Boatshed at Epney

Another day for visiting lonely, haunted places. This was not the intention. Originally, we set out for Gloucester via the Stroudwater canal and the river Severn at Framilode. The light, which had been brilliant all morning, was suddenly obscured by cloud just as we set off. My fault for wanting to stay at home long enough to hang out the washing! On the way to Framilode, we got caught up in streams of cars either trying to get in, or out, of the Frampton country Fair. Judging by the amount of shooting that we heard, I'd say they were leaving.

Instead, we stopped at the pub called the Anchor in the village of Epney, on the banks of the Severn, and went for a walk. We saw horses; apples on trees; washing on a line; well-bred dogs with their owners; lichen growing on trees; ducks and waders on the river; May Hill in the distance; reeds waving in the wind; a woodpile that I fell in love with; a field of stubble; a mound of old whisky bottles and demijohns; each other; and quite a lot of water. Soon, though, it was time to go back to the pub, for we had shopping to do in the shire capital.

By the time we turned round I had got rather jaded taking photographs, so I put my camera away and did not get it out again until the pub was almost upon us. Then this shack caught my eye. CleanSteve thought it must have been a boathouse for a fishing boat. As it was next to the river, clearly it is/was a boathouse of some sort, though it has curtains (why does Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca spring to mind? Possibly because I am thinking of doing a course called The 1930s -Literature and Social History, and this is one of the set texts. I have read/listened to/seen the film/ drama series of Rebecca about fifteen times, so maybe if I do the course I'll get the T-shirt too).

But I digress. The Boathouse has a weather vane too, and a few years ago I might have fantasised about making a studio-ish place of it. Since then, the cost of petrol has soared, and I still can't drive, and I can see now that it does look rather lonely, never mind dark! It might even smell.

At the pub, we drank a half of cider (me) and beer (CleanSteve) and headed off to Gloucester for the shopping. It was strange to pass close by to the village where I used to work, and not go there. I did miss the children at school there last week, but only briefly. I will not miss the daily bus journeys. It's nothing but Shank's pony for me, from now on.

P.S. As a former student of Linguistics, I have noticed that Epney is one of those words that it is almost impossible to pronounce without introducing a glottal stop. Perhaps it should be called Ep-er-ney instead. Then it could be twinned with I-vor-ee.