I’m sure my brain cells are being destroyed by global warming, or something -possibly gin. At our final work party, a few weeks ago, Jack attempted to clear one of the remote swims. A fair sized tree had tumbled from the high banks of the country park which lies adjacent and landed in the lake. As it brought a load of debris down, too, it seemed sensible to try and remove some of the bigger bits. To get to this particular swim you have to negotiate an obstacle course – up a few steep steps, through undergrowth, up more steps, across a wooden footbridge, and then down very steep steps into the swim which juts out over the lake.
Jack was armed with a length of rope, a grappling hook attached to one end, which he swung out in the general direction of the fallen tree. Several times he was rewarded with dead branches and not very well leafy bits until he became over confident, threw the hook without taking his usual careful aim and missed the target completely. It landed in the water, grabbed hold of a submerged snag and refused to come out again.
‘Bugger!’ said Jack. ‘Now I’ll have to go and get the boat out. Oh well, it’s a nice day for it.’
As we walked back through the maze, I was worried. ‘How on earth are they going to carry the boat through all this lot?’ I asked Hubby. He gazed at me in disbelief and asked me to repeat my question, in case he hadn’t heard me correctly.
‘Boats float,’ he explained patiently. ‘They’ll pop it into the water outside the boat-shed and row it across to the swim.’
Oh, yes! I hadn’t thought of that. They all took the mickey for the rest of the morning. ‘And you a journalist,’ they crowed. ‘What a divvy’.
