I moored up at a place called Caen Meadow last night. Wroxham Staithe if you prefer. It was either hailing or raining all night, I failed to summon the strength to climb out of my bunk to look. I was buried under an enormous double duvet with the wood burner slowly depleting the oxygen supply which left me so snug and snoozy that I was not going anywhere.
Anyway, I woke this morning to find the boat covered in ice and the mooring slipperier than a slugs belly.
Water in the boat is the ruin of the boat, but water under the boat is its support
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