Yes. Well.

We slipped our moorings early Sunday morning. Our ropes were coiled, our fenders stowed. The decks had been scrubbed before dawn. There was probably a belay pin somewhere, who knows.

I’d never seen Cap’n G is his previously natural habitat. I’d always imagined that this creature sired by Lincolnshire farmers was built the way he was – short legs, long wide body, large feet – to withstand the famed Lincolnshire ‘blow’ in the fields. Now I realise that it was to allow him to stride confidently along slippery gunnels, unlike Ms Raccoon’s crablike progress clinging to anything that looks semi-permanent, and to be able to step ‘twixt shore and stern without a moment’s hesitation. Personally I allow ten minutes contemplation to calculate the chances that they are likely to remain one stride apart. There be giant Pike in that watery gap in the middle…

He really is utterly at home on a boat – he should be, ran away to sea at 15; it was just that I had never witnessed this melding of man and maritime before.

It was quite idyllic; meandering along under sun dappled skies. The Egyptian geese have formed a colony to guard their young, sailing four and six handed alongside us with a gaggle of perhaps a dozen youngsters protectively between them. A flock of herring gulls mustering a blistering attack on a Heron who had caught a rather fine fish – why do the work when you can attack and force the sharing of someone else’s labour? The Heron hung on determinedly, but his fish was looking a little bedraggled round the gills when he was finally left in peace.

We left behind the hurly-burly of the hire boat dodgem game and slipped into a narrow dyke that led to an unspoilt broad. We were quite alone – the floating holiday cottages had all raced on past the entrance intent on the next riverside pub with karaoke. Needless to say, with such a competent Master in charge, we had arrived with precisely sufficient time to drop the mud weight, pour a glass of wine, and settle down to listen to two hours of the Monaco Grand Prix on Radio 5. Into every arcadian life a little rain must fall…

We slept that night, well fortified after piping hot whiskey macs served on the foredeck; with shipboard comforts (yours truly) securely stowed in a sleeping bag that required expertise in the ‘sack race’ in order to reach the ‘heads’ but no matter, all was supremely comfortable. This was shipboard life that Madame could cope with, unlike the ‘Lord Nelson’. The ship’s cook was excellent; perfect bacon, eggs, and black pudding was served with coffee and the remains of yesterday’s Sunday Times. All those years cooking in the camper van had taught the man a thing or two.

There was no sign of the sun next morning; the birds had all fled and a large black cloud was looming over us. No matter, we were secure, dry, warm, and had good books to hand. The wind was getting up though and we were swinging wildly on our mud weight. By early afternoon, the mud weight was losing its battle with the wind, and the Master determined that if we didn’t bloody well move we’d end up in the bullrushes. Apparently this is to be avoided.

So we left our sylvan, sheltered, mere, with its gently swaying trees, and returned to the river – whereupon we discovered that a full scale ‘North Sea’ style gale was blowing across the flat East Anglian landscape. The nearest available secure mooring was downriver, against the tide and against the wind – and proved to be full of hire-boats, captains raucously supping in hostelries. As was the next and the next. By the ‘next’ after that, we were but three nautical miles from a very stable, dry, thatched cottage, with a flushing loo and everything, which was becoming remarkably enticing given the way the day was shaping up. Mr G shot me a filthy look when I ventured to suggest that we did actually own the next secure mooring…in fact had recently parted with large sums of money in order to ensure that it was the absolutely perfect mooring for a craft such as this…

I told you something would have gone wrong if I was home before Wednesday. Overnight, East Anglia has suffered a storm of such dimensions that there were no trains to Norwich this morning (line flooded), there is a car stuck in flood water under the bridge, a swathe of trees felled, and the dog has spent the night under our bed shivering with fear as thunder and lightning crashed across the skies. Bank Holiday Monday…

Mr G, to his eternal shame, required, well not required, but grudgingly accepted, perfectly capable, etc, harrumph, etc, help from a neighbouring boat owner to safely moor this craft against tide, wind, and sheeting rain, and hollered out to my retreating form that I was ‘a bloody minks on a boat’. (Plural)

I fear the exertion has left him seeing double and unable to tell the difference between a raccoon and a mink…or even minks.

Gales do seem to follow me whence I float. Perhaps he meant ‘jinx’?