Soundbites from the boat

We have become aggressive hunter-gatherers, snarling at anything that hinders our chance of survival - waiters, mosquitos, pedestrians - and developping the deadly instincts of a Dalek when it comes to stray insects on the boat. "If it flies, it dies," Shaz says grimly, swatting another one away. We all laugh.

Bleak Valleys humour and hysterical laughter are becoming familiar landmarks on the rolling soundscape of the canal, along with a buzzing fan and a stuttering pipe pumping out water. Every time the pipe starts pumping, my father asks, "does that mean the boat is sinking? Should we book into a hotel?" He sounds hopeful.

The boat's new catchphrase has been announced as:

"If you dump, you pump."

This refers to the toilets that only flush if you pump them vigorously. Hysterical laughter again. That's a good sign, isn't it? Maybe one day soon we'll be sitting around a roaring fire telling tales of our inexpert manoeuvrings of this boat. Like Odysseus and his crew. That's right. Maybe this counts as bonding.

"Mum, it's not like being on a car, you have to -"
"Oh just shut up!"
"Now, now..."
" Mum, your sailing's worse than your driving."
"You've been itching to say that, haven't you?"

Well, sort of bonding anyway. Oh family holidays! This one's been peculiarly pleasant, even though we are bitten and sandy and sweaty and unwashed. Waking up to the canal and the green glowing leaves, vivid living limbs of trees that shimmer and rustle with life, crisp against the clear blue sky. Leaves agitating, whispering, telling us to get a move on and enjoy the bright blue day. The solid metal sheen of the bike is winking at me in the sunlight, raring to go...

Oh fuck. Trying to moor up on the bank, we have managed to dent both the side of the boat and a tree. We are not like Odysseus and his crew. Nowhere near. We are more like the green seascum that latched onto the bottom of the boat, lazy and unskilled, hoping for a free ride...!

Mum: "I don't believe in washing up liquid. We're not getting any. We don't need it, all those chemicals."
Me, muttered: "Oh dear god."

Between a loch and a hard place

The soft drip-drop could mean mosquitos or an empty water tank. This noise wakes me, alerts me to the possibility of danger. Am lying on a hard lump of a bed, that feels like frozen custard - same colour too. Lurid pink curtains let in artificially-flavoured strawberry light. I open my eyes again and I'm lying in a tiny cabin on a boat. I'm not sure where I am. I'm not sure who else is on board. I'm not even sure if the boat is moving. Oh fuck - I think it is...

The Bishop's Palace, France

We entered under the stern gaze of two stone statues. They stood to attention on the side of a square lawn like security guards. Later, I came to see the statues as oversized bishops standing by the side of a chessboard lawn. The lawn was the board on which our family rivalries and manoeuvres were played out, where meetings and departures were frequent and significant. Each word was tense, on edge; every move altered the balance of power between siblings, lovers, children. We were the pawns. I didn't realise it then, but my family were playing dangerously close to checkmate.

The house was antiquated, majestic - an appropriate place for a grand reunion of faded fortunes and dreams. Grand turquoise sofas sighed when you sank into them. Heavy curtains of burnished gold glowed with sunlight, wooden floors ached with moths and bats and cobwebs. Rot and deterioration crept into every corner.

The bookshelves were packed with neglected beauties, a veritable Aladdin's cave of books. Their thick leather bindings sported gold leaf that glimmered. These books were ghosts of an old nobility, meticulously ordered and beautifully bound - but never read. The paintings were of little boys and pretty young women whose eyes followed you through the corridors. They glimmered in the dark and watched.

raspberries

I went out with little girl Janet, each of us clutching a bowl and sandal-shod, and scrambled over to the two families and stood and ducked and clambered to pick raspberries. The last time I saw raspberries, they were three suggestive red blossoms atop an alcoholic cocktail – a seductive fruit, the fruit of lust – sweet but sharp. The raspberries’ rich purple-red was the hue of the roses I was given – so raspberries also recall love, romance. Funny now, how children – quite literally the fruits of love – harvest these other fruits of love. The symbolism comes full circle.