While living on a boat, you’re very aware of the seasons. At the fireside with your feet on the hearth, winter is softly listened to in the cold night air. ‘Whan that Aprile with its shoores soote hath bathed the vein to the rote,’ spring is anxiously watched for. Summer is celebrated in the glimmering flickering reflections of gold green water on the ceiling through the side hatch. Smoky autumn is mourned as the trees bleed their colour away and the fires get going again.
So I get all romantic and write folk stories based on what I can see out me window. To be read with the seasons and its most appropriate tipple.