"This is a song called "Go for a Ride on a Motorcycle'"

Have you ever stood in front of blank canvas, a wetted brush poised in your hand, and wondered how or where to make the first mark? Perhaps you take a few steps forward to size up the situation; while there, you dip your brush again in the stand oil and deftly temper it with the whip-like flick you have practiced before your bedroom mirror for weeks. Yet, as these techniques seem not to have produced any new insights into how to begin, your procrastination moves into its deep-freeze stage as you go for a coffee or, even better, curl up for a little cat-nap on that filthy studio couch.

Well, what Old Ken is trying to get at is that he has felt a little indecisive about how to begin to tell you about the wonderful nautical adventure that set out into the wilds of greater Rugby over the recent Easter weekend. Now, this was not only a super time, but an auspicious "stag and hen do" (i.e. a combined bachelor/bachelorette party, for those of you on the western side of the Atlantic) in honor of those great folks Tim and Bev, who we see seated above on Box Tree Hill, on a blustery day earlier this year. Having hemmed and hawed a bit; having suffered through "paralysis by analysis," Old Ken took to heart the wisdom of America's favorite rock band, Moon Dog Maine. As a means of introducing a selection from their impressive—no, visionary—musical catalogue, the Dogs were often known to bait the audience with the following kind of banter: "Have you ever had a bad day, and you just wanted to go for a ride on a motorcycle? Well, this is a song called 'Go for a Ride on a Motorcycle.'" Amen! And so, enough of my yappin'; let's boogie!



Trips always seem to effectively begin in different places. Trivially, we might say that they begin at the point of departure. But, there are certain early locales on an itinerary that offers a flavor which then inflects and may subsequently be said to have given spirit to the trip as a whole. Without question, this noble function was performed by an early stop to Toddington Services on our way out of London. Services is the term used by the Brits for what we of North American extraction call a "rest area." Now, contrary to conventional wisdom, Brits seem to be much more frank in naming those places where Nature's calls are heeded. We in the States have developed some of the most absurd euphemisms to that end; for example, should one find oneself in a state of desperation in (say) Duluth, one would stride into an office building and ask for the "bathroom," not the "toilet" (as would be the correct appellation in Steeple Bumpstead, Essex). Yet, surely one does not intend to take a bubble bath, so why confuse the issue?



In any event, after Bev had introduced me to the niceties of Little Chef (apparently a mainstay of the British roadway services circuit), we made our way inside. Now, as you will see from the photograph above, the joint was certainly jumpin'. If I may impose on you, gentle reader, I'd like you to look carefully at the photograph above. No, no; not at those gents gettin' they old-school smoov on, nor at the smiling woman suggestively extending a plastic bucket (well, cast a glance upon her if you must). But, look especially acutely toward the apparatus just behind her. That's right, friend: a DJ! Had I struck the motherload or what?



Do you want more? Well, Toddington Services was ready to accomodate. Not only had that sweet Lethe of the weary traveler, the games room, been provided for, but a veritable El Dorado of delicate sweets had been arrayed for our refreshment. Such caramel corn and candy floss (i.e. cotton candy) one could scarcely rival in this—nay, any—freeway system.



Back in our automotive chariot, Derek, we arrived in varying stages of candy-induced coma to greater Rubgy by early afternoon where we were to rendezvous with our posse and the twin canal boats that were to be our homes for the next three nights. As you may remember from an earlier post, Old Ken has quite an affection for boats, having been born on (okay, technically, near) one. Bonds of this kind run deep and so, like many, I longed for the exhilirating blast of marine air that can only be found when travelling three miles an hour through the canal network of greater metropolitan Rugby.



Now, I use the word network advisedly here, as the canals are dotted with a series of locks that boats must navigate. Although Old Ken never really got the hang of the complex lock-navigation system—let alone the rituals of decorum that seemed to indicate which boats had right of way or priority in entering the locks—I was inspired to come up with a little song to commemorate the experience. I'd like to think of this song (which I have foolishly recorded on my camera and even more ridicuously posted below) as a humble contribution to Britain's proud heritage of sea shanties. I take some heart in the fact that this song, which might be called "There's Bilge in Your Lock," seems to be in a fairly obscure file format and therefore may hopefully not be easily accessed by most.



bilgelock.WAV

Please allow Old Ken to divert your attention away from that song with a picture of a majestic swan, an avian species in no short supply on England's canals.



One of the more interesting little side trips (or meta-trips, for those of you who want to go that way) made over the weekend was an excursion taken around the town of Brauston, which you see in the distance below.



While stopping to refill the boats with fresh water, a few of us went for a little mosey in the direction of a medieval church located off in what is now a huge cow pasture. Portions of the church (namely the base of the bell-tower) are said to date from the eleventh century, while the baptismal font inside is supposedly even earlier. Apparently there is notice of the existence of a church in this area in the Domesday Book. If Old Ken sounds a bit skeptical about these dates, one only need evoke that "abandoned" bee-house incident to be reminded that you can't always trust what you read in guide books.



Despite its antiquity, the now-decommissioned church remains in a respectable state of preservation. Old Ken was particularly delighted by the fourteenth century Gothic screen visible inside. Along the walls and floor of the nave were a series of plaques and monuments attesting to the lives of the local Tibbetts family, which of course leads one to think of Wayne and his sympathies for feminine hygiene.



On the way back to the boats, Mark was accosted by a cow. After paying a small fee, we were allowed to pass. I suggested we simply ask the cow to "moo-ve over," but I was threatened with physical harm. What?



Not long thereafter, we entered a kind of vortex. I am not entirely sure what happened, but I believe a ghost ship was involved.



Needless to say, what Old Ken has been able to assemble here is a highly telescoped and entirely unrepresentative account of a truly lovely weekend. That said, what I have wanted to share with you are a few strong flavors that may evoke other more ephemeral savours. And, as if things had not gotten quite savory enough, allow me to share these with you. Officially, they are called "Pork Scratchings." This leads to a few obvious question: with what do pigs scratch? Why would one want to eat sometime a pig had scratched? And is this technically food?



Old Ken did not try these dainties, but Bev's analysis speaks volumes: "Awful."