East Anglia is flat. It’s known for it. Much of it is below sea level. The sky starts at your waist and just goes on. If you know John Constable’s Flatford Mill you’ll get the idea.
The fens feature in many detective stories, and when you drive through it, along the dykes and past the ditches, where locals come out to stare at an unfamiliar car, you can understand why.
I used to drive Mother to Ely and hope and pray we wouldn’t break down.
So oddly, by river the fens are great, especially in good company, which is exactly what I had today.
The plan was to get the holding tank pumped out. A plan foiled by the fact that the pump out wasn’t working. But we didn’t know that until we got to Ely. Given that my companions live in Ely, I suppose it would have been possible for them to check the pump out before we set off, but none of us thought of that. And as they collected me from Ely station, I don’t have much of an excuse either.
But it was beautiful on the river. I managed to miss every heron we passed, and there were at least nine, so that was quite an achievement. I only had my point and squirt, and it takes a while for the not terribly strong zoom to zoom in.
Ian helmed. Helming is fun for about five minutes in my opinion. I made coffee, and stared at the view. Jax pointed out a sculpture on the dyke.
I am not sure when I shall next be on the river, so today was a bit special; working pump out or not.