Life in a Gunkhole Sunday 16th June - Long

The dictionary defines gunkhole, a term used in the language of cruising yachts, as “a shallow inlet or cove that is dangerous or difficult to navigate”.   The attraction of such places should be obvious, they afford some measure of tranquility shall we say,  and the silted-up little branch off the river that has been our home for the past few nights meets all of those criteria. It is so shallow that it’s barely deeper than wet grass, which is exactly how much water we need to float, although even for us, progress across it was impeded by the soft mud and weed.

One would think that when one finds said gunkhole, one would tend to enjoy it in solitude, but the opposite always seems to be the case.  The first boat in acts as a decoy to others who appear to lose all caution at the site of another boat all snug calm, and come charging in oblivious to the differences in their hull shapes.  Some listened to our warning shouts and went on, but one gave it a try, running out of momentum before they could reach the dock.  We caught their ropes to pull them through the ooze  as best we could  to somewhere approaching proximity to shore.

They seemed embarrassed, perhaps wondering how they will get out in the morning, then no doubt deciding that problem can wait till tomorrow, quietly disappeared on their bicycles into the green, and things returned to the way they were.

Chillin’ Saturday 15th June - Long

Inspired by what we think is perhaps the smallest boat we have ever seen manned by a large person and his dog, and perhaps the shortest voyage we have ever seen as well: approximately one metre from the place their boat is kept to the fishing grounds we thought we’d stay on for another day, or perhaps two.

We could quite rightly be accused of being confused about our plan, but with just two days of travel left till we reach our notional half-way point, and with the sun shining brightly we figured that a bit more time out from relentless journeying would do us no harm at all. 

With bright sunshine in abundance we couldn’t have ordered a better day to wet a line, so in no time flat we had the line out and a couple of loads of washing and even some sheets hanging over it, while we sat in the shade quietly watching it all dry.

Swanning around. Friday 14th June - Ailly-sur-Somme to Long

On the face of it, swans have a lovely time of it, floating around doing not much at all except making the place look pretty.  In that respect they are a bit like us really.  The only problem with their life as far as we can tell, is that they have to hold their breath to eat.

Well we have to hold our breath too, every morning as we turn the “start” key waiting to see what Mr Perkins’ attitude will be to the coming day.  It’s not as if he’s misbehaved for a long, long time but old habits do die hard.

It was hardly his fault this morning as he once again instantly burst into life, but none the less it was apparent that all was not well with the world.   Perhaps the gear cable had broken, the control lever was impotent, unable to select reverse or even neutral.  Our first emotion was actually one of relief that it had happened while we were still safely tethered to the shore.   While the while the lock keeper stood happily by, things aboard were being dismantled at a rate of knots, the cause of the problem a deepening mystery until at about the time a nice collection of cotter pins, screws, ball bearings and springs had been assembled and the culprit found.  A loose screw deep in the works, was quickly tightened, things put back into place, bandaids applied and in no time flat we were swanning around once more, breathing normally again, enjoying another perfect day.

Or we could just stay here for a bit. Thursday 13th June - Ailly-sur-Somme

It’s been five days now since we decided that we’d move downstream every day.  We’d go straight down to the river’s mouth we thought, and then make our way back upstream at our leisure.    

Having failed to do that for the first three days of the plan, we left yesterday refreshed,  bright eyed, bushy tailed and eager to get on with it.  That resolve stayed with us overnight as well, and we woke this morning determined to move on "first thing".

Then we looked outside at the rain swollen water and at the lashing rain and the wind, and looked back at our small heater and the coffee pot, and thought….. nooo.

A rip in the fabric of the universe. Wednesday 12th June - Amiens to Ailly-sur-Somme

There’s a disconcerting thread lying beneath the story of our travels so far this year.  

For reasons that are completely unclear we always seem to be in a place where a bakery is not.   This situation that goes far far beyond the usual “well of course we are closed today”, they are either completely closed or in the case of most of the villages we have scoured, in hiding.  What makes it even more disturbing is that we are going to be returning along the same famine-strewn path.

Amiens is not a small place and it was with some determination that we set out to find some proper sustenance to see us through a long day of travel even if that mean delaying our departure.  Determination breeds success it would seem and while we did resist the temptation to gorge, a simple “Paris-Brest” for him, and some kind of custard on a bit of cardboard for her, reinforced our energy levels with an adequate sufficiency.  We were so well fortified that our nine and a half kilometre voyage for the day seemed like nothing.

Sport. Tuesday 11th June - Amiens

Language is a curious thing, body language is curiouser.  A simple nod of the head for instance as one is passing another person, in our culture means something like: “Hello my friend, how are you going, I hope you are having a great time”.   It took quite some time for us to realise that those same sentiments are expressed here by a quick upwards jerk of the chin, the sort of movement that in our custom would tend in be saying something very impolite indeed.

We have become students of late of the body language of novice rowers, as they complete their evening laps beside our mooring.  Their concentration is intense.  They, none of them, appear to be having a good time.   We do our best to lift their spirits by giving them a cheery wave as they splash and wobble by.  On their first circuit, they instinctively want to reciprocate in kind.  Confusion reigns for a moment as they smile back, simulaneously realising that waving with an oar in the hand is not such a practical idea while powerless to overcome the urge.  A sea of conflicting emotions overwhelms them, muscle memories not yet set.  On subsequent circuits they tend to avoid a recurrence by studiously averting our gaze.    

Experienced rowers simply glide by, happy to lift that chin and nose high in the air as they pass which, while we like to think that we understand the intended sentiment, still leaves us with that lingering doubt that they just might be signalling in our own language, perhaps expressing certain sentiments their less experienced colleagues have thus far left unsaid.

Prone to exaggeration. Monday 10th June - Amiens

From time to time I will admit, I have been quite fairly accused of, if not making things up, then perhaps taking liberties with the actual statistics in order to effect a certain emphasis, as though that is some sort of bad thing.  When other people do that they are sometimes hailed as visionaries, indeed some of them are.

Take Jules Verne’s for instance.  If he had actually been twenty thousand leagues under the sea technically he’d be through the other side of the planet and a third of the way to the moon. Presumably he persevered with that number because a league is a curious measure of distance over time, a curious indeterminate.  He is of course best known in the English speaking world at least for making up lots of unbelievable stuff which over the course of the following century would become part of our lives.  If you had read his novels a century or so ago you would not have been aware that electric submarines, skywriting, helicopters, stun guns, news broadcasts, solar sails and much more were already on their way as indeed were helicopters and even floating cities, although we now call them cruise ships.  Truth has become stranger than science fiction.

We dropped in to his house today but he wasn’t home.  Presumably he’s off time travelling at the moment, so we poked around among some of his things for a bit, and promised ourselves we’d reacquaint ourselves with his tales next time we have a rainy day.  Tomorrow.