What became of the drunken sailors
Woke a couple of hours later utterly freezing. I'd failed to locate any bedding and so draped myself with a towel and fell back into an uneasy frozen sleep. People up offensively early, which at least prevented me from developing frostbite. Nigel spontaneously began cooking everyone breakfast. Meanwhile the French Bloke, who had barely slept, and certainly still drunk as a lord, efficiently sparked up the engine and we were underway, pootling along at less than walking pace along the incredibly beautiful canal. Gangs of us springing off to tie up the barge, open the locks and so that the barge could rise up through the lock of green and slimy brickwork to the sun. Progressed steadily through the morning.
Many recommenced drinking as early as 8am. I was faintly appalled by this superhuman capacity. For I was exhausted and shabbily hungover. We stopped in a picturesque village and made our way to its pub for lunch. An incredibly rude woman staff member started hostilities with us before we'd even been served our first round. Had to wait ages for food, and Murray simply wrote down everyone's order and somehow speeded things up. I was still unable to drink, though many continued enthusiastically. After lunch I discovered it was possible to feel far worse than I had done before, and I forlornly phoned Lorraine. Much of my afternoon was spent asking God for a helicopter to airlift me home for humanitarian reasons. I did manage a doze though, which improved how I felt. Most of us crashed out at one time or other, although Matt, manfully refreshed, steered us fairly expertly most of the afternoon, and barged through locks. Ahab-like attempted to turn the 72 foot barge around at a 60 foot turning point.
Finally we reached a point where we could legitimately turn around and head back. The aim was to stop near a pub, but we ran out of light, and despite proceeding with torches for some time ended up mooring in what my iPhone map revealed, was in fact some miles from the middle of nowhere. Protracted debate about whether it was necessary to head out into the dark countryside in the hope of happening on a pub. Eventually reason took hold, and realising we were on a barge full of boozes we simply continued drinking. I managed a gin and tonic before bedtime. Many were by now walking wounded and several went to bed early. Michel looking particularly shattered.
I sat on the prow sipping the aforementioned gin, with some hardies like Matt, Pat, Nigel and Dion, in what was a cold fine drenching mist, and when we shone our torches upwards, the beams were as visible as Star Wars light sabres. Despite the mist the stars were clear, and we watched the moon rise over the horizon. I repaired to bed then, and had the luxury of being almost sober, and having a duvet which kept me perfectly warm too.
I fell asleep listening to the snores of my shipmates. And apart from the wild unnerving roaring of what I hoped were bullocks in a nearby field, all was hushed and tranquil.
Below many, many more snaps to come. L to R Pat, The French Bloke, Matty boy, Steve and Dion. The pinking of evening; Dion; The French Bloke; Nigel, Pat and Matty; Simon, Nigel and Murray.
Many recommenced drinking as early as 8am. I was faintly appalled by this superhuman capacity. For I was exhausted and shabbily hungover. We stopped in a picturesque village and made our way to its pub for lunch. An incredibly rude woman staff member started hostilities with us before we'd even been served our first round. Had to wait ages for food, and Murray simply wrote down everyone's order and somehow speeded things up. I was still unable to drink, though many continued enthusiastically. After lunch I discovered it was possible to feel far worse than I had done before, and I forlornly phoned Lorraine. Much of my afternoon was spent asking God for a helicopter to airlift me home for humanitarian reasons. I did manage a doze though, which improved how I felt. Most of us crashed out at one time or other, although Matt, manfully refreshed, steered us fairly expertly most of the afternoon, and barged through locks. Ahab-like attempted to turn the 72 foot barge around at a 60 foot turning point.
Finally we reached a point where we could legitimately turn around and head back. The aim was to stop near a pub, but we ran out of light, and despite proceeding with torches for some time ended up mooring in what my iPhone map revealed, was in fact some miles from the middle of nowhere. Protracted debate about whether it was necessary to head out into the dark countryside in the hope of happening on a pub. Eventually reason took hold, and realising we were on a barge full of boozes we simply continued drinking. I managed a gin and tonic before bedtime. Many were by now walking wounded and several went to bed early. Michel looking particularly shattered.
I sat on the prow sipping the aforementioned gin, with some hardies like Matt, Pat, Nigel and Dion, in what was a cold fine drenching mist, and when we shone our torches upwards, the beams were as visible as Star Wars light sabres. Despite the mist the stars were clear, and we watched the moon rise over the horizon. I repaired to bed then, and had the luxury of being almost sober, and having a duvet which kept me perfectly warm too.
I fell asleep listening to the snores of my shipmates. And apart from the wild unnerving roaring of what I hoped were bullocks in a nearby field, all was hushed and tranquil.
Below many, many more snaps to come. L to R Pat, The French Bloke, Matty boy, Steve and Dion. The pinking of evening; Dion; The French Bloke; Nigel, Pat and Matty; Simon, Nigel and Murray.
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