Time to check the boat, slumbering on her mooring since late last Autumn.
She’s waiting. Patiently passing her 113th Winter.
There’s always guilt associated with the Winter’s neglect. Life gets in the way. Messy, hectic, demanding, daunting, draining life gets in the way […]
Her batteries are flat. No means to turn the engine. She slumbers.
I’ll return soon, and I’ll be better prepared, with spanners and the like, and I’ll lift the batteries, and take them to the car, and drive them to London to heft up the stairs, and recharge them, and re-fill them, and test and return them. But all that’s for another day […]
Just a little damp. There’s the temptation to light the stove and warm her through, but the Boys are eager for the off and time’s soon ticking against our staying.
So, the boat’s relocked, and the silence returns.
The new Season? No, not quite yet.