I was going to tell you all about going down in the scrum at the Hallaton Bottle Kicking yesterday, but then realised it was Tuesday, and therefore Find The Fault Day. So my heroic exploits on the side of a steep Leicestershire hill will of course have to wait. So, yet another boat picture. My experiences under sail are limited to getting my head bashed in (bit like yesterday) by a rapidly moving boom on Rutland Water, and thinking I was going to be unceremoniously swept down to Davy Jones' Locker from the decks of a Thames sailing barge in a gigantic squall off Brightlingsea. "Women, children, Unmitigated Bloggers first!". It's just that water never really agrees. Anything to do with me and my feeble attempts to swim are usually accompanied by someone running down a towpath or promenade shouting and waving a lifebelt. But I do like the idea of sailing, preferably with one of those big wood and cloth models you get in places like Aldeburgh, watching one of the children poke it about with a stick on the sailing pond while I read the Telegraph.
A few years ago I turned up here early on a hot summer's evening. Folk were cooking suppers on boats, and the strains of the Archer's signature tune came over the still water. In fact it was very like this 1958 scene, except the boats were more fibreglass and plastic than wood. But the little drainage mill was there, spreading its sails like filigree wings against a deep blue sky. So, where is it, and for extra toast the names of the two rivers that join here.
