I think of England, not as a map of fast-moving tarmac roads, but as slow-moving liquid canals and rivers; veins carrying the blood I need to survive, to make this island feel bigger than it is.
Hovering from above I zoom in on a pinprick. Me on my boat, floating on top of fish and bedsprings; trollies and metal shoes—remnants from when friends pushed each other back from pubs and clubs, and a time when boats were pulled by horsepower. Our coal, pottery, food, carried up and down the country at 4mph.
Oh how life was slower then, when cuffs were dirty, and we were raw.
And that’s the thing. Here I get to live without pretense, to somehow step away from the manufactured mayhem and sink into authenticity; into history. Is there any other way to more closely live life through the eyes of someone 200 years ago?
Sure, there is now the hum of road noise, engines, and the sight of garish posters calling me forth to the world as we know it. But most times it’s just me and my boat, silently passing through, balanced atop the green, brown, and perhaps a hint of blue; if the sky is right and the water smooth.
And nobody is watching me here,
only myself amidst the reflections of trees and clouds.
And so here is where I get to truly see,
and feel, away from the crowds.
And there is always somewhere to be going,
even if it’s nowhere fast.
And I guess that’s why they call me,
Wandering Alice.
Narrowboat Life