Gallic Peregrinations #2, St. Jean de Losne to the top of the hill.

SALUT! (Sounds like: 'sal-you'.) I'm sure I mentioned, earlier, somewhere, that the telling of this tale was likely to be 'non-linear', and thus it shall prove to be.

Prior to starting out where last I left you, gentle reader, I was enjoined to notice that I was far from qualified to be in charge of the boat intended for the journey we were envisaging. Whilst Lyn and I had, prior to leaving Ireland, investigated the qualifications necessary; in large part due to the current world-wide health emergency; no person or organization willing and able to supply such qualifications, was available in Ireland. Turning to United Kingdom sources: we ascertained that the Royal Yachting Association could - in normal times - supply such requirements . . . i.e. an International Certificate of Competence (I.C.C.). However . . . that qualification consists of two, separate parts: the theory and the practice! The theoretical part: the C.E.V.N.I. (Code Européen des Voies de la Navigation Intérieure), and the practical part: in this case the RYA's 'Helmsman's Certificate.

Now, this last, is a qualification Lyn and I received many moons ago. However: where the paperwork for it might be, neither of us could remember. Sadly, upon enquiring of the RYA, they informed us that they only kept records for five years!!! Again: due to pandemic circumstances; testing for this part of the I.C.C. was 'suspended for the duration of hostilities', both in Ireland and the U.K..

Coming to the rescue, allow us to present Steve and Jo Bridges (of Buzet-sur-Baïse, South West France, on the Canal de Garonne) who's lovely, 21 metre barge: 'SOMEWHERE' provides the platform for the requisite training and examination; whilst Steve and Jo provide the training. (Jo also provides excellent hospitality and scrumptious cuisine, and SOMEWHERE does double-duty as a luxurious, and exclusive, cruising hotel.

Check out: https://www.bargecraft.com/) So, off we went on a 3-day, 1,200 Km. round-trip to the South Of France. That, in itself, is a tale worthy of telling . . . at some later date. Suffice it to say that I feel relieved to have set out on this voyage, suitably qualified; or at least confident that I wouldn't be arrested for 'driving without a licence!

Here are Jo and Steve, with SOMEWHERE providing a suitably scenic backdrop.

Now . . . where was I? Ah, yes: the Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne (that last is 'Burgundy'. to you and me), which used to be called the Canal de la Marne à la Saône; connecting two big rivers, separated by a very large hill. If the name was changed by some tourism consultant, to attract more people to use it . . . it didn't work! There are a lot of locks (42 'up', 71 'down'; in 224 kilometres) and short - average about two kilometres - pounds. On a British canal, this would make for a lot of heavy work; but the French decided there was a better way. At the very first lock/écluse we were met by an éclusier/lock-keeper, who handed us a piece of kit which looked like a 1990's remote control . . . and such (sort of) it turned out to be! Pressing a button, whilst about half a kilometre from a lock, instituted an automatic system to prepare the lock for our entry. Once safely ensconced in the lock, pressing another button closed the lock-gates behind the boat, and instituted the procedure to, appropriately, flood or drain the lock, and: et voila; open the gates in front of the boat at the appropriate moment. Wonderful! On the very few occasions when this technology failed: a short telephone call - in our 'exécrable Franglaise' - would bring an éclusier, in five or ten minutes. This made us somewhat blasé about climbing up through many miles of grain fields, but at least it didn't exhaust us. The weather, whilst we were delayed in St. Usage/St. Jean de Losne, had been glorious, so we, and our new friends, spent quite a bit of time of VDN's upper deck; where we were high enough to enjoy any vagrant breezes, and take advantage of the welcome shade provided our 'bimini'.

Back in Ireland, hopefully, it will do similar service for the 'liquid sunshine. 😉

Three days got us to the top, and the dreaded five-kilometre tunnel. However, it was well lit and well ventilated, so five minutes of terror, quickly became an hour of dimly-lit ennui. (See how my French is improving?) Au revoir, Tom.

Gallic Peregrinations #1, Plombiers to St. Jean de Losne.

 Hello . . . and welcome to France!

Above it says: 'Plombiers', which is shorthand for: Plombiers les Dijon; the erstwhile home of VENT DU NORD. It is also the home of Mm. Simone Duval: the vendor of our new purchase; and (sadly) her deceased husband: Jacques . . . a mortal victim of 'le Covid' . . . R.I.P.

Whilst, immediately on our arrival, we found much to like about VENT DU NORD (hereinafter written as: VDN); an ongoing impediment has been Simone's huge lack of knowledge about almost every technical aspect of this boat. (Talk about a steep learning-curve!) However: within less than a week of our arrival in France, we were navigating VDN down the Canal de Bourgogne; through Dijon. This initial foray was greatly aided by the services of a 'captain-for-hire': Scotsman: Johnny Parmetter; a wild man if ever there was one! Johnny knows everyone on the water, but few recognise him, after a twelvemonth of allowing his hair and beard to grow, luxuriantly and unrestrained. His ship-handling talents and generous tuition got me off to a flying start . . .  thanks Johnny!

Being keen as mustard to proceed (See what I did there???) within two days we arrived at Atelier Fluvial, in Saint Usage; in order to have a few essential repairs carried out, preparatory to commencing our northward trek.

We were fully aware that such reparations would occupy several days . . . perhaps, even, a week . . . but A MONTH??? I'm being kind . . . five weeks and two days!!! It's not correct to say that the work went slowly; it was getting it to go at all which was the frustrating part. For a start: Atelier Fluvial - and its proprietor: M. Philippe Gerbet - has bigger (much bigger) fish to fry or, rather, boats to repair.

If M. Gerbet had an actual list of priorities, we didn't feature anywhere near to the top of the first page . . . or anywhere on any page, insofar as we could perceive. Please be in no doubt that Philippe - as we came to know him - is anything other than a charming and honest character; but he is the 'busy' in businessman! Multiply that by the complications of the impact of the pandemic, on everything from spare-parts location and delivery, to absentee essential workers, and . . . well . . .

Mind you, compensations abounded. There is a small, but lively and interesting, international boating community, semi-resident in and around the Quai de Canal du Bourgogne. Italians, Germans, Scots, French, Irish (me) and even English. (Counting Lyn, there were five of them!) There was Alberto: a cheese and wine expert from Parma (cheese, geddit?), Italy, and his partner: Ursula; an opera-singer from Munich. Paul and Mal, professional boat-deliverers and house-sitters, from England; and generous with knowledge of all aspects of European waterways. The gorgeous Monica, from Bavaria, and her Scottish - but very generous, with it - (career, ex-British Army) electrical specialist 'toy-boy': Jim. France was very graciously represented by brand-new boaters (and almost brand-new 'couple'): Mylene and Antoine. Whilst England was also represented by 'volunteer' European refugees: Vanessa and Spike (my YouTube guru; of whom I made mention in an earlier missive).

Each and every one of these 'new-found friends', are graciousness personified; and are the reasons why our long-awaited departure from Saint Usage was bitter-sweet.

After replacing the hydraulic pump for the bow-thruster, bringing  the 'black water' tank into usable status, routine servicing of the 5-cylinder main engine and 3-cylinder generator (both Beta Marine units), fitting a new rudder-angle indicator and recommissioning the lower steering wheel back into use; we were finally . . . FINALLY, ready to commence the journey to Zeebrugge. Ursula and Roberto acted as our 'matelots', to get us through the 'écluse' (that's French for 'lock') onto the River Soane, and tie-up at the floating fuel pumps, to take on over 1,500 litres of diesel; THEN we were ready!

Bawling 'Bound for the Rio Grande' at the tops of our voices, we headed upstream on the Soane, with 25 kilometres and three more écluses in prospect before our initial overnight stop, just short of the entrance to la Canal entre Champagne et Bourgogne; with its daunting one hundred and fourteen locks, two hundred and twenty-four Km. length and one hundred and seventy metre rise, before entering the five kilometre tunnel at the summit . . . but that's another story!

Gallic Peregrinations.

“If you believe you are a citizen of the world, you are a citizen of nowhere.”  . . .  with those words (then) Prime Minister Teresa May not only disenfranchised me, but also lumped me in with heartless employers, wide-boy corporate raiders, terrorist enablers, and tax-dodging ultra-capitalists . . . a ploy by which to obfuscate behind a smoke-screen of half-truths and outright lies. She was, I felt, very deeply: aiming her venom directly at me. Well . . . here are Lyn and I, in France . . . I, riding on my Irish passport, and she on her Canadian identity.

We have just taken ownership of a new boat: VENT DU NORD; 

    and are about a couple of weeks into the tortuous process of bringing her to Ireland. This will involve a journey - through French and Belgian waterways - of more than 750kms., and passage through no less than 203 locks!

Whilst (the never-to-be-forgotten) MOONSTONE was transported from Yorkshire to Knockvicar by road haulage; the bridges and power-lines of France are low enough to present expensive impediments to such a continental odyssey. Significant funds might be saved - we were informed - by starting the road journey at the ferry-port of Zeebrugge. Thusly: the watery expedition upon which we are currently engaged.

I am writing from the historic town of Saint Dizier, but the journey - not uneventful, occasionally frustrating, but satisfyingly social - begins; about six weeks ago; in the tiny Burgundian town of Plombiers les Dijon; and relation of the journey will commence in the next chapter of this blog; as soon as I can find more spare time. For the nonce . . . au revoir! Tom.

An excursion to Nor'n Ir'n.

                    So ... in the dying days of August, setting out from Tara Marina, heading East Sou’East from Tara Marina ...  

 ,,, on a delightful morning (above), via the Shannon-Erne Waterway.

Although this is a divided island, it is not actually a 'partitioned' country; as evidenced (amongst other organisations) by Waterways Ireland; which administers all the cross-border rivers and canals in Ireland, and the Shannon-Erne system stretches North from Limerick, right up to Belleek in Nor'n Ir'n ... that's 'Northern Ireland' to you; that piece referred to in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and (parts of) Northern Ireland. To be culturally sensitive (politically correct), where we now reside one refers to ‘the north of Ireland’ or, more commonly: ‘The North’ … which is not considered a political statement.

(Tangent warning! Tangent warning!)

Ireland is one of those places which the whole world might do quite well to emulate. It has a violent history of subjugation by a neighbouring, foreign power; with that colonialist entity, forcibly populating one of its regions with poverty stricken citizens, from a religious denomination, antipathetic to the aboriginals. (Read about ‘the clearances’.)

I was born in Belfast, so I stem from forbearers evicted from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, to facilitate the cultivation of sheep … to the great profit of English landlords, who owned huge swathes of Scotland, but made little profit from arable farming. My pauperized, forcibly transplanted (protestant) ancestors were encouraged to feel superior and fortunate (“You were lucky!!!”) in comparison to the oppressed people, amongst whom they were settled as ‘tenant farmers’, for (Surprise, surprise! Drum roll please.) … English landlords!

Since its inception; firstly as a ‘Free State’ and latterly as a Republic; the government in Dublin has always refused to accede to the legality of the border across the island … although successive Irish governments have been realistic enough recognise its ‘de facto’ existence. So – having been born in Belfast – I am a British Subject; but my birth within the confines of the island of Ireland, confers upon me automatic Irish Citizenship. Lucky me!

(“Bejabers, Tom; y’r ‘tangent’ has wandered in the territory of ‘diatribe’, has it not?” “Y’r right Tom, so y’are!  Now … where was I going with this??? Ah, yes, I was going to The North.”)

So ... in the dying days of August, setting out from Tara Marina, heading East South-east (downstream) on the River Boyle, it took only an hour or so to arrive at the confluence of the Boyle and the Shannon. A smart left-turn had us butting into the current coming down from Leitrim Village. It is so-called because the 'county town' of County Leitrim is actually Carrick-on-Shannon; at this point, slowly disappearing in our wake. The only municipality bearing the county's name is Leitrim Village. It is a picturesque, if small, community, with the appearance of some vitality when a global pandemic isn’t impacting here, as it is everywhere. None of the hostelries in the village could host us for a dinner-reservation, as a local Gaelic football match was closed to spectators but being broadcast on television, so all establishments were full! Not to worry … Moonstone has a small, but well-stocked freezer, and similar wine cellar!

 

Next morning, less than a kilometre North of Leitrim Village found us ready to negotiate Moonstone through her first 'push-button' lock.

(The term 'Lock' can become confusing. The arrangement by which a boat changes altitude is a lock … spelling and pronunciation the same as the security device on a door. Almost – but not quite - a homophone, is the local appellation for a lake, which is: ‘lough’; in itself similar in pronunciation to the Scottish: ‘loch’ … as in Loch Lomond.)
The water in these regions is stained a deep amber colour, by dint of all the 'peat' suspended therein. The effect of this in agitated water may have been the inspiration of Ireland's national drink ... stout'!

 

The locks on the Shannon-Erne Waterway are electrically self-operated, although lock-keepers are plentiful, and universally friendly, informative and obliging characters … chatty to the point of garrulousness.

          (“There’s a pots and kettles thing comes to mind here, Tom!”)

 Anyway … at this stage we have left the River Shannon and are proceeding along the Ballinamor and Ballyconnell Canal. This piece of the waterway is the link between the Shannon and the Erne, and not greatly recognizable as a 'canal'. It is more of a 50 kilometer (30 mile) series of linked-up loughs, large, small and intermediate. It rises and falls through sixteen locks, and across the border between the two Irelands, until it eventually joins the Woodford River and Upper Lough Erne. (Again; here is an opportunity for confusion, but only because Northern hemisphere brains tend to be north-centric.) Upper Lough Erne is, in fact, south of Lower Lough Erne; because the River Erne flows from south to north. By the time we enter Upper Lough Erne we have crossed an invisible (literally, invisible) border. However; there’s nobody around, so you can’t discern the radically different Ulster accent, and there are no nearby shops so you can spend neither Euros nor Pounds Sterling. 

At one point on the journey we thought we might have crossed the border, as - sparse though they were - the navigational signs changed from red OR green, to red AND white. It was a while before it dawned upon us that the change in signage merely denoted that we were now, officially, on the Erne, rather than the Shannon. Regardless of being either in the Republic or in the Province, the River Erne (and its loughs) navigate using, solely, the red and white beacons.

Of the two Lough Ernes, Upper Lough Erne (the southerly one) is the least open, with a plethora of islands both large and small. This provides plenty of shelter and few 'long reaches' for swells to develop; so it’s much more suited to the particular characteristics of a narrowboat, designed for the placidity of the U.K. canals and the occasional river. Being on a narrowboat in such (comparatively) large stretches of open water, can be daunting; and ‘keeping a weather-eye peeled’ is a basic requirement. We take Moonstone on these loughs/lakes only after duly consulting several forecasts.

However, weather awareness is only one difference from U.K. canalling. In our four years of cruising in England and Wales, we never felt any requirement to carry binoculars. For watery peregrinations in Ireland; we have come to realise that these vision-enhancers are indispensable. I make no claims to be any sort of navigator, and the ubiquitous and essential Nicholson’s Waterways Guides make navigation of Britain’s canals almost laughably easy … certainly in comparison to our current life. This is not to disparage Waterways Ireland’s estimable publications such as the ‘Navigational Guide to the Shannon and Erne Waterways’. For a start it’s MUCH bigger than any of the Nicholson’s publications … in fact unwieldy. A full 16 inches by 12; and considerably smaller                                     in scale, therefore – of necessity – rather less detailed.

On a lough with multitudinous islands, this make the post (Lyn’s) of ‘Navigator’s Assistant’ of inestimable importance. With four possible islands for which to choose, independent observers might consider some of our choices of course to be ‘meandering’ … to say the least. Nonetheless; ‘lost’ is only a viable concept if one stays lost; or requires to be ‘found’ (rescued!) by some outside agency. Mind you ... the unbounded joy occasioned by the resolution of some imbroglio of pilotage is not easily communicated to those who’s wayfinding suffers no such shortcomings.

 Whatever … within just a few hours we found ourselves gliding, serenely, into Enniskillen; not that much later than we had calculated.

Heaven forefend … this place is practically English … almost resolutely so! There’s even an Asda! Now, Carrick-on-Shannon does have, a Tesco’s it’s true; but the merchandise there is charmingly peppered with local delicacies, not the least of which are the bready comestibles. The variety of bread, scones, rolls, etc., available in Ireland - both sides of the border - is a glorious treat for the taste-buds.

Whilst, in the Irish language, 'Carrick' denotes a castle; in Carrick-on-Shannon, castle is there none! Enniskillen, however, has a small but perfect castle, and it was beneath its walls that we found a mooring suitable for us to call 'home' for two or three days.

 

 

Having spent some of our U.K. currency (Pounds Sterling) we unexpectedly found ourselves with a problem. The banknotes we were spending in the shops were British (English) twenty-pound notes; which we had brought over with us. These are issued by the Bank of England, and a commonly accepted in all four nations of the United Kingdom.  

However ... Scotland and Nor'n Ir'n (not Wales, for some reason!) issue their own banknotes, from institutions such as the Clydesdale Bank and the Royal Bank of Scotland, and the Bank of Ireland and the Ulster Bank.

Now ... none of these are legal tender in the Republic of Ireland, but - in theory - all are legally negotiable anywhere in the United Kingdom. In theory!!! In practice ... English retailers are extremely loath to accept payment with any banknotes other than from the Bank of England.

The great majority of retail staff will argue vociferously that they are not allowed to accept such Northern Irish and Scottish currency; indeed that these things are not legally valid in England! Both of these arguments are completely incorrect, but then again ... these are people who doubtless voted for Brexit!!!

("Ye'r wanderin' off topic again, Tom." "Oh. Sorry about that.")

Whatever; we are now stuck with a fair amount of folding money (we've still got a few Scottish banknotes from the last time I was gigging North of the Border!) we'll have difficulty shifting. Perhaps I can keep my eye out for a visually challenged beggar?

(Are ye' allowed to say 'beggar' dese days, Tom?" "Alright: 'street person', then!")

 We departed Enniskillen on a fine sunny morning, but there was a bit of a breeze blowing. By the time we got down to Upper Lough Erne, the weather had become duller and considerably more gusty. Once we got into more open water, Lyn and I became aware that we were in a canal-boat and not any sort of 'ship'. We never felt in any actual danger; but we realised that change can come quickly on these more open waters, and we tended to adjust our course so that we could head into the wind or take a track in the lee of islands.

Whilst we have never been unaware of Moonstone's shortcomings in the sea-going stakes; our long-held ambition to cruise the whole of Ireland's waterways, without fear or favour, is crystallizing into a search for (yet) another boat! We have focused our gaze on a Dutch barge style of vessel. It will need to be small enough to fit into the locks, and under all the bridges, on both the Royal and Grand canals; whilst being sea-worthy enough to carry us on the loughs without trepidation. Of course: as the years progress, a little more elbow room would not go amiss; although we're actually seeking a craft a few feet shorter than Moonstone.

Something along these lines, perhaps??? 

If anything significant transpires doubtless the news will be noised abroad on Watery Peregrinations.

More next time. Stay well, Tom.

(A)MUSINGS #2 - The Show Must Go On.

            ‘House-concerts’ can suffer from circumstances, differing radically from events in more recognisable venues … the basement of a church, an upstairs room of a pub, the stage of an arts theatre, a bandstand in a park, or the ‘performance space’ of a community centre. I’ve performed in all of those, but presenting a show in the living room of an amateur organizer can present unique challenges. One such opportunity which came via an enthusiastic, would-be impresario; however, has left me with an invisible – but indelible - scar.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is one of the small number of American ‘folk music hotbeds’; with a greater than average spread of folkies, in comparison to most areas of the U.S.A. In a roundabout manner, I had been offered a fill-in gig, to coincide with a tour carrying me through the Philly area. Todd (not his real name) had the idea that he would like to start up a folk concert series he could present from his reasonably spacious home; and made contact to offer me the opportunity of featuring in the debut concert of this putative series. An extra gig which meshes well with an already arranged sequence, is always attractive; so I had been pleased to accept.

On a Sunday evening, following the completion of a charming little ‘Kites and Seafood Festival’ in deepest southern New Jersey, I had a date with a folk music radio show host of national renown … Mr. Gene Shay – a true giant of the American folk movement. (Sadly; Covid-19 deprived us of Gene’s company, personality and talent, earlier this year.) Gene and his guests went out ‘live’, late on Sunday evenings, so Todd had arranged to meet me, and Lyn, at the WXPN radio studio immediately after the show. Mere minutes after having met him, in order to get us to his abode, Todd tersely instructed us to: “Follow me.” We boarded our elderly Dodge campervan, with Lyn at the wheel, whilst he got into his car and took off like a rocket. The traffic light he was approaching was just turning to red, but rather than afford us an opportunity to catch up with him, he just accelerated and jumped the light. The hour nearing midnight and traffic being almost non-existent; Lyn followed suit. Soon we were on a freeway, going at quite the clip, when Todd pulled into the outside lane, alongside an 18-wheeler. Barely having passed the big truck, he suddenly indicated, and pulled across the bow of the behemoth. With absolutely no knowledge of local geography, location or destination; Lyn fearlessly put her foot down and followed … occasioning a great and well-warranted hooter blast from the trucker.

Eventually, Todd pulled over in front of a low-set, darkened duplex; lacking only the lightening-bolts, the turrets, the bats and the theremin music of movieland foreboding. Inside, we were introduced to: “my Dad”; who seemed ready for a couple of hours of lively and diverting conversation … from me … not him! After the shortest possible polite interval; having had a fairly exhausting weekend; we enquired as to our sleeping arrangements and Todd escorted us to “my Dad’s half” of the duplex. We found ourselves in a sun-room with walls entirely of glass; its pitifully few curtains ragged and poorly hung. Wading through a sea of ‘dust bunnies’, we found our ‘beds’ comprised a pair of ex-army cots – with ex-army bedding! Introducing us to the ablutions, just along the corridor, our eyes stung with the aromas of generational ammonia of a male-only household. Before bidding us “Goodnight, folks”, Todd casually intoned: “If you hear screams during the night – don’t worry – it’s just my brother!!!”

 Astoundingly; we slept deeply, for a while … but very little after the prophesied screams. Morning broke blindingly through the acres of glass and inadequate curtaining. The sparse breakfast was accompanied by “my brother”; dressed only in a bathrobe and (we hoped) underwear. We never saw ‘my brother’ in any other garb and his face gave no clue as to his age. Anywhere between fifteen and fifty was our estimate, and we never heard him speak.

As ‘curtain time’ dragged inexorably closer, we assisted in arranging every seat in the two households into some semblance of seating for my performance. I was pleased and hopeful, as there were seats for an audience in excess of fifty. Sadly; only nine people arrived; and the majority of those appeared to be relatives of our host.

I was installed directly in front of the television set; presumably so that my audience would know whereon to focus their attention. The ‘front-row’ consisted of one eight-foot settee … totally bereft of any posterior … as front rows tend to be. With what could have been an effusive welcome from the host (but wasn’t, it was non-existent), I introduced myself and made to start the show. Before I could do so, ‘my brother’ ran in – dressed as before – and sat ‘front row, centre’.

As is my normal routine: I commenced my performance with an unaccompanied song and, without interval, into a chorus song accompanied on button-accordion. The (few) audience members seated towards the rear could ascertain that ‘my brother’ was getting into the swing of things, as his shoulders were undulating to the rhythm of my song … they were deceived,

Immediately upon throwing himself onto the settee, this nearest member of my audience had groped in his lap, and produced his own member. As the chorus began, he joined in … rhythmically but silently. Whilst the rest of the audience, manfully and womanfully, attempted to compensate vocally for their paucity of numbers, my eyes were trying to ignore a situation for which all my previous show-biz experience had left me totally unprepared.

Todd, however, soon became aware of the circumstances and – in the middle of verse three – hustled to the front of the room and in thunderous tones bellowed: “STOP THAT! GO TO YOUR ROOM! NOW!” Hastily complying, ’my brother’ fled the scene; leaving the rest of the audience perplexed; and me concentrating on the mantra: The Show Must Go On.

As I said: House-concerts can suffer from circumstances, differing radically from events in more recognisable venues ... really!

Irish Peregrinations #1

I looked across the table to the pleasing sight before me ... a half-litre bottle of (O'Hara's) I.P.A. (That's IRISH Pale Ale, and very palatable it is, too!) But hold-hard; what vision is this … hovering just above the flagon??? Heavens to Murgatroyd!!! As I live and breathe (neither to be taken for granted, these days) it is none other than Dick Miles … bon-vivant, singer, player, shanty aficionado, Grand High Everything of the Fastnet Maritime and Folk Festival, property owner and taxpayer-in-good-standing of the Village of Ballydehob, West Cork, Ireland; wherein is situated ‘Le Petit Bistro; the establishment wherein we are currently ensconced. I can confirm that Dick is in fine fettle, great voice, excellent good-humour; and that rumours of his marriage to a brewery-owning multi-millionairess, are greatly exaggerated.

Having made good on our long-promised (threatened?) intention of relocating across the Irish Sea, here we are! Lyn and I are hugely pleased to, once again, be living afloat. Moonstone lies snugly moored at a berth in Tara Marina, in County Roscommon; near the geographic centre of Ireland, in the northerly reaches of the Shannon/Erne waterway system.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow famously wrote: " … into each life, some rain must fall …"  but this is ridiculous!

Arriving in the Republic, we were assiduous in our 14-day quarantine. However; during that fortnight there was not a single 24-hour period devoid of precipitation! Now; just five weeks into our Irish sojourn; we struggle to total-up a week without rain. Mind you ... reports from the (dis)United Kingdom describe similar conditions.

The weather forecasts not being encouraging as to an extended river cruise, we had driven down, close to the Southwest tip of the island, to say hello to a few friends, un-visited for a couple of years or more. (Friends of Ray and Verna Connolly may be pleased to note that; although Ray passed several years ago; Verna is keeping well and cheerful; appreciated and well cared-for by a supportive community of good neighbours. (For those who wish to be in touch with her; the e-mail address is VernaRay@hotmail.com.)

In preparation for our first extended cruise on the Shannon/Erne waterway system, we took a three-day expedition to Carrick-on-Shannon and Drumshanbo.

I am long used (he opined, modestly) to being somewhere around the centre of attention, but unused to having the limelight stolen by our lovely boat. Our arrival in Carrick swiftly attracted much admiration … all for Moonstone! Multifarious comments flowed; along the lines of: “That’s a really lovely barge, ye’ve got there!” It quickly became apparent that – for the Irish – a boat is make of white plastic, but superior forms of water-borne transportation are made of base metals, and referred to as ‘barges’. One such observation was followed by an invitation. “We’re havin’ a session, over on m' barge tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got beer and wine, so come and join us.” ‘M' barge’ was just around the corner, and proved to be a vessel built by the Guinness company, around one hundred years ago, for the delivery of their world-famous  beverage; and somewhat longer and considerably wider than Moonstone. You may note, from the images below, it doesn't always rain in this part of the world.

'George' is on the extreme right of the group of musicians ... and me ... 

Here's George again (see above), at his day-job ... 

After an enjoyable and relaxing weekend, we turned Northwards on the Shannon, past Leitrim Village, and up our very first Irish canal: The Lough Allan Canal It is only about five kms. long, but totally bucolic and without a great deal of traffic. It opens out onto Acres Lake, just on the Southern edge of the small village of Drumshanbo (famous for Drumshanbo Gunpowder Gin … as yet untried by your humble researcher!). Acres Lake is a very popular recreational destination, but we managed to find a mooring. (This is going to be an issue on the Irish waterways. Most mooring spots are set-up for craft around ten metres or less. Moonstone is just shy of EIGHTEEN!)

Whilst Lyn and I may have our issues with Irish weather, Wednesday morning found us taking an after-breakfast swim in Acres Lake ... lovely! Then it was back down the Shannon; right turn up the Boyle River; and return to Tara Marina for an appointment with Damian the Electrician and a couple of minor maintenance jobs.

I don't want to bore you with my garrulousness, so I'm going to call this ... 

'THE INTERVAL'    (more soonish!)

(A)MUSINGS

This is the first of what may become a series of reminiscences. They are in no particular order, although I may collate them more rationally at some later stage. My intentions are to communicate these in a light-hearted manner, ‘though most of them have resulted in ‘teachable moments’.

    Without further ado … 

THE NAKED TRUTH

Instantly-- from a sound sleep, my heart pounding-- I am wide awake, noting the time on the bedside clock: 2 am. Lyn, seemingly oblivious, lies beside me, unstirring.
Almost immediately, there it is again: the voice of a woman in great distress, shrieking desperately. I’m sure I can discern her words: “I’m going! I’m going!”

I leap out of bed, wearing my watch … nothing else … just my wristwatch. At the door of our motel room, I undo the security chain and rush out onto the second-floor walkway, not consciously registering the deeply sub-zero temperatures.

There, poised precariously on the handrail of the parapet twenty feet above the parked cars, is a woman wearing … well … wearing very little at all! The towering spike-heels on those bling-encased sandals aren’t contributing to her balance, and the sequins which comprise over ninety percent of her skimpy attire are assisting neither her modesty nor her bodily warmth. Standing a few yards along this upper walkway with an attitude of seeming disinterest is an older, smartly dressed fellow with his hands in the pockets of an expensive – and definitely more suitable for the weather – overcoat. My mind is struggling to make sense of the scene before me ….


Although we are Brits, Lyn and I, at that time, made our home over a hundred miles north in Salmo, a small community in the mountains of British Columbia. What was I doing stark naked, freezing, outside the bedroom of a cheap motel, in the seedier area of Spokane, in the state of Washington? Well … it’s a bit of a story.
I’m a touring folk-singer; therefore, every Dollar, Pound and Euro needs to be considered, husbanded, stretched, accounted for, and made to justify its expenditure. Just a few weeks prior to Christmas, my record company in Toronto – finally – had my new CD ready for distribution. Toronto could never be thought of as the centre of gravity of North America, nor Salmo considered to be a significant geographical entity in the federation of Canada. Whilst Canada Post/Postes Canada is a thoroughly estimable communications delivery organ of the Canadian government, its pricing structures are prey to the vast distances covered by its services. Sending anything larger than a simple letter, within Canada, involves some considerable expense. Sending similar items from Canada outwith its borders … well, let’s not go there … it’s ruinous!

Salmo, however, is barely ten miles from the border with the United States of America; and Spokane (pronounced: ‘spow-can’),  with a population in excess of two- hundred-thousand souls, is just a two-hour drive from home. The city has hotels, restaurants, multifarious shopping opportunities, and even a thriving night life. Salmo has none of these! Spokane also has a U.S. Post Office with very efficient and obliging staff who are committed to the motto: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

TANGENT WARNING!!! Back in the 18th. Century, the United States Postal Service was founded with the idea that it would be a part of the ‘glue’ which would bind the citizens of a fledgling republic into a continent-wide community. As part of that ethos, the prices of services were tightly controlled, to keep those services within reach of all. It is almost forgotten that, a couple of centuries ago, Democrat and Republican politicians were at loggerheads over the issue of postal charges. One side felt – passionately - that newspapers delivered by the postal service should be allowed a ninety percent discount for such service. The other side held - just as passionately - that ANY CHARGE WHATSOEVER was an iniquitous attack on Freedom of the Press. How times have changed!

Be that as it may: the U.S. Post Office cost to mail a CD, to anywhere in the USA, was considerably cheaper than mailing it from Canada; moreover, mailing a CD from the USA to anywhere in Canada was cheaper than sending the item from Salmo’s Canadian Post Office … go figure!

Anyway, in order to take advantage of these conditions, we arranged for Borealis Records to ship five hundred CDs to the Post Office in Spokane, for us to personally collect. (Again, less expensive than sending them from Ontario to Salmo.) On the Friday morning we had driven across the border to Spokane with pre-printed labels for nearly 350 ordered-in-advance CDs. Having collected our waiting package and purchased the requisite postage stamps, we checked into the cheapest downtown accommodation we could find: the Ruby Motel.

The scene of the crime. (our room was at the top of that upper flight of stairs.)

We set up our room as an impromptu dispatch office. Over the space of the next several hours we licked, personalised, double-checked, stamped, and collated for all we were worth. By the time our labours were completed it was mid-evening, the Post
Office long-since closed, and we were exhausted. Because the hotel was located close to the centre of the city’s ‘entertainment district’ (I use the term very loosely), our presumed dining choices would be limited to typical American small-town options; but, rather than the ubiquitous burgers or steaks, we happened upon an unusually good Thai/Chinese dining emporium. Solid comestible requirements having been satisfied, we repaired to a local establishment with a very decent I.P.A. on tap and a fairly good, but overly-loud, band playing mainly 60’s and 70’s covers. By ten-thirty we were more than ready for a well-earned night’s rest, so we traipsed beside the piles of dirty snow, left by the passage of numerous snowplows, back to our room. Having retired in the warmth of the Ruby Hotel, we slept the sleep of the righteous-- for all of three hours-- until I was rudely awakened by that aforementioned scream … Onwards, gentle reader.

In an heroic attempt to be of some assistance (i.e. ‘damsel-in-distress’ mode) I rushed toward the young woman … being completely oblivious to my state of (total) undress, and likewise the ambient temperature (by this time around 5 degrees Fahrenheit
/minus 15 Celsius). In as calm a manner as I could manage in the circumstances, I addressed her saying: “There’s no need to jump. Why don’t you let me help you down?” At this point the gentleman (i.e. her ‘John’) grabbed at my arm violently, saying: “F### off, a##hole!”.  I had only just managed to reply something in the way of: “Might I possibly be of any assistance, my good man?”, when he shoved me, quite violently, saying: “Just get back into your f###ing room!”

It was, by now, slowly dawning on me that --far from entertaining suicidal thoughts, nor perceiving herself to be in any danger – the young woman was hugely under the influence of some recreational drug and had been calling, uninhibitedly, to a co-worker engaged in some commerce across the parking lot: “I’m golden! I’m golden!” At this point my ‘knight-errant’ mode was commencing to shrivel (as was much else in those freezing temperatures) so, with as much dignity as I could muster, I departed the scene.

Back in our motel room, my bloodstream still suffused with adrenalin, I clambered into bed beside Lyn, and tried to return to the sleep from which I had been so rudely awakened. I had barely dropped off when I was, once again, awoken--this time by heavy and repeated hammering on the door of our room. Assuming that the girl’s customer had returned for Round 2, I dialled ‘911’ on my cell-phone (without pressing ‘send’) and handed the phone to Lyn. With my eye to the peep-hole, I discerned a uniform at the door so I opened it. Before my eyes were three representatives of the Spokane City Police Department:  a pair of large, and quite young, males, and a more diminutive, and even younger, female.

Before I could speak, one of the male cops announced: “We’ve had a complaint of public noodity!!!” I was on the point of admitting that I could well be the occasion of such a complaint, when the largest of these officers of the law pushed into the room –
accompanied by the female officer – leaving their compatriot outside guarding the door. Lyn was still in bed, whilst I was wearing no addition to my earlier wardrobe!

(Here’s a little gem, for your delectation. The term: ‘naked as a jay-bird is not originally an Americanism, but from 17th century Dutch usage.)

Standing in front of the constables, without any thought for my state of undress, I attempted to explain the circumstances; but the only part of my dissertation which caught the law officer’s attention was the word: “Canadian”. This appeared to enrage him (even further) and he demanded sight of my passport. My response-- that I didn’t, at that particular moment, have such about my person-- seemed to fly right over his head. I explained that everything he required was in the hanging-space behind a curtain, a few yards away at the end of a shadowy passageway.

It occurred to me, as I was sauntering into the gloom (to comply with the officer's instruction: “Show it to me!"), that he obviously trusted Canadians not to carry firearms. Had I been a Second Amendment fanatic asserting my rights to own and carry a ‘Saturday Night Special’, a hand gun, as is practically ‘de rigueur’ amongst the local citizenry, this tale might have had a very different outcome for the young, but obviously poorly trained, representative of local law enforcement.

After examination of my passport he informed me: “Public noodity is a crime in this jurisdiction, mister. I could arrest you right now!” Since he evinced no interest in any explanation I might offer for my behaviour, I decided that my best response was no response. Then, seemingly bewildered as to some route out of this quandary, the officer decided to extract from me a promise that I would “not again, this night, leave
the room in a state of undress”, and required that I give a solemn undertaking to return to Canada on the following morning. I duly complied … all the time looking directly at
the female officer, who appeared ill-at-ease and - for whatever reason - unwilling to make eye contact with me.

Eventually ‘Spokane’s Finest’ departed; presumably to continue their ‘Public Noodity Patrol’; whilst the persons who actually occasioned the whole incident remained, unexamined and undisturbed, about five doors away. Obviously, in the lexicon of American jurisprudence, ‘Disturbing the Peace’ does not weigh against the much more serious: ‘Public Nudity’.

Next morning at breakfast in the hotel dining room (such as it was), some other diners remarked upon ‘the ruckus last night’! Lyn and I were on the point of assuming that my interaction out on the walkway was the subject of this conversation when we were treated to a blow-by-blow description of the noisy and hilarious hours of sound effects, coming from the room next to theirs … obviously the overcoated gentleman had received excellent ‘value for money’!

Now ... I have always adhered to the adage: ‘no good deed goes unpunished’.

Having left Spokane and returned to our Canadian home, Lyn and I felt that we had escaped unscathed, but with an amusing tale to tell. However … about two weeks later our credit-card bill, which included the expected charge for our accommodation at the Ruby Hotel, arrived.  We were nonplussed to register that an unexplained fee of fifty dollars had been added to the bill. A telephone call to the hotel connected me with a young woman who informed me that I was conversing with the hotel manager. Upon checking her records, she stated that the night manager had appended the additional charge-- “as per the regulations posted in every room”-- pertaining to a police visit occasioned by a guest at the hotel. When I told her the story, in excruciating detail, she commenced to giggle uncontrollably. Once she regained her composure she offered to refund the extra charge, on the sole proviso that I send the story to her in an e-mail. The gracious offer was hastily accepted and the anecdote sent off as requested; in a pleasing result, our next credit-card bill showed a $50 refund.

The lesson I took from the above encounter was: Never argue with someone who is wearing a gun … and clothes … when you are wearing neither!

Next time ... an Army ‘sick-bay tiffy’, 200 feet under the South China Sea!