We’d been happily moored in the quiet of the town quay beside the silos for a couple of days. It’s a lot more salubrious than it looks, quiet, and only a few hundred metres from the centre of town, surrounded on three sides by a leafy green backdrop.
Then the rains came, or at least the forecast did, giving notice to every farmer that ever there was that it might be time to get the wheat in. Farmers do this with machinery working from dawn to long after dusk filling great big dusty bins which great big tractors tow to town so that they can be unloaded into great big silos, clanging and roaring and billowing clouds of wheat dust as they go.
Ahh yes. Anyone paying attention would remember that we were moored beside the silos, and would perhaps rightly conclude that all those great big tractors caused our quiet to suffer, and the dust caused suffering of a different kind. Fortunately in this event the town provides a more peaceful alternative mooring just a few hundred metres further away, barely out of earshot, but upwind and in the middle of those leafy green surrounds.
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