tried my luck twice. The first time was costly, the second not so much. Since I’d not busked in Lynn for about thirteen months a visit was overdue. I wasn’t going to risk paying for parking the van in case I had a repeat of the first visit when, after playing for two hours I had no tips to show for it and a £4.00 parking fee to pay. This time I thought I would park by the municipal recreation park area known as “The Walks” where I remembered there was three hours of free parking. Three hours is normally perfect for me. It allows for up to two hours of earning time and up to ninety minutes to get to and from my spot with setting up time. Unfortunately I’d made an error. Free parking was limited to two hours. This was going to be a slightly rushed job.

As I was in full roll with my trolley of instruments some dear friends approached. They’d been to the library to visit an exhibition that turned out to be in a different library across town. They are two of my very creative friends - poet and playwright - and they introduced me to the people who were accompanying them. I think one was a dancer and the other a theatre director. We always have a lot of news for each other, but my stopwatch was running so I had to excuse myself. The High Street in Lynn is fully pedestrianised and I chose a spot on the sunny side of the street. By this time I fancied I had left myself only an hour for performing before I had to get back to the van. I wondered whether I’d earn anything at all given my previous experiences. 

I swung into “For Pete’s Sake” and felt I was sending out appropriately positive vibes. Some days one feels it more than others. Before long I’d attracted the attention of a couple of men I judged (and I am really bad at this!) to be somewhere in their twenties or thirties. One was wheeling a bike, the other was wielding a very full-looking rucksack. I wondered if either or neither had a home. One could have been the minder of the other, I suppose. They stood close and stayed for a few songs. We chatted between songs. They were interested in the songs and, of course, the footdrums. They both apologised for having no money to drop into the hat. Then they wandered away, but not before bikeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers and small silver, which he kindly dropped into the hat. Later I noticed that he had also donated an old cup hook. I hope he didn’t need that for something. After they’d gone a young woman came over. She’d been standing across the street outside Starbucks while the men were there. She stood beside me and listened really intently for most of the rest of my set. We talked about the songs, their origins and meanings. I love it when people listen and respond so positively. I like to think that my songs do have a point. 

Becoming concerned about the time I wound up my set and a glance in the hat confirmed it had been worthwhile financially too. As I was packing up the rucksack man returned. He asked for my telephone number … caution kicked in. I don’t give my contact details out to people unless there is good reason. He was very personable and had a nice smile and there was something about his eyes ... When I asked why he wanted to know he said that he liked my music and wanted to listen to me again. He doesn’t use social media so he would be able to find out when and where I’m playing. He also thought I should get work singing in pubs and churches. I pointed out that I enjoyed singing in the street, specially when it gave me the opportunity to meet interesting people. I asked him if he lived locally and he named a village. I’d been considering returning to a neighbouring village later in the week and told him he could catch me there if he wanted. Then I was very grateful for my earlier caution,

“I can’t wait for God to come back and destroy all the sinners,” he said with conviction. Then I recognised that look I’d seen in his eyes. The eyes truly are a window into the inner workings, perhaps what some would call the soul.

“Where would that leave you?” I pondered. I may even have said it out loud. We parted with a handshake and a fist bump. He’d see me again on Friday. 

Of One Very Cold Day In Downham

 I was in Bury St Edmunds on Tuesday. It was cold. When I left the boat it had been iced in for days. It was still cold on Friday, the day I decided to take the instruments out into the street again. Of course, the usual rules applied. I had to get the go ahead from the town council and I could only go out on a Friday or a Saturday (because the market needs to be on before busking is allowed) or be shut down. Being an arrogant sort I don’t actually ask for permission. Something goes against the grain to be asking for permission to perform a perfectly legal public act of sharing my songs in a performance that so clearly makes people’s days brighter and is, of course, free of charge to the listener. Rather I inform that I intend to busk on a particular day, weather permitting, and trust that it won’t clash with anything the council may have booked. When performing I don’t importune, but I happily accept tips from people who like what they hear well enough to drop coins in the hat. Some people even tip with paper money. I’m not allowed to sell merchandise without a trader’s licence, so I try to have a free gift available as a special thank you to people who tip generously with notes of the realm. I’ve not been challenged on this form of exchange yet. I could set up on land that isn’t owned by the council, but most of the streets are too narrow and it would be counterproductive to be seen blocking the way. I’ve discovered my favorite place is where the shops and the market meet opposite Gregg’s. A lot of people pass by in that pedestrianised area and, on a mild day, people can sit outside Gregg’s or by the mobile food van in the market and listen. Today, though was very cold … cold enough to wear socks *shock *horror. Only the very hardiest sat outside to consume a warming coffee or munch a toastie. Luckily, this is Fen country and Fen folk are a hardy sort. 

A few people I recognised passed by. Some stopped to mardle. Many still asked if my feet weren’t cold. I was pleasantly surprised to see my friend, Karen, turn up with her camera. She takes good photographs and she hung around to do exactly that so kudos to her. She stayed around for most of my ninety-minute set. I realise that my photographs often portray me as being of rather dour demeanour. I’m working on my smiling. I’m amazed that Karen managed to capture this photograph of me looking as though I was enjoying myself and, despite the cold, I was enjoying myself a lot. I did feel the show had to come to a stop when my right hand eventually became too cold to keep hold of my plectrum. I shall be in Downham again before very long. 

Marshlander by Karen Thomas