We woke splendidly rested, having missed the dawn by a bit, but none the less with plenty of time up our sleeves to complete our morning ablutions and breakfast before timing our casting off to be at the first lock, not two hundred metres away, by nine.
By one minute past nine and seventeen seconds, one of us had begun to chastise the other for always testing the boundaries of the poor sleepy Authority that looks after the waterways. Thankfully a mere ninety seconds late the signal lights came on and Mr P, by now chafing at the bit, roared off, drowning any further suggestions of returning to the bank for a bit.
The weather forecast had warned of waning temperatures, indifferent skies and perhaps precipitation later in the day and evening, perfect for just tumbling along through the forest with no compelling reason (until the rain came) to stop. We’ve travelled in these parts before, so we don’t gasp as much as we once did at the constant changes from one bend to another as we move between deep forest and river plain, but our fascination with the magnitude of change between seasons remains.
The more observant among us may recognise the trunks of the trees in the photo above, the difference between high summer and spring in April last year is nothing short of amazing to our minds developed in a country where seasons are marked by the amount of rain received in given month.