A Kingfisher Comes To Call

 

Improbably iridescent, the Kingfisher pauses from its energetic darting. Fireball orange, treasure-island blue, ice white. A shimmering contradiction of colours, perched upon the red-rusted girders of the foot bridge.

Ice skins the waters of the stream which it spans. As they meander through winter-pallid sedge.

A keen wind whips into Oare Creek, from the Swale. 

Setting the feathered heads, of dormant reeds, aflutter.

A knoll rises from the marsh. An island of lush green, in a sea of bleached beige. Creating a sheltered sun trap, beneath the foot bridge.

The Kingfisher and I bask in our pool of warmth. Listening to the song of the wind and chuckle of the brook. The bird ceaselessly darting its multicoloured head from side to side. 

It dives. Flitting from bank to bank, in low, skimming, acrobatic flight. Its dazzling bright plumage magically melting, to my amazement, into this lanscape of wan vegetation and looking glass pools. The Kingfisher disappears from view, making toward the hamlet of Oare.

I follow, more sedately. Boots scrunching over the heavy hoar frost, which crowns the sea wall. Past the slumbering forms, of winterised boats.

The tide ebbs seaward.

Abandoning awhile the eclectically individualistic miscellany of craft, which the Hollowshore yard attracts.

Leaving a slender and serpentine rivulet of salt water, as a reminder of boundless summertime ocean horizons.

Water confined, for now, between banks of an unctious substance, not fully solid nor yet truly aqueous, East Coast Oooze. 

On which a mud streaked Redshank forages, in the low winter sun.

New Year's Morn

 

The first dawn, of the New Year, breaks sunny and still. No people abroad, nor a breath of wind. Only the silvery lap of the tide breaks the silence. 

It was on just such a morning, ten years ago, at anchor off Castle Townshend, on the southern shore of Ireland, that this tale began.

Stargazer's anchor windlass had uttered a series of protesting shrieks, upon being called to action, at our arrival. I had rowed ashore in search of grease, with which to soothe it. O'Donovan's store supplied food, petrol, gas, newspapers and friendly advice. But not grease. That, I was assured, was to be found in Baltimore.

This counsel proved sound. Alongside the jetty, in Baltimore, I split the gypsy from the gearbox. A shower, of fractured phosphor-bronze shards tumbled out. With no replacement parts available locally, my only recourse was to remove the shattered plain bearing entirely. Packing the drive with grease, in its place. That was in 2013.

As recently as last summer this 'temporary' arrangement was still in service. When Stargazer visited the island of Houat, in Quiberon Bay. But, the week before Christmas, it finally seized solid. Fortunately an updated model, said to have the same mountings and be compatible with Stargazer's switchgear, remains in production. An order was quickly placed.

In the tranquility, of the first hours of the first morning of 2024, I sit on Stargazer's foredeck sipping hot black coffee. Pondering how to create sufficient slack in the chain, to remove it from the gypsy, with the motor unable to turn the windlass. To my pleasant surprise, simply releasing the clutch, using a winch handle, does the trick.

As expected, the anchor shackle is rusted solid. Heaving on a heavy duty spanner, to undo it, shears the head off its pin. A fresh, fine toothed tungsten blade, in the ship's hacksaw, however effects a speedy release.

There is no more to be done, until Stargazer's new anchor windlass is delivered. Except to enjoy the serenity of this pristine New Year's Morn.