Little More...: Fortuitous Morning Wee

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Five to five this morning I woke up on my little boat, moored at a lovely spot near the tiny market town of Ellesmere needing a wee. Alan and I have been here for two days now, after a busy week travelling down through Cheshire into Shropshire, hosting a Hinton family party on the way. Bob and Jen, a friends/family hybrid of a couple – lets say two of our best fremily – came to stay for the weekend. After catching the train to Crewe they were deposited by Ma and Pa Hinton's taxi service on a small country lane and faced with the prospect of crossing a disused bridge via two overgrown stiles to get to the canal towpath in the thickening twilight. Having faced the prospect they promptly footed it and arrived at the boat in time for a cuppa and a nice sleep. On Saturday we rocked up - literally, as Bob had very quickly taken up position on the side rails of the boat where he spent much of the travelling time of the weekend (when he wasn't doing locks, that is) alternately perched, hanging or just Bobbing – at a lock just outside Wrenbury. Alan and Jen's entire family then arrived with enough food and drink to kit us out as a small floating grocer's shop. We'd make shite grocers though, because we ate all the food. Amidst all the hustle and bustle of a busy stretch of canal on a Saturday there we were, scoffing our heads off and taking up the towpath with our camping chairs and our tiny table quaking under the weight of tons of snap and booze. We must have made a quaint little picture, and we attracted a lot of looks and cheery – and slightly hungry - waves from walkers and boaters. Despite the clouds it was an ace afternoon of eating, drinking and watching loads of poor buggers having a go at their first ever lock, there being several boat hire places nearby. As veterans of over 100 locks, Alan and myself would've been on hand to help had there not been the considerable distraction of some nice cake for lunch-pudding. Having said that, I did go up and teach a very tipsy man and his equally squiffy friend how a lock works before he clattered his way merrily through his first one in a 70ft long hire boat. Had I not been well on my way to being fairly pissed myself I would have offered to drive it in for him since I have become quite proud of my steering prowess over the last month. Instead I wobbled back to continue my familial eating duties with a slightly anxious backward glance and a little whispered prayer of “Good luck, don't sink yourselves” towards my shitfaced protegees. I saw them today on their way back and they are all alive. I think the booze must have run out though because neither of them slurred when they said hello. After going through 6 more locks, including a staircase of three, with the jolly help of Ma and Pa H and Bob and Jen on a blisteringly summery Sunday, we arrived in Ellesmere and found ourselves a spot on an overgrown and overlooked bit of deserted towpath away from town. It is here that we did our laundry, drying our towels, sheets, knickers and shorts on an improvised series of string clotheslines strung right down the length of the boat. (To get a picture of how this looked in a tiny dwelling only 38 feet long and less than 7 feet wide, imagine a giant's white bunting hung up in a Hobbit's house). It was from here also that we cycled the 20 miles to Chirk and back today, of which more some other time. And it was here also that I awoke before dawn this morning needing an early morning wee. Why was the wee fortuitous? Well it meant that I was awake to hear the absurd twittering of a bird outside my bedroom cabin window. It was a strange call in two parts; the bird would twitter and then answer itself with a trill; sort of a birdy-no-mates-talks-to-itself call . But the bird is not the point. It was very very cold. This is also not the point, but as I snuggled back under the bedwarmed sheets I had the faintly annoying sense that I was going to have to get up and go outside to see what ridiculous creature would get up at five in the morning to make such a daft noise outside my window. I tried to ignore the faintly annoying sense on the grounds that it was cold as the bloody grave on the other side of the duvet but the faintly annoying sense then decided to hell with faintly annoying, lets go for all out niggly. So I sat up and began to perform the weird dance of the-person-who-is-trying-to-get-dressed-while-keeping-their-entire-body-under-a-duvet as I wriggled into a bizarre collection of woollen items and went outside to find this ruddy bird. I could not find it. But as I said before, the bird is not the point. As I sat watching on the stern, I began to become lulled and transfixed by how beautiful and gentle everything looks in the pink light before dawn. Mist curled off the surface of the canal, making it look like potion in a cauldron and one by one birds glided over my head either setting out on or returning from their hunt. The sky wore its baby pinks and blues shyly, throwing the odd raggedy scarf of grey around itself and then, all of a sudden, after about 45 minutes of drinking all this gentle stillness in, I saw an otter. The otter is the point. Otters nearly became extinct in the middle of the twentieth century and although they have a fairly healthy population now, it is incredibly rare to see one in the wild. This one plopped into the water, sleek and heavy, on the opposite bank to me and executed a couple of its mermaidy-undulations in the water to get a bit of momentum going. Then its head appeared above the water, all eyes and friendly nose and whiskers. It paddled happily towards me and fixed me with a look of such open curiosity that after a short time I could not help but reach – silently I thought – for my binoculars. My mistake. I should have returned her gaze for longer because once I broke eye contact, she darted of underwater, quick as a fish. She was probably startled by my movement, but I had a vague fancy that she was a little bit affronted that I didn't look back at her for longer. I stayed out for another half an hour waiting for her but she never came. Instead I was treated to a gorgeous sunrise and the medley of smells that came with each stage of the sun's return to the world, from the bite of the cold fresh pre-dawn air in the nose to the soft, sweet smell of rising dew to the damp grassy smell of drying leaves and stems. But nothing quite matched my encounter with the otter. I knew how privileged I had been. Meantime Alan and I have taken to sitting on our roof at night to watch the bats and listen to the whole family of otters we are convinced we have as neighbours pad through the reeds on the opposite bank. I would love to see one of them again. I'm also desperate to spy an owl.

Comments

Pure Poetry Debs, it sounds wonderful. I was there with you the entire time (including as you got dressed under the bed clothes)!

James

Posted by: James Robbins | August 09, 2007 at 02:19 PM

I love it debs, you are so creative with the english language sounds ace! A few paragraphs wouldn't go amiss though... ;)
Enjoy the festivals - catch up soon!

Posted by: Andrew Beacock | August 09, 2007 at 09:44 PM

I would like to echo the esteemed mr peacocks call for paragraphs - but i'm glad i read that, that really is beautiful, with writing like that you don't need a camera - loved it

Posted by: toast | August 10, 2007 at 09:33 AM