We had considered getting away early, but the heat of the day doesn’t tend to dissipate until long after sunset, and we were flagging a bit afater two days of gently pacing our activity while slowly being broiled, so it was closer to nine when one of us lifted the floor to stow away the last of the tools.
Anyone who has passed through farmland in Europe at certain times of the year will be familiar with the distinct olfactory sensation that relates to the spraying of winter’s excrement over summer’s crop planting, a process which is apparently so disgusting to the plants that they then race as fast as they can towards the sky in an effort to get away from the ground which they no doubt conclude is the source of the unpleasantness.
We’d had the occasional gentle waft overnight, not surprising given the proximity of our mooring to paddocks of freshly growing green things, but the moment that floor was lifted our sympathy for the plants increased enormously as we were hit with a solid wall of what could only be described as “pong”.
Having now reached some sort of pinnacle in our lives where imitating that Mongolian contortionist in a confined space that smelled like a, well let’s face it, a sewer, is less than appealing, we did the only sensible thing we could think of under the circumstances, and called for help.
It only took Super-Thijs a few seconds to discover that simple human error on our part was the culprit, to tighten the joint loosened by our error, and send us happily on our way to Oldenburg. There we spent the evening with the heat tempered a little by a cool sea breeze, and our already ebullient moods enhanced by an after dinner visit from Dave and Ria.
No comments
Post a Comment