One of us had had a hankering for some time to stay at Boofsheim, a village the name of which translates literally to “Boof’s Home”. It’s been said with reference the Australian Cricket coach that every team performs better if it has a bloke called “Boof” in it, and somehow he just had formed a mental connection with the town no matter how tenuous and inexplicable that may be.
As it turned out the village was at least a kilometre from the potential mooring, which itself was completely occupied no doubt by others on some mad cricket pilgrimage, and since the sky was absolutely going to start delivering a sort of chilly wet soup at any moment, word was passed to the helmsman that even though he may be tiring after a long day scooting down the Rhine, perhaps he’d better keep going for a bit.
Never one to disregard orders from above, he followed "Aroja" for another half hour or so through the early autumn until we found an apparently more suitable place for us both in “Oben’s Home”, although just what made Oben a better bloke than Boof was never explained.
1 comment
Lovely composition, Midge.
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