The pleasure of living in a small enclosed space seems to diminish in inverse proportion to the number on the thermometer, so when the number gets to be quite big the best thing to do is to find a nice shady tree and moor under it.
George and Karen no doubt inspired by our tales of the joys of mooring in the wild, experiencing the freedom of banging in a stake and tying up anywhere that looks nice, with nothing but the whisper of the wind in the grass, the lapping of the water or the occasional jumping fish to disturb the tranquility, decided to accompany us when we left port just after lunch.
The journey was neither long nor arduous. Our log shows that we travelled through one lock and a total distance of eight hundred metres before we found our spot among the wildflowers in a place which would be in heavy shade for the afternoon. A perfect place we thought, to lay out a picnic rug, and read for a bit or perhaps snooze, lulled by the gentle sounds of the breeze rustling through the treetops.
A perfect place, George thought, to fire up the generator and get the angle grinder onto those little patches of rust on the foredeck.