New Fire Bricks, New Neighbors

"Self Reliance: Trust your instincts; form your own opinions; make good choices." ~Anonymous

     Along with all the other "issues" I have been dealing with over the past two weeks, last week the throat plate or baffle on the wood stove started slipping down into the fire.  I used an Ikea silicone oven glove to reach in and set it back in place, thinking I would eventually get around to figuring out what was causing the throat plate to drop at some other time. I just wanted some room to breathe and not have to face yet one more thing.
     Alas, yesterday evening just after I got the fire going nice and hot, the bloody throat plate suddenly dropped again and I had simply had enough. I kicked the stairs, screamed at the sky and went to bed sobbing "Enough is f*****g well enough already!"
     I remember the last time Les replaced the fire bricks. He didn't want to use cheap vermiculite bricks so he walked into a stove shop in Leighton Buzzard and bought a set of ceramic bricks. These were not fit for purpose to our Valar Willow solid fuel stove, so Les had to measure the inside of the firebox, cut the bricks with a hand saw, cobble them together with fire cement and fit them into the stove box. This is a prime example of Les' love of tinkering and figuring out cheap, cheerful solutions and doing the work on his own. This is not even a possibility for me. I don't have the upper body strength to cut fired bricks with a hand saw. I don't have the mathematical skills to measure the inside of the firebox and extrapolate what angles to cut the brick to begin with! Crap! Crap!! Crap!!!
     This morning I woke at 6:25 am to a cool boat. The fire was obviously out. I opened the stove door and with flashlight (torch) in hand I poked around to discover that the fire bricks Les installed about three years ago had crumbled on the top edge. A large triangular piece was missing on the left side and the throat plate--which rests on the top edge of each brick--could not possible stay in place.
     As Les was well aware and other boaters have commented, I am a very driven person; however I am learning that drive without thought and good directions will NOT take one where one wants and needs to go. So I decided to let things percolate over several cups of morning coffee. I went online and downloaded the instruction manual for our stove, reviewing the directions for changing out the fire bricks. I knew Les had ordered a replacement set of fire bricks for me last August. He wrapped them in bubble wrap, labeled them and they were tucked away under the seat on his side of the dinette.
     I moved the upholstered cushions, pulled the heavy, ungainly lid up on the dinette seat storage and extracted the package labeled "fire bricks" in Les' familiar handwriting. I pulled the taped bubble wrap apart and found a complete set of vermiculite fire bricks made specifically for our stove with the order receipt inside detailing what they were, where Les purchased them from, and how much they cost. Goddess bless his precious soul!
     I proceeded to clean out the fire box with a wire brush from Les' man drawers set the brick in place and replaced the throat plate. It took me all of twenty minutes and was not difficult. I did have to look at the pictures of the throat plate in the instruction manual to get it in the right way up. It all fit together like a glove. I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face. My Best beloved is still looking after me in his way; his love for me made him think far ahead to the time I would have to cope on my own; he ordered extra parts which he labeled and stored under the dinette seats for me. With Les' help I will become self-reliant. He believed in me so I must believe in myself. 

New fire bricks in place with the throat plate resting properly on top.

The old ceramic fire bricks on the left, and the receipt for the new ones with all the information I need to order another replacement set.

     Yesterday I was blessed with a short visit by Adam and Adrian on NB Briar Rose. They were on their way back northward and pulled in behind me for a cuppa and a natter. Thanks guys! It was as always lovely to see you and spend a bit of time chatting. Thank you for your hugs and kindness.
     This morning a boat moored up behind me with two young women on it. They are partners and I was chuffed to bits to meet them. It is wonderful to see young women living aboard and cruising the cut, reaching for this lovely life and making it theirs.

Odds 'n' Sods While Waiting for Repairs

"Don't squat with your spurs on." -Will Rogers, American cowboy, comedian, humorist, social commentator, vaudeville performer, 1879 - 1935

     Right well after the not-so-grand beginning of setting off for a singular life on the cut (picked up a pram cover around the prop day 2, and the engine showed signs of overheating on day 3; broken bilge pump hose day 4), I came to a dead standstill just after Fenny Stratford Stop lock. Before Tom and Jan on NB Waiouru carried on the next morning, Tom and I opened the engine hole cover and he proceeded to give me a quick tutorial AKA Vetus Boat Engines For Dummies. In the process we discovered the band new bilge pump hose has cracked and the bilge pump no longer functioned so Tom patched it for me. That was a week ago yesterday. 
     I planned to stay in this spot for about four days to visit Bletchley Park, stop in at Ikea and purchase the accent paint I need to finish painting the boat.  I dipped down in the engine hole several times a day to check things out and while there was a small drip occasionally from the stern gland it was nothing to be concerned about--or so I thought. 
     Imagine my surprise and shock last Monday to pop the engine hole cover and find a bloody swimming pool underneath my engine! I baled for Britain, emptied most of it out and used newspapers rolled up and taped as wicks to pull up the remainder. All together I baled 20 gallons by hand and 5 gallons using the patched up bilge pump. Tom Jones called me to check on me and I told him what had occurred--and no we had not had any rain so it wasn't rain water leaking into the engine hole. Monday evening ended with me standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth. I bent over the sink to spit and the wooden port hole window frame fell out on my head! I spent two hours gluing it back in place with wood glue and securing it while it dried.
     Meanwhile over the next few days Tom sent me the schematic for my engine--it is the same as his--and he talked me through how to loosen the collar on the stern gland and grease it with silicone grease. I pulled out Les' set of Allen Keys, found the two half used tubes of silicone grease Les used for this job and grabbed a rag. Down into the engine hole I went. The collar was on too tightly for me to loosen it. Every time I poked the Allen Key into the dimple on top of the collar to attempt to loosen it, water began flowing quite briskly from the stern gland into the engine hole, so I left off with it and now I have a fairly consistent drip which bears monitoring and clean up.
     A lovely spot in my week was the quick visit with Debbi and Dave on NB

Chuffed. Dave offered to go down the engine hole and have a look but I knew they were only passing through and I figured this issue could take some time so I politely declined. Thanks for stopping and it was lovely meeting you both in person. Perhaps next time circumstances will allow us to have a longer natter over a cup of tea and a piece of cake.
     On Thursday I called RCR (River Canal Rescue).  When I explained my plight I was told that the repairs I needed were not covered under my agreement with RCR (non propulsion issues are not covered), but since Les had been a member for eleven years and I am a newly minted widow they were gracious enough to send out an ME (Marine Engineer). 
     The two young blokes showed up at 5:45 PM Thursday evening, complimented me on how clean my engine hold was  and how prepared I was with the Allan Keys, etc. The consensus was that the new bilge pump hose needed to be replaced with proper hosing and not cheap plastic electrical conduit, and the stern gland needed a proper greasing. I was told it would be a fifteen minute job and they would return with the parts in the morning. YES!!!
     The grease I had on hand was not considered fit for purpose as there was no screw on attachment allowing the grease to be squeezed out into a tube and forced around the stern gland. Les purchased it several years ago in a Stove shop in Leighton Buzzard but the tubes obviously did not come with fitted nozzles attached to tubing for the stern gland. How Les managed to get the silicone grease into the stern gland remains a mystery to me, especially as Sunday last I spent five hours cleaning out the largest of his three man drawers in the hopes of figuring out what most of it was and for what purposes it all addressed; I sought to tidy it all up and make order out of chaos. I figured out what most of it is for but Ido have two plastic margarine pots of shiny bits and bobs about which I am clueless.

It was freakin' amazing how much stuff my Best Beloved had squirreled away in that one large drawer! It left me scratching my head with wonder at how many scewdrivers and needle nose piers one man needs. I also cleaned out and tidied up the middle bow step. This leaves two more man drawers, two more bow steps, three stern steps, and the bow and stern lockers to be sorted and tidied; and to think that before I moved on board Les used to keep a lot of this stuff in three "nests" throughout the boat so he could reach for things at a mo's notice without having to traverse the length of the boat to find it.

      Friday dawned and at 2:30 PM when I had heard nothing and no ME had turned up, I contacted RCR to be told that the hose and the proper silicon grease for my engine had to be ordered and would be delivery would be delayed by the forthcoming bank holiday. The parts were expected in on Tuesday or Wednesday next (May 2nd or 3rd) and someone would call me at that time to book an appointment with and ME to come out. Crap! I should have known "the job will only take fifteen minutes and we'll be back in the morning," was too good to be true.
     It would have been grand if Les had been able to teach me about the engine however by the time we reached Cowroast after his terminal cancer diagnosis, he was too weak to lift the solid steel engine hole cover and I never could lift it on my own. Les also could no longer climb in and out of the engine bay and I could not do so either with my badly arthritic right knee. I realize now that the things I did on board NBV made our lives comfortable and certainly made Les happy as he was kind enough to tell me so frequently, but it was the stuff Les did that kept us cruising along the cut and I totally took him for granted. Yes I told him often how much I loved him and how happy he made me, but I never once thanked him for his labors in keeping the boat going. He loved tinkering with that stuff and I simply let him get on with it. I wish I had understood how vital his tinkering was to our lives and I desperately wish I had thanked him often. I will be taking the engine maintenance course offered by RCR in September.
     So now my next dilemma is water. I have been moored up here a week on Friday last. I cannot move the boat until the stern gland issue is seen to for fear of causing it to leak severely and now the bilge pump is not working at all for some reason, so...I climbed back down the engine hold again (I am down there at least four times a day. Now that it has been freshly painted and cleaned out it no longer appears to be the Black Hole of Calcutta and it isn't the least intimidating. I am on a first name basis with my engine. I will let you know when we progress to cutesy nicknames), found the five gallon plastic water butty, last used in the winter of 2011/2012 at Newbold to fill up with water when were were frozen in on the cut. I reasoned that five trips to the water point to fill up the butty and empty it into the water tank would hold me well.
     I took the canvas bag off our hand trolley and with trolley and water butty in hand I proceeded to walk to the water point by the service area near Fenny Stratford lock. Imagine my surprise yet again--to find the water point there is not only not working, there is also no "out of order"sign on it. Thank goodness I didn't chance backing the boat through the lock to the service point to fill up with water! Crap!!!
     Back on bard NBV I instituted emergency water measures and after speaking with friends on the phone this morning, I decided to try my luck in asking for water from one of the lock side cottages. First I dumped my rubbish and tried the water point once more to be sure I had not missed something; nope! Still broken...a woman and a man were sitting out at in front of one of the cottages having their morning tea after a bit of bijou gardening. I approached, introduced myself and asked my favor. The woman replied,
     "Don't I know you?"
     "Yes, we met several years ago when my husband and I stopped to sue the water point. You had a lovely crop of Pot Marigolds (Calendua Officianalis) growing in your garden and I asked if I could pick a few to  make a healing salve. You were very gracious and allowed me to help myself.  I took your email as you had a little dog with a skin condition and I emailed you an easy salve to make yourself as a remedy."
     "Oh yes I remember it now. How is your husband?" And so the conversation carried on. Her name is Lynn, she is a lovely person and she happily filled my five gallon water butty for me. I found out through our conversation that other boaters on the long term moorings just under the bridge before the lock have been asking cottage owners to fill up with water as well as the water point has been out of service for some time! I did send an email to CaRT (Canal and River Trust), but of course it is bank holiday weekend so nothing will happen very quickly. Can I just say what a luxury it is to have water heated on the stove to wash up with? This is taking me back to my childhood on Alaska and the early years of my first marriage when we as a young family of three, lived off the grid in a log cabin the sticks with no indoor plumbing or electricity. Aah yes I remember it well and to altogether fondly. A bit too much hardship and deprivation is not good for the soul. 

My precious!! Five gallons of clean, drinkable water.

     Anyway here I sit waiting for Jules Fuels to come by to top up the diesel, buy some coal  (I am down to three quarters of my last bag so that is timely!) and wait for RCR to contact me. One final issue cropped up on Friday to put the worm on top of the whipped cream on this disaster: I checked our bank account and found unauthorized activity--charges when no card was present it said--which leads to ask how in the hell the charges were made--to Amazon.com in Slough! My last amazon order was April 5th, Les' was even longer, and there were no new charges on either account. I had to email Amazon and ask for Les' account to be closed due to death. I contacted our bank and they will refund the monies to our account. This led me to finally contact our banks and make an appointment with a bank bereavement advisor to remove Les' name. I simply could not face this chore before but I see I really must do it and so I will. I don't understand the need to make an appointment with a bloody bereavement advisor. I asked why bereavement advisors were necessary and received this reasoning: 
     "Oh well not all of our employees have taken the bereavement training and we need to ensure grieving customers are handled with sensitivity. An appointment ensures you will be seen by someone who has had the proper bereavement training and can assist you in with this issue." I'm sorry but I think this is a load of utter crap. If the only customer service reps employed by a bank who can show a bit of kindness and sensitivity to a grieving customer is one suitably trained to so then there is something seriously wrong with the bank's hiring process in my humble opinion. At our U. S. bank I went in to the nearest branch with Les' death certificate, our birth and marriage certificates, and a teller assisted me, only requiring my ID and Les' death certificate. It took all of ten minutes. She was suitably kind and sensitive which didn't require special training; being human seemed sufficient. But hey ho I am in Britain where bureaucracy reigns supreme, so I will endure it as all other Brits do. 
   To end this post on a positive note I am happy to say I saw Adam and Adrian pass through yesterday on NB Briar Rose. I knew they were headed my way and I left the boat at 8:30 AM to walk to Tesco for some bits and bobs hoping to return before they arrived. On the rare occasions when I wander in to Tesco do do my sopping in person, I have found that there is a totally obnoxious two year old who follows me around the country form Grocery store to grocery store. She/he/it sets up an ear splitting, hair raising, nerve tweaking caterwauling the minute I walk in the door that makes me want to step on its wind pipe. So I thought perhaps if I went to Tesco early I might make it through my shopping before the little brat child had even had breakfast. It worked but sadly I nearly missed Adam and Adrian. I didn't get a picture but they did and it is on their blog. I will see them again tomorrow for a longer visit involving tea and cake when they return this way.
     Finally I wish to share a nifty item I picked up at Robert Dyas in Hemel Hempstead two weeks ago. It is a night light. Les and I discussed this issue thoroughly in the months leading up to his death. We looked at all sorts of night lights but few if any ran on 12 volt electrics and I was hoping for one with a motion sensor to use in the bathroom and in the galley. Nothing we found online was suitable and the topic feel by the wayside so I am chuffed to bits to have found The Egg!

The Egg on a small boat shelf near some framed pictures to give you an idea of its actual size and dimensions.

The Egg up close while off.

The Egg shining brightly!

     Battery operated, one taps the bottom of The Egg on a hard surface to turn it on and taps it again to turn it off.  If left on it will shut itself off after about a minute and a half. The Egg produces bright light and I can carry it in the palm of my hand late at night to use the loo or make a cup of middle of the night tea. Brilliant!!

Trouble Comes in Threes!

"Everything is hard before it is easy." - J.W. Goethe, German writer and Stateman,  1749-1842.

     Traveling with Tom and Jan Jones was like being shot out of a slingshot! I have done no cruising in nine months and I am woefully out of shape, which became apparent as I watched Jan wind ten locks on our cruise from Marsworth to Leighton Buzzard. I tried winding a gate paddle at one of the locks and while I feebly had to ratchet the windlass around like some crotchety aged wreck, Jan just got on with it, turning her windlass smoothly and lifting the mechanism. I remember when I too could carry on like that. Note to self: Get in shape girlfriend!

     Coming out of Grove lock I spied Jules Fuel boats breasted up on the off side with laundry out on the line. I needed coal as the nights are still quite cold and I was down to one bag. Instead of pulling along side them as my inner voice directed, I continued onward and then when Tom and Jan came alongside me I told them I was going to back up to the fuel boats and get some coal. Tom said they would continue on and moor up as soon as they found a spot. Off they went and backwards I proceeded only to end up with something around the prop! The engine cut out as it should and I was left with no propulsion or steering, essentially adrift. Instead of straying off to one side NB Valerie meandered lazily along the middle of the cut.

    Sighing, I could hear Les' voice in my ear telling me, "Don't panic Jaq. You will not get washed out to sea!" After rooting around in several places I found the bread knife he used to cut things from the prop, pulled the engine hole cover up and down inside I went to lift the weed hatch cover, open the weed hatch and suss things out. Now at five feet one and a quarter inch tall, with vestigial arms and legs, I am a small built package all the way 'round. I was up to my shoulders in the cold, murky water. I could feel it--whatever it was--something large, tough and made of waxed canvas. I made a half dozen attempts to cut through it only to loosen it slightly but I made no real headway.

This looks exactly like our engine hole with the square weed hatch at the top, which opens to grant access to the prop and rudder. © Tony Porter, NB Holderness.

     Back up on the deck, I decided the best thing to do would be to pole the boat to the towpath and tie up. I texted Tom on NB Waiouru and asked for help. A text came back from Jan that he was on his way. In the meantime NB Grand Cru came by and offered to tow me to the towpath. They were in the process of doing so when Tom arrived. Tom grabbed the midline and pulled NB Val in to the side, I hopped off and held us in place and Tom took the bread knife and plunged into the weed hatch. After ten minutes he managed to hack through a waxed canvas pram cover! Marvelous!!!

What a narrow boat pram cover looks like once it has been wrapped around a prop!

When I moored up behind NB Waiouru for the night I was totally spent. To my credit I did not panic and I kept my head. Tom and his long arms came to the rescue and I thank him most kindly as he still had a walk into Leighton Buzzard to Tesco in front of him.

     The next morning Tom and Jan went ahead of me about a quarter of a mile to the Tesco moorings and I finished my laundry and cruised to the service point to fill up with water and dump the rubbish. It took me three trips to the bin to get rid of the Pram cover pieces. Then I went through the bridge hole and moored up near Tom and Jan. Stiff from all the exercise I was getting, I felt as though I was moving in slow motion through a vat of syrup. I closed all the curtains, remembered to grab my phone, keys, wallet, the trolley, and the front and back locks. After locking the boat I set off to top up my groceries. On return about an hour later, I put things away, made a quick sandwich and ate it, then we set off again towards Leighton lock.

     As we came out of the lock there was a long pound ahead of us until we reached the Soulberry Three locks. I noticed the engine was making a high pitched humming sound I had not heard before. I checked the engine gauges and the heating gauge was up.  In all the years I have spent on this boat--even as we made our way on the tidal part of the Thames--that gauge had never once moved above 50. It usually hovered just above 40. Now it was pointing between 50 and 60. I pulled over and NB Waiouru stopped in front of me. I told Tom what was happening and we shut off the engine and let it cool down for a bit. He opened the radiator cap sightly and it hissed as the seal broke, letting a bit of water out. This is good. If steam had come out then we would know it was low on water. I explained to Tom that the marine engineer at Cowroast had flushed the cooling system while I was in the States. It had never been done on this engine and Les had told me he thought I should have it done before I started cruising on my own. Tom suggested that perhaps some air was trapped in the system, impeding the water from flowing properly. That seemed likely and so I started up the engine again and proceeded slowly. The humming sound was still there and the needle still pointed over 50 but there was no hot smell and no smoke or steam so I continued on slowly. We went through the Soulberry locks with help from a volunteer lock keeper who thought an American on a narrow boat was a funny thing to encounter.

     Onward we cruised towards Stoke Hammond lock, with a long, long pound in between. We passed the place where the A4146 motorway comes right next to the cut and a convenient layby appears on the offside. In 2014 we met up with Leslie and Joe Kimantas from NB Yarwood at this spot. They came by car delivering a cook stove we purchased from them. I remember the four of us gathered around our dinette drinking tea and eating carrot cake. Later that afternoon our friends Carol and George Palin showed up, bringing their new wide beam Still Rockin' down to the Thames. Les and I watched in astonishment as bridge 108 of the Grand Union canal appeared to give birth to their fat boat!

     I stopped at Willowbridge marina to buy two bags of coal while Tom and Jan went on ahead to Fenny Stratford to fill up with water and moor up beyond the stop lock. I pulled in on the towpath side across from Willowbridge as there was a boat on the service mooring. I stood and waited for five minutes. There were two men and woman standing around the stern of this boat looking into the engine hole. The woman clocked me and then ignored me and the men were intent on the boat, so I finally called out,

   "Hi, I need to buy some coal." The three looked up at me and one of the men shouted,

   "So, what do you want me to do about it?"

   "You don't work here?"

   "Nope. You can shove your boat over here and breast up if you like."

   "Okay, thanks," and I climbed aboard NB Valerie and started to move away from the bank when the other bloke shouted out,

   "Would you mind hovering for minute? I should be done in a minute and then you can come on in here."

    "Okay." And so I hovered, and of course just then a Wyvern Shipping hire boat came charging and weaving its way through the bridge hole up in front of me about 600 yard away. He panicked when he saw me and immediately moved over to the side. I waved him on and he slowly started forward, passing me slowly with a smile and a nod of thanks.

     Meanwhile the other boat pulled away from the jetty and proceeded off right behind the hire boat. Some bloke with a blue marina jacket came out, said something to the guy who had shouted he didn't work there, they gave me one look and walked away, inside the marina building. I proceeded to slowly move our boat back and forth until I managed to slot her in the tight fit at the service jetty between the long line of boats permanently moored nut-to-butt in both directions, leaving only one small space for someone to come in for service. Just as I touched the side, the bloke who didn't work there came back out and said, "Here, I'll tie you up," and he grabbed the midline from the roof.

     Inside I purchased two bags of coal from the man who did work there, and the man who did not work there went to fetch it for me. We had a brief chat as he loaded it on the bow hatch for me and I realized this fella was one of three guys Les and I watched when we were in Fenny Stratford last July. All three were totally pissed (that means drunk for you Americans), three sheets to the wind (that means completely pissed for you Brits) and they had stripped down to their skivvies and were swimming in the canal! They were so drunk they were swallowing large amounts of water and coughing it up. They were causing a public disturbance so the police were called.

     I thanked him for his help, and cruised on to Fenny Stratford stop lock where I pulled in and went to move the pedestrian bridge in the middle of the lock. As I finished Tom came along with a windlass and a young bloke clambered over the lock gate with a smile on his face. It was James Tidy, Amy's beau off of MB Willow! He threw his arms around me for a bear hug and then went to get the other gate. With grateful help from two lovely blokes of fine character, I was soon through the stop lock and moored up behind NB Waiouru.

The pedestrian footbridge in the middle of Fenny Stratford stop lock. © NB Northern Pride.

     Amy came sauntering down the towpath, Jan popped up from her stern hatch and a boaters convocation ensued! Tom and Jan had read Amy and James' blog when they were living on NB Lucky Duck up on the River Cam, and followed on when they sold NBLD and bought Motor Boat Willow. It turns out Amy and James are on their way down to London to get married! 

     After tea aboard MB Willow, Tom provided me with a crash course on the parts of my boat engine, where upon I discovered that the newly replaced hose to the bilge pump had split and was spewing water into the hold instead of out. Tom patched it for me with tape and hopefully it will hold until I can get to Napton.

     Before I left for the States I had contracted with a local marine engineer to do some £1300 pounds of final work on NB Valerie. He had done a lot of work for Les over the years, and for us both from 2013-2016. He is someone Les trusted implicitly with our boat and who I grew to like and trust as well. This same bloke once praised me for being "...a missus who doesn't quibble about the price of the work done. So often wives want to argue with me about the cost of my work but you simply asked how much it would cost and then paid me when the job was done. I really appreciate that." 

     The list of work required included things Les and I had discussed but which he simply could no longer do. On that list was checking over the engine and parts to replace any worn hoses and loose wires. Also on the list was moving the navigation, horn, and bilge pump switches from down below my feet on the side of the stern locker to a position just forward of the gear shift--a place I physically pointed out to the engineer on a visit to the boat to go over the jobs on the list. 

    Les used his feet to turn them off and on. My feet don't reach that far and by the time I hopped off my seat, bent over to find the switches, etc. etc. I would either run aground, hit a bridge or another boat so they had to be moved. Imagine my surprise to return from America to find the switches mounted behind the gearshift and adjacent to the stern seat.

     Now anyone looking at me knows I am not built like Barbie. I am a short, wide load. With the switches mounted next to the seat I not only couldn't access them when cruising if I were precariously perched on there, I couldn't actually sit on the seat! I had to wait around Cowroast marina five extra days for the engineer to return from Easter holidays to move the switches to the place I had specified previously. This cost me time and money in additional marina fees. Now I discover the newly replaced hoses are made of cheap inflexible plastic instead of heavy duty PVC or rubber. No wonder it had split.

     I am extremely disappointed. Les trusted this person to work on NB Valerie over many years. His work was always good and while his fees were not cheap, we paid up as we felt he was honest and could be trusted, but I have to say I have been treated differently since Les died. When Les needed work done, he went over and had a natter with the engineer. They agreed on the work to be done, the date to do it, and when all was said and done we paid the bill in full and on time. Job done.

     Now Les is dead and I am on my own. I walked over in February with a written list of jobs to be done, had a natter, we agreed on the work, and I explained that I had the use of the permanent mooring we were on until the 29th of March for no charge after which the new mooring renters on NB Dreckly would be bringing their boat up to moor the following weekend, so NB Valerie was to be taken by the engineer on the 29th of March and when he was finished with the work it was to go into a berth in Cowroast marina. I had spoken to Jason at the marina and made the arrangements with an agreed upon a price.

     I explained all of this to the engineer at the time I gave him my list of works to be done on February 16th. After a week or so I became worried about the arrangements--don't ask me why. I needed to be sure my requirements were crystal clear. I am aware that over here I am the one with the accent and often I am misunderstood because of it. I called around to the engineer's workshop and asked him if he could come over to the boat so we could go through the jobs in situ. He agreed and that afternoon he paid me a visit. We went through the boat, discussed each job, I showed him exactly where I wanted the switches mounted and I reiterated once again the dates for moving the boat, etc. etc. I know all this because I keep a daily diary so I can refer back to what happened and when. 

     So imagine my shock when a local boater contacted me while I was in the States to say NB Valerie had disappeared from the private mooring the week preceding the 29th and suddenly appeared back on the mooring on the 29th! A hasty and expensive call to the engineer immediately took place. It was five fifteen in the evening in Britain. He had no recollection at all of the dates, times, conversations etc. and said I was lucky to get hold of him as he was just leaving for the night but he would go round and move NB Val to his jetty and then move her to a marina berth on Monday.

     When I arrived back to the boat I found it had been jammed into the marina berth so hard the back button fender was sideways upright instead of extended over the tiller, a cabinet bolt on one of the kitchen cupboards had its knob sheared off somehow, the newly installed radio had moved three inches off its position in the cupboard and the plastic collar around its face had come away, and several items had fallen off shelves onto the floor which all indicate our boat was hastily driven into the berth backwards and slammed to a stop against the back cement.

     I have been treated this way in the past by car mechanics who assume the little lady doesn't know shit from sugar about anything and they can simply nod their head, carry on as they see fit, and then charge me an arm and a leg for inferior work. I just never expected to be treated this way by someone who knew Les and whom Les trusted; someone I trusted too and I am severely disappointed. To be fair the new aluminum checker plate engine hole cover he made is brilliant and spot on. But still....

     I have been down in the engine hole every day now several times checking things. I sponged up the water from the bilge pipe crack, and Tom made me some dandy water wicks which I put in place. He rolls up old newspapers, tapes them tightly and stands them up vertically in the engine hole to wick up any water in the bottom. It works brilliantly!

     Les used to do all the engine maintenance. He tried showing me how to change the oil but the engine hole is so small and while he was bent over doing the job I couldn't see a bloody thing. I hate mechanical stuff and I have zip patience with fiddly bits like nuts and bolts. I am a chef, a writer, and a healer, not a mechanic but hey guess what? I will be learning all about how to service my engine and I will be on a first name basis with all parts of it eventually.

     In the meantime I have stayed behind at Fenny Stratford, taking the space MB Willow vacated as Amy and James continued their journey south. Friends Steve and Anne Folliington on NB Bracken are moored up just in front of me! Tom and Jan need to be in Braunston at a certain time to connect with their son. My journey needs to be at a slower pace. It is still the grief trail and mourning takes time and energy. I don't intend to pass this way again for a long time. There are memories of Les everywhere, and I need to stop and process them. I also want to stop and have a natter and cup of tea with other boaters who know us, as I cruise along.

     I am so pleased I had the opportunity to spend time with Tom and Jan. Their boat is up for sale and when it is sold they are moving to Oz for the next part of their life adventures. I love Tom's sense of humor. His experiences in life have provided him with much knowledge and many good stories to tell. The same is true for Jan whose uncommon sense is rare in this world. She is a good reader of people and I've enjoyed many fine hours chatting them both over tea when they were moored up by us in Birmingham in 2015. My thanks to you both for helping me to get moving again, for all of your help, and for checking on me to make sure I am okay. 

Tom and Jan saying goodbye Kiwi style! (The blue cover on the boat in the background is a pram cover similar to the one Tom removed from NBV's prop).

     So I am recovering now in Fenny Stratford. I plan to tour Bletchley Park where Alan Turing and the code breakers worked during WWII. I am also a ten minute walk to Ikea so I am going to nip in and enjoy a cheap lunch of Swedish meatballs, and there is a Dulux paint center up the road where we bought the Dulux Metal Shield outdoor paint for the boat. I need two small cans of the same in contrasting colors to finish up the paint job we left off in 2015. After a suitable amount of time I will move on to Old Lindford Park and Stanton Low where I will scatter more of Les' ashes and plant more Daffodils.   

Time to Cruise

"I'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of  mine embraces, all day through...I'll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new, I'll be looking at the moon but I'll be seeing you." - Lyrics by Irving Kahal, 1938

     Wednesday April 19th was a lovely sunny day. After a week of recovering from the trip back to the UK from America (more of which I will write about in another post), I locked the keys in the boat and had to rely on my neighbor Owen, who resides in a re-fitted oil rig lifeboat with his cat Sam, to cut the lock off the stern hatch. I decided then and there to stick close to home. I scrubbed the boat from stem to stern, ceiling to floor, inside and out, removing the Chimney and cleaning the stove pipe and stove; It was wonderful to know that what Les taught me in theory held true in practice. I spent fifteen minutes looking for the large number 13 ratchet he used to loosen the nut from the bolt holding the chimney chain in place only to discover that when I wasn't looking Les switched it out for a small, compact ratchet that fits my small hand perfectly. This is love. I completed my list of chores, stocking up on groceries, catching up the laundry, filling the water tank and emptying the loo. Last but not least I said goodbye to some of the dear friends Les and I are so fortunate to have made in the time spent at Cowroast.
     We arrived at the top of Cowroast lock on August 2nd, 2016 and with the exception of one lovely cruise to Bulbourne with family, there had been no cruising. I hadn't worked a lock or steered the boat in over nine months. While I was gone to the States, the final repairs were made to our boat and now it was time to get underway. Tom and Jan Jones on NB Waiouru happened to be at Marsworth and they telephoned me to ask if I would like to cruise with them since they were headed north too. As I cruised past Mike Griffin on NB Albion I said, "Call me if you need cake. If you aren't cruising up my way you can always drive up for a visit and bring one home." 
     Tom caught up with me at Bulbourne and was kind enough to lock me through the Marsworth Flight. I was fine until I caught site of Startops End Reservoir. Les and I both love mooring there and I was flooded with memories, tears pouring from my eyes.
     It was while moored up here that Les fell on the boat and hurt his back in 2009. While recovering from that fall Les spent thirty one days moored at the Reservoir where he wrote the blog post asking readers from around the world to contact him so he could get an idea of how widely read his blog was across the globe. It was that post to which I responded, setting everything else in motion. 
     When we returned to Britain in 2011 we moored up at Startops End for eleven days to await arrival of my dowery: 640 pounds of worldly goods which traveled from Pullman, Washington to the docks in Seattle, onto a cargo ship which spent two months traveling down the pacific coast of the Americas, through the Panama Canal, across the Atlantic ocean over to Europe and finally to England. Les found an online tracking web site and he followed the cargo ship with avid delight.
     We spent the time waiting for my boxes by walking all the paths around the four reservoirs, waking early before the sun rose and watching the mist rise from the water, enjoying the dozens of ducks and geese who also called the local environment home. We watched with fascination while a pair of swans worked over a plastic bag with raw chicken inside which someone had tossed in the cut. The Cob had found it on the bottom and brought it up; both he and the Pen spent hours working at the bag with their tremendous beaks until it finally split open, disgorging its meaty delights which they both devoured quickly. From this we learned that swans are omnivorous. Les and I delighted in waking each morning to bird calls right outside our boat, and listening to the last quacks and squawks each night as the local aviary population settled down to sleep. Back in 2011 there were not so many boaters on the cut and we often had the large pound adjacent to the reservoir all to ourselves. It was and still is one of the loveliest bit of wild places left so close to London.
     The last time we cruised past the reservoirs we could not stop--we had to make time to get to Cowroast and connect with Hospice. As we sat together on the stern of our boat last July 30th, I watched Les drink in the view like a thirsty man looking for water in the desert. He knew he would never moor here again or watch the waterfowl take flight against the summer sky.  And I knew with my leaden heart that the next time I came through Marsworth Les would be dead.
     I moored up behind Waiouru and spent a couple of hours chatting with Tom and Jan. At 6 p.m. I gathered a trowel, a daffodil bulb wrapped in newspaper, and a small jar with some of Les' ashes in it and walked up above the bottom lock, past Bluebell's Tea Room. I chose a place just beyond where the path separates into a Y, where a simple wooden bench was built as a memorial to someone else's loved one. Les and I used to sit on this bench in the sunshine after walking around the reservoirs. A tree had been recently planted just nearby. On my knees I dug a hole right next to the sapling, sprinkled some of Les' ashes in the bottom, placed the Daffodil bulb in place and patted the soil around it. The late evening sun was just slipping beyond the shoulder of the grassy hill, the sky still lit with its golden light. 

The Daffodil planted with Les' ashes under the last rays of the evening sun, Startops End Reservoir, Marsworth.

     Since Les died I have waited for a sign from him. I have seen, felt, and heard nothing and my heart has grieved in deep disappointment especially since others in our family have received signs from Dad, Da, and Granddad as they referred to him. As I knelt in the dirt, a nearby boat was playing music from some radio station. I didn't recognize the music but the words jumped out at me: "I'm sending you a sign that I am here and I still care, just to let you know I am still there." I sat stock still, my heart aching and racing, tears cascading down my cheeks. I took a picture of the spot as I will do with each place I stop to scatter Les' ashes and plant flowers. In several pictures there is a hazy spot just nearby. It isn't a reflection of the sun on the camera lens. It has an indistinct, out of focus shape. It isn't something that I saw through the lens when I took these pictures. I have no rational explanation for it being there.   

The Landscape of Grief

"In my loved one's absence, life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden;
I am ten times undone, while hope, and fear, and grief, and rage and love rise up at once, and with variety of pain distract me." ~Joseph Addison

   Grief is an alien landscape without map or sign post. Memories of Les and I and our life together appear as a mirage. The closer I stumble to them the quicker they dissipate and my heart cracks open even more and bleeds out on the ground. Sleep is a distant memory of a time when I woke each day and Les was beside me or somewhere on the boat waiting for me to kiss him hello. Life is colorless, sounds are muted, and music is tinny. I drink gallons of water each day to replenish the seemingly endless reservoir of tears that drain from me as I am suddenly attacked by fresh grief and wracked by it until it passes as quickly as it arrived. Food which seems at first bite to taste good, does not agree with me and my gut churns and works endlessly. 
   Time spent with loved ones feels like tiny islands of respite in a tempest tossed ocean. I am tired of this journey, sick of myself, and I miss the boat so much I ache. I needed to make this trip back to our American family but now I am anxious to be home again. I cannot settle anywhere for long without grief finding me again, and of course I have no control over this journey. I don't do well with things, people or situations that make me feel out of control of myself. Les understood this about me. He was my touchstone for more than just Britain; I find he was the touchstone of my life.
   I post this to share my experience and to get these huge, overwhelming feelings out of my little body. It is not necessary to comment. Just know that right now, this is my journey, so please don't expect me to be fun and scintillating company or to sit and listen to the fabulous details of your life with your loved one who is still alive while mine is dead. It might be selfish but I simply cannot entertain it or anyone right now. I am not good company...I am lost in the landscape of grief. 

The following is an excerpt from the blog of Buddhist follower Roshi Joan Halifax:

   The ultimate relationship we can have is with someone who is dying. Here we are often brought to grief, whether we know it or not. Grief can seem like an unbearable experience. But for those of us who have entered the broken world of loss and sorrow, we realize that in the fractured landscape of grief we can find the pieces of our life that we ourselves have forgotten.
Grief may push us into the hard question of Why? Why do I have to suffer like this? Why can’t I get over it? Why did this one have to die? Why... . In the tangled web of “Why,” we cannot find the reasons or words to make sense of our sadness.
   Dying people also can grieve before they die. They can grieve in anticipation of their death for all they will seem to lose and what they have lost by being ill. Caregivers will grieve before those they care for have died. They are often saddened by the loss of freedom and options of those that are ill and the knowledge that death will rob them of one more relationship. Those that have been left behind by the dying are often broken apart by the knowledge that they cannot bring back that which has been lost. The irrevocability of it all often leaves them helpless and sad. And then there is the taste of grief in Western culture which is conditioned to possess and not let go.
   We all face loss, and perhaps can accept it as a gift, albeit for most us, a terrible one. Maybe we can let loss work us. To deny grief is to rob ourselves of the heavy stones that will eventually be the ballast for the two great accumulations of wisdom and compassion. Grief is often not addressed in contemporary Buddhism. Perhaps it is looked on as a weakness of character or as a failure of practice. But from the point of view of this practitioner, it is a vital part of our very human life, an experience that can open compassion, and an important phase of maturation, giving our lives and practice depth and humility.
   To begin, it is important for us to remember that the experience of being with dying for many does not stop at the moment of death. As a caregiver of a dying person or family member who has been at the death of a relative, we may attend the body after death and offer our presence to the community as they and we grieve. When the details of dying and death are settled, then what arises from the depths of the human heart is the many expressions of sorrow when the presence of loss is finally give the room to be seen and felt.
   Sometimes grieving lasts not for weeks or months but for years. Frequently the reason why grief is not resolved is that it has not been sufficiently attended to just after the loss of a loved one. Family and friends of the deceased can become consumed by the busyness of the business that happens right after someone dies.
   This is one of the great problems that we face in the Western way of dying, that business is so much a part of the experience of dying and death. Survivors often face a complex situation on the material level in the after-death phase. They find themselves looking for a funeral home, letting friends and family know that a death has happened, and creating a funeral service. Unraveling health insurance, taxes, and the last will and testament also take time and energy at this stage. Later there is cleaning up, dividing and giving away the deceased’s property, and other seemingly endless chores of closure. Resorting to the business of death can be a way for survivors to avoid the depth of their own loss.
   Like dying, grieving has its phases, and it is important to pass through them.
   Similar to the phases of dying, grief can be characterized by numbness and denial, anger, great sorrow, depression, despair and confusion. Finally, there can be acceptance and even transcendence as sorrow has opened the door of appreciation and compassion. These phases are similar to those experienced in a rite of passage: separation, transition, return.
   Grief can also arise as a person is dying. Family and friends as well as the one who is dying can experience what is called “anticipatory grief,” the bones of loss already showing. Working with that grief is an important part of what one can do in the care of the dying. In fact, most caregivers have to cross and recross this territory of grief in being with living and dying many times in the course of just one person dying.
   When my mother died, I received one of the best teachings of my life on grief. I realized that I only had one chance to grieve her. As a Buddhist, I felt I had a kind of choice. On the one hand, I could be a so-called “good Buddhist” and accept death and let go of my mother with great dignity. The other alternative was to scour my heart out with sorrow. I chose to scour. Shortly after her death, I went to the desert with photos of her and several letters she had written my father after I was born. Settling under a rocky ledge, I sunk back into shadows of sorrow. When your mother dies, so does the womb that gave birth to you. I felt that my back was uncovered as I pressed it into cold rock.
   Later, I was to walk the Himalayas with a friend who had recently lost his mother. The fall rains washed down the mountains and down our wet faces. In Kathmandu, lamas offered a Tibetan Xithro ceremony for her. They instructed me not to cry but to let her be undisturbed by grief. By this time, I was ready to hear their words. The experience was humbling for me. And when I finally got to the bottom of it, I found that my mother had become an ancestor. As I let her go, she became a healthy part of me.
   C.S. Lewis in his A Grief Observed reveals that “No one ever told me that grief was so much like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.” Grief can call us into an experience of raw immediacy that is often devastating. Grieving, we can learn that suffering is not transformed by someone telling us how to do it. We have to do the work ourselves. (The Buddha, Roshi Joan Halifax; accessed online, 03/23/2017).

Happy Birthday Baby

"The day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of eternity. " ~Lucius Anneus Seneca

My best Beloved would have been 69 today. Les loved carrot cake. It is frosted and sitting on the counter. Happy birthday baby, wherever your soul currently resides; your heart rests safe inside my heart...always.

Les' Memorial Service

"Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve." —Earl Grollman, American Rabbi, death educator and counselor

    I have spent a month writing, editing and re-writing Les' eulogy, gathering pictures, watching videos he made, getting pictures copied, arranging the order of service, sending out the invitations, getting memorial cards printed, and putting one foot in front of the other when my mind was so beset by grief I could not remember my name or phone number.
   I have been supported and uplifted throughout all of this by a particular group of friends who have done what is essential when someone is struck deaf, dumb and blind by grief: they stepped in to fill the gap, meet a need, and hold back the world for awhile so I could just breathe because some days that is all I could really manage and sometimes even that is hard work. You know who are and each of you have my immense gratitude. The gift or your compassion and understanding, of your being here for me in whatever way I most needed you--even when I did not and do not always understand what way that is; you could see what I could not and with grace you stepped up for me and I will always be thankful.
   Although pouring rain showers were forecast for Saturday, March 4th, the skies cleared and sunshine was the order of the day. I was up after four hours of sleep, having prepared all the food for the luncheon after the service: three different kinds of sandwiches, two salads and brownies--some of Les' favorites. Soon enough our caravan was on its way to Tring Community Centre and once there our amazing friends took over setting everything up and helping me prepare. A few sadly could not make it due to contracting the lurgy (Brit speak for the usual illness making its rounds this time of year) and they were missed. Fifty two people showed up and we journied through tears and laughter together.
   I wish to thank everyone who shared something with the rest of us. You have no idea how comforting it is to hear you all speak so fondly and well of Les. The poems written in his honor were wonderful. The stories shared brought a small measure of healing to my broken heart and for those brief moments Les lived again. One of the things we who grieve experience is the need to look for signs of our loved one everywhere. We look for their faces in a crowd when we know it is simply not possible for them to be there. I especially treasure the stories that provided new information about Les. For example Richard, one half of Jules Fuels, the couple who travel the cut in their narrow boat Towcester and their butty Bideford, shared with us that once when they were filling up NB Valerie Les mentioned casually that he had "found a bit of nice stuff" on the Internet and he was flying over to America to check her out, which resulted in Jules and Richard taking the piss out of Les for his Internet dating! After he returned from the week visiting me, Jules and Richard turned up to service NB Valerie with diesel and they asked Les how his trip went. "Oh she's lovely she is!" I never knew this. Les never gave me one hint that he was checking me out that week!
   Poems were written and read by boater Mac on NB The Griffon and Sue Deveson on NB Cleddau. Each story and poem is a treasure I have tucked away in my heart as are all the comments people made to me afterwards during lunch as I visited with each person there. Andy and Tina Elford had a favorite picture of Les enlarged and framed for me and other photos provided a laminated montage of their time together cruising with Les. The large picture is sitting up on the table now, and Les' smiling eyes follow me around the boat from under the brim of his sun hat.
   Directly below is a transcript version of Les' Eulogy as well as a partial video of it appears at the bottom:

                                       Flying Without Wings/Westlife

EULOGY

Welcome everyone. This is a memorial service but also a celebration of Life forLes Biggs. Why try and do both simultaneously? "The great children's author E. B. White said that humor can take people to the place where tears and laughter meet and where they fall from one to another. He said it can do that because like poetry it has an added dimension and when it works it takes people close to the big hot fire that is truth…” this was quoted recently on CBC Canada radio about the writer Stuart McLean who also died recently, and I offer my thanks to Bryce Lee in Canada for bringing it to my attention. So this is why we will grieve and laugh together today; to reach that big hot fire called truth—the truth about the life of my husband, lover, and best friend. I believe the most important work we do in our lives takes place in our relationships with others.
   After a disastrous marriage that ended when I was 24, it was clear to me that I did not understand men. I wrote on my blog So This is Love…about the days just prior to Les coming to visit me the first time: “I hoped to offer Dear Sir a lovely visit he might enjoy immensely and remember fondly. My hospitality was a way of saying "thank you" for all the emails he took the time to write and send, the information on narrow boats and canals he generously provided, and for his friendship.
    At lunch in the dining hall with my friend Cheri, she broached the upcoming visit of Dear Sir. Smiling at me over her sandwich, she said, "Wouldn't it be something if the two of you hit if off and fell in love?" She chewed thoughtfully as she considered her suggestion with pleasure.
"Yes, Little Bear that would be something," I nodded my head and smiled, "but you know, he and I are friends and that's enough."
    Cheri comes from a close, loving family. She was wanted and loved as a child, and is still very close to her parents and siblings. She's been married to her college sweetheart for nearly forty years. Cheri believes in happy endings and a soul mate for everyone.
I on the other hand, do not believe in either one. Cynic that I am, while my head is bobbing up and down in agreement with Bear's dreamy query, my mind is laughing sardonically. Dear Sir and I are friends and I am content to leave it at that.
Life has taught me that for whatever reason, it is my fate to be loved dearly by myself, my children, and some very fine friends. I am my own champion and that must be enough. To expect more is to be disappointed. Given the abuse in my past, the terrible male role models with which I grew up and the childhood I narrowly escaped, and my inability to trust men--with very good reason--it was a massive miracle I invited this man to spend a week in my home.”
    So Les and I finding each other across 4000 miles of ocean and another 3000 miles of American continent, meeting and falling deeply in love with one another was nothing short of miraculous and truly meant to be for we are soulmates and unknown to me my heart and soul was waiting for him. Les taught me so much about love that I would never otherwise have known. I have no doubt that Les and I have lived many lives together before this one I also know Les, me and Val have done the same. His soul knew and recognized mine when we met for the first time in the car park of the Travel Lodge in Seattle in 2010.
    My soul? Well it was no doubt slumbering deep inside me, as I lived under the firm conviction at the time that if such a thing as soul mates existed then mine had not incarnated in this life. I wish I could say I recognized our deep connection at that moment but alas when I saw Les standing in the car park of the Travel Lodge in Seattle wearing a huge smile, a pair of blue jeans and a cardigan of wide stripes in pale mint and cream in which he looked a bit fem, my first thought was, “Oh, my gosh he’s gay!”
    Later I discovered that Les viewed clothes as utilitarian objects expressly for the purpose of covering the naughty bits—useful items like a tarpaulin is useful for covering the wood box on the boat. He was happy to wear anyone’s cast off clothing and the mint and cream striped cardigan was just that—not something he chose for himself but a useful bit of kit to keep warm that someone had thrown out and Les had picked up. We revisited our first meeting in the car park many times over the last six years, and Les would laugh hysterically each time I recounted my mistaken first impression. He got a huge kick out it.
   During the six days Les spent as my guest at Cloudhouse in Pullman, I was privileged to get know his authentic self because he didn’t know how to be any other way thankfully. The next morning I experienced the following:

“Sun streamed through the picture windows and lit the sheer curtain panels in my bedroom. I rose quietly, not wanting to wake Les, down the hall in the guest room; I thought he might want to sleep in after all the miles he'd travelled. I walked in to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea, glancing out the window to the back deck. Dear Sir was leaning on the deck railing, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.
The morning sun lit his broad shoulders which tapered down to his waist, a very nice posterior, slim, muscular legs, and bare feet. I bit my fingers and grabbed for the counter to steady me. I woke up expecting to start a bit of breakfast before Les rose for the day, and looked out my kitchen window to see a Calvin Klein ad for jeans come to life on my back deck.” The week and my life only got better from there…and the rest as they say is history. So I share with you now some of the things I learned from Les:

   Thanks to Les’ example I understand now that someone who truly loves you will always put you first in all things—in heart and mind because your happiness is their joy. From my husband I learned that a man who loves his wife will never make her suffer jealousy, which is a sign you has been unwillingly entered into a competition for the attentions of your partner, leaving you feeling as though you come last not first. Les always put me first in all things and no one and nothing else ever competed with me for his time, attention, or affection—although he was inordinately fond of Canal World Discussion Forum! Les spent a lot of time on the forum every day, trawling through the new topics and checking in with other boaters across the cut. It was his go-to place for how to do something on the boat with advice from other boaters guiding him. I used to make Les laugh when I teased him saying, “Hey baby, Checking in with your mistress again?” 

Les and I only grew closer as our brief years together passed. It is a mark of the depth of his love for me that despite the fact I am no longer fertile, having had all my reproductive organs removed when ovarian cancer was found in 2008, Les looked into my eyes once and told me he saw our unborn children there. 

It is a mark of my love and devotion to Les that while I didn’t know he was out there in this world and I didn’t realize I was waiting for him, Les and he alone met my soul’s high standards and the needs of my heart, mind and body. Les showed me what it feels like to be truly cherished and he gladly allowed me to lavish him with my loving care and attention, knowing that he is and always will be my one and only. I still feel his love right down to the core of my soul and the depth of my DNA. 

When Les’ head hit his pillow each night he fell instantly into a deep and peaceful sleep. I believe this occurred because Les had an untroubled mind and heart. Les always treated others as he wished to be treated. He loved children and animals and they loved him back—even small babies who laid eyes on Les for the first time would break into smiles for him. When our grandson Connor was born I tried for three months to get him to smile for me. Nah, nothing. The very first time Les held Connor in his arms, their eyes locked upon one another and Connor burst into a HUGE happy smile as though seeing someone he loved dearly for the first time in ages. Perhaps their souls also recognized one another. One of the reasons Les was so good with children and animals is that he had a deeply kind heart and a patient soul, and this also served him well in dealing with the broken suffering people in this world.
   Les taught me about forgiveness—its importance to one’s own peace of mind rather than for any social, moral, or religious compunction. I was by far the more difficult person to love in our marriage; Les knew me inside out and yet he loved me wholly and completely. Due to severe mental, emotional and physical abuse in my childhood—and I use that term loosely--I had to grow up by the age of six and learn to be smarter than my parents and step-parents in order to survive which left me little time to actually experience anything close to childhood. In fact I used to watch other children playing and feel like an alien. I could not relate to them at all ‘nor could they relate to me. I looked like them but I thought like an adult. In surviving such things we get broken. Part of our life’s work is to try and heal the brokenness. We who survive childhood abuse have personalities with very sharp edges. Sometimes we unintentionally cut those we I love with them. Les knew all this about me and he loved me without reservation.
   Les loved me as I am--broken bits and all. He was intimately aware of the dark, shadowy corners of my soul. They didn’t scare him one bit. When I warned Les early on that I had a lot of personal baggage relating to my childhood but that I would do my very best not to unpack it and to leave it sitting around to trip him with, Les gathered me into his arms and said, “Don’t worry about your personal baggage Jaq. I love you and I will help you carry it.” And he did.
   I was nineteen years old before I ever heard or saw my mother laugh. I grew up believing I had no sense of humor. Les brought humor and laughter into my very soul. He used it as a torch to shine into those dark, shadowy corners and light me up inside. So let me share with you now some of the funnier moments of our life together.
   When Les returned to me in February 2011 he proposed to me and we finally got to snog at last! He lived at Cloudhouse—which became our house—for three and half weeks, settling in and making himself at home—which it was. Everything we each owned separately we gave to one another. All things became “ours” not mine or his. I only had the first week of his stay off and then I had to go back to work. Les did dishes, laundry, and cleaned house without being asked and without my expecting it. One day I arrived back home and the following conversation took place:

"I even oovered."
"You what?"
"Oovered--you know--did the oovering."
"I'm sorry darling but I don't know what that is. Say again???" (To me it sounded like he was saying Oeuvre as in the French word for eggs. I was hard pressed to connect eggs with housekeeping!)
"You know with the vacuum--I done the vacuumming."
"OHH! Hoovering. We don't call it hoovering over here; call it that and Yanks will think you mean 'hovering'."
"Huv-a- ring--what's that then?"
"You know--when you hang about over someone."
"OHH! You mean haahvering." We laughed ourselves silly at our cultural differences and it was pointedly brought home to me that I am the one with the accent.

                     Les riding my broomstick at Cloudhouse, July 2011

On another occasion Les was waiting for me to fly over in May of 2011 to spend three weeks to be sure living on a boat was going to work for me before we returned to the States to get married. A friend gave us a lovely wedding gift of some funds with which they wanted me to purchase a trousseau. After thinking it over I called Les and asked about how to spend the money, and the following conversation took place:
 

"I thought perhaps rain gear would be a good thing to buy." Les was quiet for a moment on the other end of the phone. I could see Dear Sir turning his head slightly, staring off into the distance and thinking about what I have just said. 

"Sorry darlin' what was that?"
   "I said I thought rain gear would be a good thing to buy with the money."
   "Say again please? I don't think I'm hearing you correctly."
   "RAIN GEAR--r-a-i-n- g-e-a-r--I thought rain gear would be practical," by now I am wondering what on earth he thinks I said. I mean I know I am the one with the accent but still...Les' booming laughter fills the phone receiver.
   "Oh God I thought you were saying reindeer." We giggle hysterically.

"That's right baby--love me, love my reindeer. We Alaskan women are VERY attached to our reindeer. I'm not sure what we will do with the carcass after we butcher it but we can keep it on the roof of the boat and cross that bridge when we come to it.

    When I finally did fly over in May of 2011 to be with Les on the boat I was exhausted after a ten hour flight and all the happy crap one goes through at Customs to get into another country. I found myself finally in his arms at 10:45 p.m. A half an hour later Kevin dropped us in the dark at a bus stop on the highway and I was following this British bloke with a torch into the woods! NB Valerie was moored up at Cassiobury Park.
   Now this next story is rather racy so you can cover your children’s ears if you must but I think it is good for children and young people to know that no matter how old someone is they are never too old for romance, passion and sex. All three are and should be a part of a loving relationship.
   Les and I were so enthralled to be together again, and as lovers who have been apart are wont to do we peeled each other’s clothes off and fell into a frenzied bout of passionate love making as the boat rocked in the darkness. Caught up in the moment, Les forgot about the solid oak cupboard at the foot of the bed, and while raising himself up on his arms, the corner of the cupboard buried itself in his forehead.
   Now the head has many tiny blood vessels called capillaries and when ruptured they bleed profusely. It took me a while to staunch the bleeding but it finally stopped. As stood there looking down at him, I said,

   “Wow Les that is a very deep and noticeable cut. People are going to see that and ask how you did it. What are you going to tell them?” His lovely brown eyes twinkled as he replied,
   “Well that depends on how old they are.”

    The next morning we cruised off and headed for Napton so Les could introduce me to two of his dearest friends, Andy and Tina Elford with whom he cruised for three years. We moored up at Napton Marina and that evening the four of us walked up the lane to the pub. Tina and I sat and talked at the table while Les and Andy stepped up to the bar to buy a round. I was watching Les. He had the nicest looking behind in a pair of jeans. Suddenly I saw the back of Les’ neck turn beet red. He turned around and hollered over the din of the crowd:

   “Andy just asked me how I hurt my head!” I hollered right back and said,
   “Do you think he’s old enough to know the truth?”

    The next morning we were headed for Heathrow to fly back to Pullman and be married. As we waited with our luggage for Tina to bring the car around, Andy—who is quite a bit taller than Les—put his arm around Les’ neck, pulled him close in a bear hug and inspected the top of Les’ head, remarking.

    “Oh I see you two behaved yourselves last night; no new gouges in your head!”

I got a tattoo of forget-Me-Nots the day before we were married. Les is doing a bit of Tattoo peeking!

    Months later after we returned from the States and settled in to life aboard NB Valerie, Les decided that the oak cupboard at the foot of the bed needed to go. One head bashing was enough, but before he took it down he got out some yellow tape, a cushion and a few minutes later he took a picture to send to Andy and Tina of a large cushion taped to the bottom of the cabinet!


                         Les' quick fix for the cupboard above the bed!

    In late August of 2012 we were cruising down the Trent & Mersey canal, returning south from having spent six months on the narrow northern canals Les loved dearly as he showed me his favorite places on the LLangollen, the Shroppie, The Bridgewater, the Maccelsfield, Caldon, and Peak Forest Canals. We reached Tixal Wide on the Staff and Worcs canal just past the junction with the Trent & Mersey. It was a gorgeous sunny late summer day. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun lit the world with warmth. As we pulled in to moor, a hot air balloon began to rise up in the adjacent meadow. Les was beside himself, like a small child at Christmas.

    "Balloons Jaq, come look--quickly, hot air balloons!" I looked out the hatch of NB Valerie and sure enough a large, multicolored hot air balloon was rising slowly above the meadow on the towpath side of our boat. Les dashed inside for his binoculars and I grabbed for my camera. He stood out on the towpath down by the hatch doors and I took up a position standing on the bow locker, arms propped on the boat roof, snapping pictures.
    Ever so slowly the balloon rose with a large basket attached, holding a fair sized group of folks. Les had his binocs glued to his eye sockets, repeating rapturously,

 "Wow! Oh Wow look at that!!!!" Suddenly another balloon rose on the far horizon of the meadow and began a slow ascent. As I snapped pictures Les danced around the towpath in rhapsody, switching his view from one balloon to the other. As the first balloon was almost directly overhead it fired up to gain height and I said, 

 "I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one." With his binoculars glued firmly to his face, Les said with utter amazement in his voice: 

"Jaq did you hear that? That balloon overhead is so close I can hear them talking. There must be an American on board, I'm sure I heard a voice say, 'I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one,'" affecting a flat, nasally American mid-western accent.

Stunned, I looked down at my husband as he danced around the towpath in paroxysms of delight and wonder.

Les at Tixall Wide, binoculars in hand, laughing, 2012

 

Les...Les...Les??? Honey that was me you just heard. I said I wonder if the first balloon will follow this one--and I did not say it like that.” Les looked at me for a moment incredulously and we both burst into hysterical laughter, folded over, holding our sides. For an hour after both balloons disappeared across the cut I would mimic him and we would start laughing afresh.

   "No honey there was no American on board the hot air balloon--it was the American on board our boat!!" (And I don't talk through my nose either!!)

    

Our comic timing with each other was as impeccable as that of Morecambe and Wise. In August of 2015 we moored up at Braunston and walked up to the bus stop to catch the bus into Daventry for groceries. Les turned away from me to stare up the road in the direction the bus would be approaching. Just as he was turning to ask me something I squatted down to tie my shoe. Les turned and I wasn’t there. His voice cried with astonishment,

 “Jaq where are you?” 

 Then he looked down and saw me and we laughed like crazy until tears rolled down our cheeks and our sides ached. He called me affectionately his “short arsed wife.” Les is the only man I know who could lose his wife at the bus stop when she is standing right next to him.
   Les love to laugh and he laughed with his whole body. His laugh started in his chest rolled down to his belly and spread from his lips to his eyes. He never gave a fig about whether or not he appeared ridiculous to anyone. Les would do anything to make me laugh. He was my hero—and he always will be.


Les wearing our grandson Kiernan's Captain America mask, 2011.  

 Les taught me that wives are not born nags—they are made into nags by lazy and self-centered partners. Any time I ever said, 

“Oh the rubbish bin needs emptying,” or “this or that needs fixing,” Les immediately took care of it; big or small, I never had to ask more than once and Les made it clear that addressing things as I brought them to his attention was not a hardship or inconvenience for him because it was his pleasure to help when I asked for his assistance. In this Les demonstrated that we were true partners for he knew that I would do anything for him—he had only to ask and sometimes he didn’t even have to do that! A day did not go by without our finishing each other’s sentences and voicing one another’s thoughts word for word, to our mutual astonishment and delight.
   In an uncertain world Les was literally my refuge and my safe place—something I never experienced before I met him. Even when we argued I could never stay angry at Les longer than a day. I could reheat an argument the next morning, still, the minute we lay down together each night, Les’ arms would reach out and draw me in and all contention would melt away. I fell asleep with a grin on my face because I was tucked safe in my Best Beloved’s arms, next to his chest and it always felt like we were two puzzle pieces so perfectly made for one another—a fit so fine nothing could ever really come between us.
   Distance, time, ‘nor death cannot diminish our love for each other.  

I carry Les’ heart in mine, not just because I love him as a famous poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, “with the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…” but because Les trusted me with his heart. He gave his heart to me to carry in my own. And he trusted me with his life. I know this because he told me so in one of audio love letters he sent me attached to emails—all of which I still have.

Les was the most romantic person I have ever known. I think Val’s death had a lot to do with this. Les told me once that Val’s love changed him and made him a better man. Just as Les’ death has irrevocably changed me, Val’s death also changed Les. Between diagnosis and her death were only eleven short weeks and Les said there were so many things they didn’t have a chance to say to one another. He knew that life was short and he understood the great importance of showing and telling everyone we care for how much we love them. He never held back his emotions and my heart will live satiated and full for the rest of my life on the love he gave me. 

Les and I are separated for now but our souls are inextricably linked for eternity by our marriage vows in which we pledged our love to each other beyond this lifetime and by a depth of love that endures all things. Yes I miss him terribly and savagely and the loss of his physical existence daily in my world makes me unbearably sad. But I can and will move forward with life because each day carries me toward my own translation from flesh to spirit. When my time comes Les’ soul will be waiting to help me cross where the veil between the worlds of the living and dead is thinnest; countless times on our walks across this countryside Les would go ahead of me and wait for me at the footpath gates. He called them kissing gates and he would not let me pass even once without giving him a kiss. Les will be waiting for me at the kissing gate and we will be together once again in the joy of pure spirit-for love is truly all there is and that is Les’ most enduring lesson to us all.


Les waits for me at the kissing gate on the footpath to Crack Hill, Leicestershire, July 2014.

 

    I have two files to share today. The first one is a video Les took of Braunston for me in late October of 2010 shortly after he returned from his first visit as my guest. You need a bit of back story first. 

At the end of that first week Les stayed as my guest, he wanted to shop for a toy for each of his eight grandchildren. I drove him to Hodgkins Drug store in Moscow, Idaho because they have shelve and shelves of old fashioned toys. We spent two and half hours choosing just the right toy for each child. For Lena May, Les bought a rubber squeezy lamb. When you squeezed it, its eyes popped out on stalks and it went Baaaaaah. As we carried the bag of toys along, each time we stepped off a curb the lamb went Baaaaah! The bag sat on tehback seat on the way home and every small bump in the road caused it to Baaaaah again, making Les and I crack up.
   Later that final evening, it was time for Les to pack his suitcase--it was HUGE! And it was stuffed to the gills. The children's toys were sandwiched in the middle and we spent thirty minutes yanking the sides together to try and close the zipper. We tossed the suitcase around, and I sat on it, bouncing up and down as Les struggled to close it. Not once did we hear a peep out of the squeezy lamb. After we finally managed to et it all sipped up, Les hoiked the bag into the corner, we shut off the light and as we left the room we heard, faintly from inside the case a very weak, ba-a-a-a-ah! Okay here is the video of Les showing me the delights of Braunston:

I also shared an audio love letter Les sent me in late December 2010 but I cannot get it to load on Blogger without spending days reformatting it so sadly I must leave it out.  Finally, here is the video of me delivering part of Les' eulogy if you wish to view it and listen to me as I give it. My deepest thanks to Carol Palin for this.