Tuesday 19 November 2013

Earn yourself some feel-good points: right here!

In the little town of Beaune, in France to the north of Lyon, there's a splendid building with marvellous patterned, glazed tiles on a roof punctuated by pointy towers. It's a hospice built by Nicolas Rolin in 1443 as his Get into Heaven Free card, to earn points with St Peter after a lifetime of less than saintly behaviour. Today I offer you something similar: not an All Areas Pass to Paradise, sadly, but a more immediate feel-good opportunity for the here and now. If you're reading this before 6 December, all you need to do to perform an act of heart-warming kindness is to send an email to competition@puretravel.com with 'Missing a Broad in Norfolk' in the subject line.

That will hopefully help me into the top three of ten contenders for a travel-writing prize, then to be ranked by a real judge. If he likes my story best, I'll win some money, get published and earn some kudos - but even if he doesn't, you will still have earned yourself points for a Random Act of Kindness; plus my gratitude. So why wouldn't you? Look, here's the story:

Even disasters can have a silver lining. For my husband, whose life-long mission is never to let an old joke die, this one presented him with a gift opportunity to revive the gag about the man who unwittingly left his wife behind at the petrol station.
Neither of us was laughing when we first saw the cruiser reserved for us to pootle around in on the Norfolk Broads. Even viewed stern-first, it looked huge; and when we stepped aboard and saw how far away the bow was, we were awed. “Are you sure this is ours?” we asked. “There are only the two of us.” The boatman waved away our concerns and demonstrated how the roof slid back so that we could enjoy the damp glories of an English spring.
He skilfully eased the boat out of the yard and took us for a spin along the river, demonstrating the controls until we took over ourselves, even practising mooring alongside the riverbank where, by manically pumping the gear lever back and forth, we stopped with a bump that made us hardly stagger at all. For two non-boaties, it was a triumph, and we tossed the Skipper’s Manual aside as soon as our instructor disembarked, leaving us in sole charge. Perched behind the wheel, we glided off along the River Bure, ahead of us 200 kilometres of reed-fringed waterways winding through Norfolk’s flat expanse.
Even in spring, there were other cruisers out on the water, processing from mooring to mooring, vying to claim prime spots outside the prettiest riverside pubs. We were happy to be followers, spotting herons, ducks and geese, cooing over thatched cottages, inspecting the varied boats moored beside each house, delighted by a traditional windmill, its sails slowly turning.
Having left town behind, we passed Wroxham Broad, and hammered along at a heady 10kmh, ducks playing chicken under the bow, reeds swaying in the wash. Confident now, we passed the boats in front, negotiating a sharp corner at Hoveton where a swarm of little sailing dinghies scooted in all directions. The afternoon was wearing on and, warned that moorings could be hard to find in this busier part of the Broads, when we came to Horning we started looking for a gap.
The dog-eat-dog drama of supermarket parking was a doddle compared with spotting a suitable empty space, watching out for other boats, turning to face upstream and the forward-reverse-forward pumping of the gear lever on top of actually steering. It was a tense and sweaty business of throbbing temple veins and bitten lips, and it ended with yet another fender-threatening bump against the side. But we had done it! The relief was enormous, and we skipped off to the Ferry Inn for our reward.
This is what cruising the Broads is all about, we congratulated ourselves with the first pint of cider. Maybe tomorrow we’ll go under a bridge, we said with the second. If we had a whole week, how many pubs could we visit, we wondered with the third. Probably it’s time for bed, we decided before the fourth.
Perhaps it was the cider, perhaps nervous exhaustion, perhaps the gentle rocking of the boat: we slept well and woke full of enthusiasm next morning. Even the horror of discovering that other boats had sneaked in tight fore and aft didn’t daunt us. We fired up the engine, cast off and began the fraught jiggle to ease out into the river. It didn’t go well: from my place at the back I could see a looming collision with the yacht moored in front and, without actually formulating a plan, leaped off the stern, an action expressly forbidden in the spurned Skipper’s Manual. Because what happens then is that you lose your footing, topple like a felled log onto the towpath, and dislocate your shoulder.
As I writhed in agony on the gravel, our cruiser hit the yacht, which erupted with startled people, and shoved it far enough forward to scrape past and out into the river. My husband, smugly turning downstream, caught sight of the men waving and shouting at him from the bank and, puzzled, eventually manoeuvred back close enough to hear: “Your wife’s fallen and hurt herself. She’s in the café and we’ve called the ambulance.”
My husband’s face brightened as he recognised the familiar set-up. “Thank God for that!” he said. “I thought I’d gone deaf.”

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