A tale of two bridges, and a lot of water. It’s pissing down on a Tuesday, and no-one wants to play. I’m going for a walk with some cans of Captain Morgan and Coke. The daughters are doing Brownies by Zoom, and it’s always loud, dull, and righteous.
I drink a couple of cans on the long stomp down the promenade. A photo here, a photo there. I’m wet; it’s windy and cold, and I’m going to need a wee before I get home.
The first bridge I’m walking over is big and goes uphill, so you barely notice it’s there, so I’m not counting it. I pass The Boxer’s house, and access the canal, where I soon reach the first bridge. I have painted from on top of here a few times, though the last picture remains unfinished due to the weather. It has stopped raining now, but everything is so drenched, I don’t think it’s going to make a difference.
I drink another couple of cans of rum and coke, make an image, and move down the green lane towards the barn we drank at a few weeks ago. The gate area is a quagmire, soaking my boots as I walk past towards the West Coast Mainline. The empty trains speed past, mostly empty, as I walk parallel to them, reaching the second bridge.
The amount of water under this bridge makes me think I’m back at the canal, only there’s no tow path here. I wade into the deep centre, and crack open another can. Well isn’t this fun? There’s an inch-long tear along the feather edge of my right boot, and its mud that I can feel as well as water. Another can, another picture, and its home time.