The motor was running as well as ever, and the Mayfly was again looking her best as Jim and Amanda edged slowly out of the basin, having stayed a few days and were more than happy to be on the move again, despite the rather persistent rain and the ever recurrent cash problems.

Autumn was beginning to take more of a hold, and was most noticeable on clear nights and bright mornings when the thin plywood shell did not do much of a job of keeping the cold out. Their next main destination was to return the pollution monitor they were testing to Clive Prentice. Whilst looking forward to seeing him again, it also meant the end of any income from the device, and no further way planned to earn more. Nothing seemed to bother them, though as they were on the move again and that was what they did best.

“We ought to phone Marie in the corner shop at some time,” Jim suggested, as they passed under a bridge. “See what the state of play is back home.”

“This is home,” Amanda smiled. “But I know what you mean, except not today, let’s have the next twenty four hours just for the two of us. There’s nobody chasing or trying to arrest either you or me, and that’s sort of good I think.”

Jim smiled in reply, knowing their easy going routine had returned and both should be savouring it. They stopped for the night early in an area of open country to enjoy the evening, the meal, a long walk under the darkening sky, and the return, lit only by the stars to the warmth of shared closeness in the cabin. The breeze that had blown up since they retired gently rocked the boat until they both drifted off to sleep. They would have slept late into the morning had the noise of the breeze, which had now achieved almost gale force, not woken them at around six o’clock.

“That’s going to be a bummer,” Amanda said, lazily.

“Stuff it,” Jim replied as he stretched out. “We’re going to get more of this as the year goes on so we may as well get acclimatised.”

And more of it they got. Over the next week if it wasn’t raining, it was blowing or, just for a change, doing both.

They started each day damp and finished it soaking, but, fuelled by a hearty breakfast and strong tea, they plugged on forward though progress was sometimes only a third of their normal daily distance. Even with covers fully deployed, the wind blown rain still found its target, and, worse still, the force of the gusts pushed the boat all over the place.

Eventually they put anything that wasn’t waterproof in the cabin, and ran without covers, accepting saturation as a fact of life. By the end of each day they were chapped and sore from handling wet rope and windlasses. By the end of the week, Amanda had a bad cold. The weather continued as wild as it had been.

“Right,” Jim eventually said, “You stay in the cabin today. There’s no way you can work.”

Amanda protested, but knew he was right, despite which, she was pretty sure he was going to catch the wretched cold and then it’d be her turn. Both were correct, In another day Jim’s temperature had risen to what Amanda had decided was probably a dizzying height and she insisted that they both stop until they felt better.

“We weren’t born to this,” she croaked. “And I think even old Lou would let us off for a day or so.”

“I remember,” Jim said. “He didn’t want you roughing your hands up.”

The cough he’d developed stopped him saying more.

The rain, mist and wind made everything on Mayfly seem damp and cold, mainly because it was. They used the paraffin stoves to provide some warmth, but they were noisy, smelly and the instruction booklet that came with one of them warned they shouldn’t be used as space heaters. The daily walk for provisions and water added to the general state of gloom that had settled. They were again running short of money, and each day they did not travel eroded their budget further.

It was the weekend before either of them felt fit to move on and, with slightly improved weather, they edged off towards their planned destination, a canal bridge quite near to Clive Prentice’s business. Taking things easy, thankful that the wind, at least had died down, the covers could stay up sheltering the sporadic rain. With gradually clearing rain and small periods of sunshine, Jim tried hand towing to save petrol claiming that the exercise would do him good.

With the holiday season over, they could go on for over a day without seeing another boat on the move which meant that they avoided daft comments and offers of help, as happened previously, from people thinking they had broken down.

“We’re going to have to think of ways to keep warm once the real cold weather starts,” Amanda pointed out, coughing as she did. “Or we’ll catch something really bad and be found frozen to the marrow in midwinter by one of the lengthmen.”

“Best not buy any marrows then,” Jim quipped, knowing his partner was right.

The eventual solution came from a pile of fly tipped waste.

“If we heat the bricks on a small campfire, we can put them in one of the empty deed boxes," Amanda said. "Kind of like the haybox cooker in reverse. It’ll keep the real chill out of the cabin."

“That one worked,” Jim smiled. “At least I won’t be thinking you’ve gone bonkers whilst we make the thing,” he added with a laugh.

“OK then” Amanda smiled, “Let’s go for it. We can do this Jimbo! Last one to find a bit of wood is a lemon!”

Optimism had returned and the pair set off with a new enthusiasm towards their destination.

 

(©2026 Michael Nye)

Over the summer I have been drawing and painting in some wonderful places around Preston. Haslam Park and Nature Reserve has been a particular source of inspiration, encouraging me to get outside and create. The Lancaster Canal inspires me too, and I often think how lucky I am to have all this on my doorstep.

I recently became aware of the 'Visions of Preston' art project run by Climate Action Preston. It is an Open Call to artists in Preston with the brief: 'How could we thrive, in harmony with nature and with each other?'

We are encouraged to think about familiar places like the Lancaster Canal - green spaces, old buildings and building sites - and imagine what we would like to see there. What would be fun, beautiful, and helpful to the planet and to wild creatures and plants? We are asked to consider Friends of the Earth’s “Hope Starts Here” poster to help us think about what could change in Preston to make things better: how we get around, grow food, and share things.

Could that patch of land become a play space or a vegetable plot? Could that empty building be used as a workshop or youth club, or be taken down to create a green space or nature reserve? Could the city centre be full of plants and wildlife? Some streets could become playgrounds. How could we find space for more trees? What could we do with the city rooftops, and how could we encourage people to use cars less, so it’s nicer and safer to walk around? What about the canal and riverbanks - is there a way we can enjoy them more without endangering wildlife or children? What about Preston Dock, the biggest in Europe in its day, which sits empty most of the time now? And the old railway lines?

With this brief in mind, I have been travelling around my favourite places in Preston, wanting to paint the beautiful, exciting and uplifting things I find - plants, creatures, a favourite insect or bird, energy. Our colourful canal and waterways can be shown in so many ways.

I have submitted a piece for the forthcoming exhibition for consideration, my acrylic painting, Bexhill Road Bridge (No. 15) Ingol, on the Lancaster Canal. A favourite place to watch the sunset and reflect.

Details of the exhibition venues will be announced over the summer. Venues being approached include the Harris Museum, Preston City Hall, Preston Bus Station, and local community centres and libraries.

‘Summertime, and the living is easy.

Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy’s rich and…’

Oh, hello.

Nearly missed you there as I lean against the brickwork of old bridge number 38, eyes half closed, strumming on my banjo, in my straw hat and plaid shirt, reflectively chewing on an ear of corn.

Yes – summer is upon us and I’m in the mood to relax through the lazy, crazy, hazy days.
And let my imagination have free reign. (Hence the crazy).

For example – the plaque on the downstream side of the bridge has disappeared.

How?

Why?

Did someone maliciously remove it and weigh it in for scrap? Probably not because the one on the upstream side is still there.

Did it, after all these years simply drop off, perhaps because the straining fixings holding it to the bridge’s crumbling masonry rusted through.

And if it did plummet into the cut and, more importantly, if no one was around to witness the event, did it make a splash?

Perhaps it struck a duck, killing it stone dead, as it struggled vainly to overcome the laws of gravity.

Come to think of it, have you ever seen a dead duck? Floating along on it’s back, little webbed feet pointing at the heavens.

No – nor me. Not in all these years of wandering the towpath down here by the Staffs and Worcs canal. I wonder what happens to them as they shuffle off to the afterlife, perhaps to be reincarnated as a three toed sloth – if you believe that sort of thing.

Perhaps they don’t die at all. Ducks may be immortal for we know. In fact the only dead duck that I’ve heard of lately is Keir Starmer. (Sorry – never write about politics, not even in jest. Some things simply aren’t funny).

And if the plaque is indeed now languishing in the silt, why did it sink?

No, it’s not a silly question at all. After all that great lump of steel that you’ve just driven into the bank, carving out a great wedge of Staffordshire countryside as you attempted to sail past - that floats doesn’t it? Otherwise you’d be rather damp now, let’s face it.

Yes, I’ve heard about displacement and that sort of stuff - frankly I don’t understand the concept - but who came up with that daft idea?

Imagine if you will, the inventor of the steel hull, busily welding bits of iron together and chucking the finished fabrication in the nearest lake to see what happened.

How all the other shipbuilders since the time of Noah, gaily nailing together that famously buoyant material – wood - would have laughed at the disaster befalling the hapless blacksmith as his creation sank to the depths.

But it didn’t. It floated! How I ask you, how?

That rental boat that you’re chugging about in weighs more than the now sadly departed bridge marker. Considerably more, considering that the fridge is stocked full of cans of lager to keep the captain on a less than even keel.

The mystery of it all eh?

What’s that, sorry?

Oh, you’ve got to go.

Well nice to chat.

If you turn around at the next winding hole to make your way back to the marina, why don’t you join me as I muse on the complexities of quantum physics and the ability of socks to seemingly wink in and out of existence. Perhaps they inhabit alternative dimensions?

Yes, summer. The time for quiet reflection and meditation.

You can’t beat it can you?

‘…and your ma is good lookin,

So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.’

Oooh, look – it’s raining now. I wonder why?

By the way – in case you were wondering, this was not written by an AI thingy.

I AM NOT A ROBOT.