Bridge 79

The world has turned enough for our bodies to react to the light through the curtains and to each others' movements and breaths. I extract my feet from the sleeping bag and myself from the bunk.  The hatches are open. My feet are below water level and at only the slightest angle I watch the light rain trying to pierce the surface of the canal.

The birds are talking and across the front of the boat I see a large overnight spider's web catching raindrops. Someone starts the engine and we move - past reeds, mauve bells, cream clusters of tiny fluffy globular flowers, the delicate seed-heads of grasses.

On, at two-and-a-half-miles an hour. It would be quicker to walk.

In alternating baking sun and torrential rain we work the locks: winding up the paddles, using our weight to open the gates against the water, winding down the paddles, heaving the gates closed, running after the boat to leap aboard, or running on to prepare the next lock.

I teach two classes, find out how much they know, what they want to learn and how keen they are.

Tonight we are in Etruria and the football fans have gone off to the pub.

I am watching a brightening moon above and the rippling reflections of street lights below.