Our eldest came to visit for the second time, over the weekend. The first visit was 19 years but this was just a couple of days.
While he slept off his half term in a familiar bed, we went to visit the boat. No time to sail unfortunately, we just had time to re-inflate the tender's air chambers, check on the mooring and watch the water-world go by for ten minutes. A neap tide was just turning from ebb to flood, water fowl of all sorts were lining the shore. It was one of those slightly mad, cool, breezy and bright mornings that characterise this time of year. Although motor bound, we could feel the power in the passing sails of radical dinghies and enjoy the slight waves that re-doubled the glare of the low sun.
On the boat we had a good sighting of a black swan, following a more usual mute around. I had seen them fly over together from the tender and assumed, while I wrinkled my irises against the light, that the slightly grey bird was a signet that hadn't quite whitened up yet. On the lake it was obviously the different species; very black, very red beak.
Monday 24 October 2016
Monday 17 October 2016
An unsailed breeze
I may complain about sleep, but I generally sleep well once I'm in bed (It is getting to that point that seems hard). Last night was an exception that found me wide awake in the dark. I know the period of wakefulnes covered 04:50 because I visited the kitchen at that time; I know it began before that and continued past 06:00 because of the number of trains I heard.
I think the problem was a subliminal rattling sound that early morning prowling established as belonging to one of my son's bedroom door. He has taken to sleeping with a window wide open and the wind direction must have been such that this was the cause. I quietened the door by stuffing a sock in the gap - I'll try and find a better fix tonight, but I have to say that the sock was effective. Once I'd solved that problem there was a heavy rain shower that didn't help my return to nod. Whenever that stopped I must have slept again until I was aware of my 07:00 alarm.
The garden looked rinsed this morning; no use trying to take the green waste to the tip in this damp state. The Forest had a light, contour hugging mist, uniformly eight feet deep. Cows in the road were too busy licking the rain off each others coats to notice cars trying to pass. The gutters were still quite full, even an hour after the rain stopped, but this is generally the state of the forest - it drains poorly and it would be strange to walk the paths here without finding some mud, even during periods that in our English way we describe as drought.
Not sailing for the weekend left time to start on the wilding state of the garden. I find that, although swift-walking fit, I am not pick-axe fit by any means. Removing the largest of the self-sown ash trees was enough for my lower back and using heavy loppers to cut up the wood just began to trouble last year's tennis elbow. I think of fire, or pigs.
I think the problem was a subliminal rattling sound that early morning prowling established as belonging to one of my son's bedroom door. He has taken to sleeping with a window wide open and the wind direction must have been such that this was the cause. I quietened the door by stuffing a sock in the gap - I'll try and find a better fix tonight, but I have to say that the sock was effective. Once I'd solved that problem there was a heavy rain shower that didn't help my return to nod. Whenever that stopped I must have slept again until I was aware of my 07:00 alarm.
The garden looked rinsed this morning; no use trying to take the green waste to the tip in this damp state. The Forest had a light, contour hugging mist, uniformly eight feet deep. Cows in the road were too busy licking the rain off each others coats to notice cars trying to pass. The gutters were still quite full, even an hour after the rain stopped, but this is generally the state of the forest - it drains poorly and it would be strange to walk the paths here without finding some mud, even during periods that in our English way we describe as drought.
Not sailing for the weekend left time to start on the wilding state of the garden. I find that, although swift-walking fit, I am not pick-axe fit by any means. Removing the largest of the self-sown ash trees was enough for my lower back and using heavy loppers to cut up the wood just began to trouble last year's tennis elbow. I think of fire, or pigs.
Tuesday 4 October 2016
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