I finished a book this afternoon, of the reading rather than the "colouring in" type, about someone else's barge adventures in France.
I am fascinated with how other people seem to have such extraordinary tales of derring do, how they always seem to be running aground, or into things or having to make fancy last minute manoeuvres to prevent their "160 tons of steel" tangling with some immovable object. Today for instance, while lying around reading and pre as well as post-snooze we didn't come close to hitting anything, and tomorrow I expect we'll do just as well.
It's not as though we were completely inactive though. We did ride to the village down the way a bit, wander round its church and its wash house, past fish and beavers and watermills and to the station where, late in the evening the scruffy horde returned, fresh from their week on a somewhat larger ship than ours.
We were no longer alone.
They were back with all their glorious cruise ship chatter and excitement.
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