My brother Pete rang yesterday and asked about our narrowboat holiday. He thought - from my blog post - that it had been awful. But it hadn’t. It hadn’t been awful. We had a great time.
There is more to narrowboating than the quality of the boat. I love being so close to the open country, waking up and stepping out on deck and being part of the still morning, seeing the mist rising from the quiet canal,
the sun coming over the horizon through the bare trees, the pure reflections on the water as we travel along, the slowness of the journey so I can soak up every last view of the landscape before it changes, the simplicity of the life – the choosing of where to moor, and the way a walk to an unknown village in search of milk and papers and little unexpected treats – like the best pork scratchings in the world that I found at the village store in Wrenbury - that such a simple trip becomes an adventure.
(I lead a sheltered life. I hardly see a packet of pork scratchings from one year’s end to the next. And now I have finished the last of the packets I bought from Wrenbury, my life is drab.)
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