Mixed emotions,It`s all a question of balance.,How to win the lottery

Learning
Narrowboatian
Buying our narrow boat is totally
dependent upon the sale of a
property that we have a share in
so we were very excited to finally
get the bungalow on the market,
one step closer to life on the
water. Or so we thought. Of course
we didn’t expect to the sell the
house immediately but that didn’t
stop us getting excited and
intensifying our search for the
perfect floating home and that’s
when sod’s law took effect.
Of course we should have guessed
that the total absence of any
interest in the house whatsoever
would be in direct contrast to a
veritable flood of near perfect
boats coming up on our searches
immediately. We have a fairly
detailed and strict criteria
against which we are matching our
floating dream home and it was
unbelievably frustrating to tick
all the boxes against the sales
ads whilst knowing that with no
interest in our property for sale
there wasn’t really any point in
organising a viewing or even
making a tentative enquiry. That
frustration has now got the better
of us and having dropped the
asking price on the bungalow we
are busy organising visits to view
boats that are for sale within our
as yet, imaginary price range.
Spacious lounge:
Tick, Wood burner:
Tick, …
This brings me to the topic of how
you choose a narrow boat to live
on, which turns out to be very
similar to choosing a house. In
both cases it is common to lay out
the basic requirements of style,
price range, age, number of rooms,
outside space etc. before
selecting properties/boats to view
based on those requirements.
However, listening to other boat
owners that have been through the
process reveals that like buying a
house, all those carefully thought
out requirements will all be
abandoned the day you step on to
the perfect boat and fall in love
with it. It turns out that it’s
more akin to choosing a dog at the
rescue centre in that the boat,
apparently, will choose us rather
than the other way around. It
doesn’t mean I am abandoning my
carefully constructed spreadsheet
that, in theory, identifies our
perfect craft. It simply means
that we have to be prepared to
fall head over heels in love one
day and we will need a level
headed friend to point out that
the new love of our lives won’t
last five minutes on the canal
before it sinks and hopefully they
will stop us wasting our
relatively easily earned cash on
it. A bit like the way your heart
sinks when your precious teenage
child comes home all doe eyed with
that totally inappropriate
girlfriend or boyfriend in tow and
it’s your job to delicately
persuade them that they really
could do better. Love is a
dangerous thing.
Some of these
ads are just
teasing us.
The similarities with buying a
house wain by virtue of the fact
that most houses don’t have an
engine and you can’t, therefore,
drive them around. A narrow boat
on the other hand is the essence
of freedom and mobility; provided,
it turns out, that it is of
certain dimensions. There are two
thousand miles of navigable canals
and rivers in England and Wales
and we want to explore all of
them. That means that our craft
can’t be longer than sixty feet
and no more than seven feet wide
if we aren’t to be restricted by
certain locks on the system. We
are advised that since we want to
‘liveaboard’ (that’s what we canal
people call living permanently on
the boat) we will also require at
least a fifty seven foot boat to
give us enough space so it would
appear that our choices are
actually quite narrow in more ways
than one.
Restrictions may apply. Photo: Canal and
River Trust.
In the mean time we go on looking
and I am busy learning the new
language of Narrowboatian so that
I can converse with the salty dogs
that are hanging up their
windlasses and retiring,
hopefully, to a nice two bedroomed
bungalow close to the sea.
Swapsies?
Anybody want to swap a short fat
bungalow for a long narrow dream
home?
Mixed emotions
Bicycle security chickens at the first
campsite
It’s coming around to the second
anniversary of our big adventure
cycling around the coast of
Britain and as always at this time
of year I find there are endless
memory joggers that cause me mixed
emotions of joy and consternation.
Joy at such happy memories and
consternation over whether we will
ever manage to tear up our new
anchors and break away to taste
that amazing freedom once more.
I have always followed other
people’s adventures but for
obvious reasons I am now
particularly drawn to any
endeavour to circumnavigate our
coast by whatever means. I am
currently following Quintin Lake
who is walking the coast and
creating a stunning photographic
record of his journey, Elise
Downing who is running the circuit
and Sean Conway who has upped the
anti and is attempting an
extraordinary triathlon cycling,
running and swimming the route.
All of these adventurers have been
reminding me acutely of our own
experience but when it turned out
that Elise and Sean would both be
passing through our village the
week before our two year
anniversary I found myself
reliving our departure like it was
yesterday.
Great to meet you Sean
But just when I thought these
coincidences couldn’t get even
more profound we received an email from yet another intrepid
soul about to embark on her own
odyssey.
Adrianne Hill wrote to us via the
Warm Showers cycle tourers hosting
site and asked if we could put her
up one day next week. She went on
to explain that she was cycling
the coast of Britain and we could
learn about her journey from her
website. Obviously this piqued my
interest so I went to find out
more only to discover that she has
raised the bar in more ways than
one. Not only is she cycling the
coast but she then intends to run
from Lands End to John O’ Groats
before crossing the country SUP
style (Stand Up Paddle) to
complete her own unique triathlon.
That is an impressive and
ambitious trip but what really
bowled me over was when and where
she was starting from. She is
leaving Liverpool today, Tuesday
th
the 26
April, exactly two years
to the day since we set off and
she is staying with us tonight!
I’m not a believer in fate and all
that stuff but really, Mystic Meg
could not have written this stuff.
Full of nervous anticipation two
years ago today
All of these poignant reminders
only serve to put me in reflective
mood as I look back with
timely perspective at our own trip
and contemplate what I learned
from it. As predicted it really
did change me in all sorts of
ways, most of which I couldn’t see
without the benefit of two year’s
hindsight. Trying to assess the
effects of a trip like ours
immediately on our return was a
bit like standing two feet from a
very large oil painting and trying
to take in the subject. All you
see is a blur of colour and
texture which may be interesting
and even attractive but you get no
sense of what the painting is
about. Looking back over a decent
time span is like stepping back
from the work of art and all of a
sudden everything comes into view.
I wrote a whole list of the ways
in which I believe I have changed
as a result of our adventure which
included things like being less
materialistic, believing in the
good in people and appreciating
the simple pleasures in life but
the one thing that really stands
out for me is that I just feel
more content. I feel like I have
found my place. I think I have
always had a yearning to find out
what it would be like to throw
caution to the wind and
metaphorically set sail, leaving
the safe harbour behind and
chancing to the wind to explore
and discover. Our cycle trip has
scratched that itch for me and
left me feeling simultaneously
sated and happy to be where I am.
It doesn’t mean I would never want
to set out again, but I am happy
for now to just enjoy the moment.
I remember writing something
before the trip about squeezing
every last drop of juice from life
but the trip has taught me that
you don’t necessarily have to be
pedalling thousands of miles to do
that. I would love to go off again
to find new adventure but I don’t
have the same sense of urgency
that used to gnaw at me. Standing
on the start line of a 4,500 mile
bike ride is daunting and
magnificent, as is looking back at
it after two years, but the
reality is that the journey itself
is no different from any other
part of life and the trick is to
recognise the value of now and
exploit it for everything it is
worth.
I’m looking forward to hosting
Adrianne and to sharing her
excitement at the very beginning
of her journey. I’m looking
forward to following her adventure
along with Quintin’s, Sean’s and
Elise’s and enjoying their
experiences as they push
themselves to new heights. The
difference now is that I won’t be
jealous of them because I don’t
need to imagine what they are
going through, I know.
It’s all a question
of balance.
I have a job!
It’s such a great feeling after
another depressing period of
weekly visits to the Job Centre
and mindless applications for jobs
I really didn’t want. Being
unemployed is like being adrift in
a boat without an engine or a
rudder. I feel out of control even
though I am actively looking for
work and the whole job seeking and
benefit claiming experience fills
me with despair. There comes a
point when getting any job at all
would be a huge relief so the fact
that I have found one that I
actually want to do is a massive
bonus. But what makes me happiest
of all is my working week.
I’m going to be working in a
stunning outdoor setting,
surrounded by wildlife and talking
to like-minded people about a
charity that I really believe in.
Not a bad place to work
The job itself is exactly what I
was looking for but even better, I
will be working three shifts per
week, just what I wanted. I think
this is what is meant by a plan
coming together.
I know that not everybody is in a
position to work just three days a
week, so I do appreciate how lucky
I am, but on the other hand this
is just what Gill and I have been
working so hard to achieve over
the last few years and now we are
finally where we want to be; both
working less than half of each
week and both doing something that
we enjoy and that we believe is
worthwhile.
You hear a lot of talk about
getting the work, life balance
right these days but I don’t think
it’s that simple in reality. We
are not just trying to balance
work days and leisure days; we are
also considering finances, work
patterns, time together and time
for ourselves. It’s more complex
than a simple balancing act and
scales just don’t represent the
problem. It’s really about getting
the mix right rather than a simple
balancing act and right now I
think we are as close as we can
get to success. No doubt
circumstances out of our control
will be along to spoil the party
sooner or later but then that’s
the challenge. To add another
element into the mix, stir it all
up and find a new solution that
works is half the fun but for now
we are happy to make the most of
the steady state that we find
ourselves in.
This steady state is precisely
what we need right now. It’s a bit
like the shelter of a port after
the thrill of a challenging
voyage. It’s exactly what I feel
we need to contemplate where we
have been over the last few years
and to consider what comes next.
It’s ironic that having worked so
hard to get to this safe harbour,
it turns out to be the perfect
place from which to plan an
escape.
Perhaps there is a balance in all
this after all. On the one side of
the scales, the heavy side, we
have our current position of
stability; steady work, financial
security and a permanent home. The
empty pan is where the next
adventure will be incubated.
Conversations, memories, maps and
stories will all be added to the
scales until a tipping point is
reached and a new idea will be
born. We have no idea what, or
when, that will be but we just
feel that it is inevitable. I
think we are both happy to sit
back and relish a bit of constancy
for now and to take some time to
relax, to take stock and maybe to
dream a little.
How to win the
lottery without
buying a ticket
So the genuine winner of the
thirty three million pound lottery
prize has finally been found and
now there are a few dozen very
nervous false claimants wondering
if they are going to prison rather
than on a Caribbean cruise. These
Lottery stories seem to capture
the imagination of the public
every time they come around and
spark off another succession of
conversations that start with,
“what would you do with x million
pounds?” I don’t feel qualified to
contribute to the debate because I
have never bought a lottery ticket
and don’t ever intend to. Why
would I put myself through all
that false hope and then
disappointment when I already feel
rich? Gambling is one way of
getting rich but the odds are long
and even those that win don’t
always get what they want. Search
the internet for “Lottery winner
stories” and you will find
numerous sad accounts of couples
and individuals who found that
untold wealth is no guarantee of
happiness and many who ended up
losing everything they won. There
are even a few tragic cases that
led to suicide.
Of course it does work for some
people but if you read the stories
of those that did cope with a big
win they all talk with great
satisfaction about giving money
away, helping others and, in many
cases, being able to do voluntary
work and to support charities. In
other words it is the giving
rather than the gaining that has
actually brought them happiness.
Personally, rather than hope in
vain for a huge bank balance I
choose to think about what defines
being rich.
All this navel gazing has come
about because of a conversation
yesterday that ranged from
pensions and retirement via the
recent unclaimed lottery win story
to some of our experiences on our
ride around the coast of Britain.
We met many rich people on our
travels but not all of them had
money. So what is wealth and how
do we achieve it?
I accept that for some people
money will do the trick but I
really don’t think it’s the only
option. When we went on our trip
we had managed to set aside ten
thousand pounds and in the end we
spent eight thousand of it during
the five months on the road. For
eight thousand pounds we could
have bought four thousand lottery
tickets, a small basic car or a
three week luxury cruise. We chose
to spend it on campsite fees,
simple food, a beer or two and
enough memories to last us a
lifetime. Here are just some of
the things that we got for our
money:
Priceless
memories
150 completely unique days each of
which had it’s own ups and downs
in every sense.
Countless scenes that are etched
into our minds for future viewing.
Acts of kindness that ranged from
meals and accommodation to just an
encouraging word on a gloomy day.
The satisfaction of getting
somewhere by our own effort and
determination.
The endless discovery of
boundaries that could be stretched
and broken only to discover new
ones waiting for us.
The investment of suffering that
adds value to pleasure and
comfort.
2000 photos to re-kindle memories
80,000 written words that I can
re-read when my memory struggles
with the details.
A bunch of new friends that
continue to enhance our lives from
a distance.
A large bucket of anecdotes that I
can torture people with when I am
old and senile.
Never having to wonder what it
would be like to ‘take the plunge”
because we’ve done it and it turns
out to be great. (Thanks for the
reminder Gareth)
So my chances of winning the
lottery may be non-existent but
that doesn’t mean I will never be
rich; far from it.
It’s a tribal thing
We have bought our tickets for the
second annual Cycle Touring
Festival in May. The first one was
a resounding success with about
two hundred like-minded, two
wheeling nomads coming together to
share tales of misery and delight
over beers, brews and a small
mountain of cake. At that time we
were not long back from our big
trip around the coast of Britain
which we thought was quite an epic
adventure until we listened to
some of the speakers at the
festival. It turned out that what
we had done was like a bit of a
warm up for some of the odysseys
that others had undertaken.
Phrases like “that was our twenty
second country” or “it was just
towards the end of our third year
on the road” were bandied about
with a casualness normally
reserved for discussing the
weather. There were, of course,
plenty of cyclists there who had
yet to embark on their first multi
week tour and even some who had
never strapped a pannier on a bike
or even sniffed a pair of socks to
determine whether they would do
another week or not. We were
somewhere in the middle I suppose.
What was brilliant about it though
was that we were with our tribe.
It didn’t matter whether you were
a grizzled old warrior of the road
or still dithering over which
Swiss Army knife you should
choose, you were one of the clan
and as such safe and protected and
in the right place. When people
with a common interest and passion
come together there is a real
genuine feeling of warmth and
support; especially if the common
interest is a bit wacky and not
really understood by other people.
I’m sure there is exactly the same
cosy sense of being wrapped in a
protective but fluffy blanket at
model train conventions or a
velology festival. I’m not sure
whether it’s because of a deep
rooted ancient yearning to come
together with others that share
our passions and beliefs or simply
a desire not to feel weird. It
doesn’t really matter, it’s fun
and it gives us purpose and place
in a confusing and crowded world.
Being with ‘your own sort’ is easy
and relaxing. It’s so refreshing
to be able to emerge from the tent
in the morning and talk to your
nearest neighbour about the
relative merits of synthetic or
natural sleeping bag fillings as
if it was the most normal thing in
the world. When we share a
campsite with the public at large
we are often greeted by concerned
caravaners who want to check that
we survived the night without
succumbing to hypothermia. We were
even asked on one occasion if we
would like them to boil a kettle
for us. I don’t know if they
thought that we might be desperate
for a hot drink or a good wash but
we assured them in the nicest
possible way that we did actually
have the means of boiling a kettle
ourselves. When you are with your
tribe you don’t have to explain
the obvious and you can just get
on with laughing hilariously at
the shared memory of being wet for
three consecutive days or making
dinner from a spoonful of rice, a
chicken flavour cup-a-soup and a
lump of cheese that has been
lurking in the bottom of a pannier
for several weeks. Of course you
both know that you are
exaggerating wildly but that’s all
part of the fun.
Most conversations will, at some
point, turn knowingly to the nontribal members of the population
who are missing out on the true
meaning of life and the route to
ever-lasting happiness by not
going cycle touring. But that’s
the whole point isn’t it? We come
together and celebrate our
eccentricity. We revel in our
difference from the masses and
look to each other as living proof
that we and we alone, have found
the answers. Just like the train
spotters, the sequence dancers and
the cheese rollers probably do
when they attend their annual
tribal gatherings. The sense that
we are a part of something is
important, even vital, to our
well-being so I for one can’t wait
to gather around the camp fire
once again and remind myself that
I’m not the only weirdo on the
block.
Budgie breeder, just
for Dane
Somebody commented on here the
other day that they liked the
randomness of my posts since I
stopped writing about cycling.
Well this one is for you Dane.
I used to breed budgerigars. It
was a long time ago now and I have
no idea what brought it back to my
mind during this morning’s walk. I
certainly didn’t see any exotic
bird life and I didn’t make it as
far as the recently opened pet
shop in the village but something
brought back the cut and thrust of
the budgie breeding world so I
thought I would write about it.
I think I was about fourteen at
the time that we went to visit my
Dad’s brother, Uncle Ted, in
Dalton. When you are fourteen
visits to relatives aren’t at the
top of your bucket list so I was
probably being a sulky teenager on
the long journey from St. Anne’s
all around the expansive Morecambe
Bay and without the aid of the M6
to provide any excitement. I
suspect I spent the whole journey
dreaming of Claire Boon, the most
beautiful creature ever to grace
the top deck of a number eleven
bus but that’s a story for another
day.
We already had a budgie in our
house. He was called Peter and his
party trick was to pick up coins
from the mantel piece and drop
them onto the hearth because he
seemed to like the noise they
made. It was an amusing trick but
it didn’t require a great deal of
intellect and indeed, he didn’t
have any. He once spent a good
hour transferring about three
pounds worth of small change from
the dining table to the carpeted
floor of the lounge completed
baffled by the absence of his
favourite jingle. He could barely
hold his head up by the end of the
exercise but he was nothing if not
persistent. And
endlessly optimistic. I thought it
was cool to own a budgie, well,
probably not cool back then, more
likely neat or ace. Yes I think it
was ace, but when I got to my
Uncle’s house he took things to
another level.
This is not
Peter
In his back garden he had not one,
but dozens, maybe even hundreds of
budgerigars in aviaries. They were
all the colours of the rainbow
(apart from orange, red and
purple) and they fascinated me as
they flew around their enclosures
and jostled with each other on
perches, sometimes fighting and
sometimes flirting. I was allowed
to go into one of the aviaries and
even given a bird to hold and
shown newly laid eggs and
hatchlings. I was hooked.
Over the next few weeks I pestered
and pestered to be allowed to
become a budgie breeder and in the
end, no doubt for the sake of a
bit of peace, I was given the
green light. My Dad was a joiner
and it didn’t take him long to
knock up the necessary
accommodation for a pair of
besotted blues and I was in
business. I was genuinely
enthusiastic and tended their
every need before and after school
until one happy day they produced
a family. It probably taught me
more about biology than Mr. Hodges
ever did and I exhausted the local
library’s budgie section in my
thirst for knowledge. Before long
we required an aviary too and what
had been my Dad’s sanctuary, his
shed, became a feather infested
smelly den requiring endless
cleaning and constant attention as
the breeding program went
exponential.
That’s when I lost interest and
left it all to my Dad. I think, by
then, I had mustered up the
courage to actually speak to Clair
Boon and really there was just no
competition I’m afraid. To be fair
to my Dad he really got stuck into
it and even won a few prizes at
local shows. I have always felt
really guilty about the way I got
him into breeding budgies at the
expense of his beloved shed while
I moved on to breeding ambitions
of another kind. Not complaining
about it was probably as clear a
declaration of fatherly love as
you could ever imagine.
The whole episode in my life is
all terribly vague now. It’s like
a kind of Eton Mess of memories
involving seeds, feathers, eggs
and poo, and, if I’m really
honest, probably knickers and bra
straps as well. I did learn a few
things though and they have stuck
with me all my life. I can tell a
male and female budgerigar apart
without lifting up any skirts or
dropping any trousers and I still
remember the difference between a
Lutino and an Albino. I also
learnt what it feels like to get
dumped by the most gorgeous girl
that ever rode the number eleven
bus and then realise that you have
lost your budgies into the
bargain.
Spot the
difference
No better reward
Something wonderful happened
yesterday. Somebody said on social
media that what I had written in
yesterday’s blog had made them
laugh. There is no better reward.
No greater reward than laughter
I enjoy putting these posts
together. Once I have my teeth
into a topic the words just tumble
out and before I know it I am
editing the article down lest it
gets too long and tedious. I reread the initial outpouring and
then comes the best bit. The fine
tuning. Sometimes it’s just a
single word, sometimes a sentence
or whole paragraph that I change
but that for me is the real fun of
writing. Occasionally, like today,
I will discard the entire post and
topic (this is the third attempt
today) because either I don’t like
the writing or I don’t think it
will be of any interest to
anybody. It’s not a waste of time
because I have still enjoyed the
process; it just doesn’t see the
light of day.
Once I am satisfied with what I
have written, or at least as
satisfied as I suspect I am going
to get then I’ll post it on the
web site. Then I worry. I don’t
know why exactly because I tell
myself I have had my pound of
flesh but of course I’m just
kidding myself. If I wasn’t trying
to entertain anybody I wouldn’t
post this stuff would I? But it’s
a bit like doing stand-up comedy
in an empty room.
When we were travelling it was
easy because I had a story to
tell. Once the blog had gathered
some momentum it really wasn’t
down to what I wanted. I felt that
I had a duty to keep the tale
going and let friends and family
in particular know how we were
doing. I understood that people
wanted the next instalment
whatever the quality. I don’t have
that excuse anymore because there
is no story. The writing now has
to stand on its own and it’s a
constant worry.
After I release a new post if
there hasn’t been any reaction
within a couple of hours I start
to panic. Was it rubbish? Boring?
Did I offend somebody
inadvertently? Maybe I should stop
making stuff public and just write
for myself. Then somebody ‘likes’
my post and it’s OK again. Another
few hours go by and I’m losing
confidence again. I might even go
back and re-read it once more to
see if I have missed something.
And so it goes on. I can of course
rationalise things by reminding
myself that I have had lots of
favourable comments on the blog
but nothing completely erases that
niggle of self-doubt. Maybe it
never will go away.
It’s just great to get comments
and feedback on the blog because
it means somebody is actually
reading it. But to make somebody
laugh is more than I could hope
for. So thank you to that person
in the empty room that laughed out
loud yesterday. For me, that is
the best possible reason to carry
on posting this stuff.