By day as the only residents in the port, we are surrounded by silence except for the sucking sounds of the barnacles treating themselves to the buffet that our worn out anti-fouling has become. No other boat is on the move.
Each night though, the carpark behinds us fills with Camping Cars, or Motorhomes as we’d call them in another hemisphere. If they could seethe, there would be a seething mass of them, but they can’t. After dark at least they are quite possibly among the most inanimate things on the planet, and the more their numbers increase, the less seething they appear to do.
They just turn up around dusk in their droves, huddle in neat rows, and are mostly gone by the time we have seen fit to greet the day. The curious thing is not that they are there, but that there is rarely a sign of intelligent life aboard or any life for that matter. Windows and doors remain firmly closed, nothing emerges from within except the barest hint of a winking bluish light that seeps out of the cracks of the blackout curtains, accompanied by vague sounds of murder or football or cheery game show audiences.
Perhaps they are not occupied at all, perhaps by day they are part of some sophisticated, remote controlled traffic calming system for motorways.
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