ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

On Monday at 4pm we canoed into Bratislava. The capital of Slovakia, a country we had just entered, it was well deserving of a visit yet had no campsite on offer. Bratislava did not have any water front hostels either. In fact, it was with great excitement that I booked us into the Fairway Botel. A botel! What could be better: it's on the water, so accessible, and it even got a good review from 'Stag-Do Steve' who said it was "well cheap and had good beer".

So we drifted in on the Danube and padlocked our canoe to the metal railings, a lock at either end. Then we wandered across the gangway and checked into the botel. The receptionist was most hospitable and our cabin was most inhabitable: it wasn't a tent and we wouldn't be in sleeping bags. With valuables packed into our small rucksack, we took to the streets of Bratislava and made the most of our time in the old city centre.

It was a good five hours later that we returned to the botel, it's exterior slightly rusted and drab with worn paintings of fish along the side, and we re entered our room slumping onto our beds. As we brushed our teeth we felt a slight shudder go through the room, enough to be noticed, yet not enough to be thought about. It was the shudder of a botel, we thought, and thought nothing more.

By 10:30 I was crawling under my grey duvet. I opened the window to let in a cool river breeze and noted the water moving far slower than I remembered. But in seconds my head was on the pillow and my eyes closed, I gazed only into the dark of the back of my eyelids and, as they swirled before me, lines in the darkness transformed into churning water that hurtled downstream. I was on a river, back in the canoe, and I was moving along as though a plughole in the far distance was draining the water away before me. Behind me Nathan had stopped paddling and I could hear him clattering around in the darkness. We drifted on and, with the yank of a chord, he spluttered an engine into existence. From where the engine had come neither I nor Nathan knew, but it helped us downstream and we were most pleased. The river grew darker and the engine's noise grew steadily louder whirring in my ears.

I awoke. The engine sound continued as I realized it was the botel gently humming away and I rolled over to face the wall, returning to a deeper slumber.

It was 6:35 on Tuesday morning when that deep slumber was next broken by Nathan, the real Nathan, shaking me suddenly awake. Through bleary eyes I looked confusedly up at him as he cried, "Jimmy, Jimmy, we're in Budapest!" To my horror I pulled back the curtains to look directly at a riverside hotel emblazoned with the words 'Hotel Buda', flickering in neon with the letter 'u' clearly broken years before. In those brief seconds I realized the signs at once: the shuddering of the botel moving out to the water, the slow pace of the river, really the moving boat downstream, and the sound of the engine that perforated my sleep and hummed in the night time.

And that was that. Budapest. Budapest in the space of one night time in which no canoeing was done. We worried and bickered but came to realize that our error was in booking a botel that was also a river cruise and the blame lay solely with me. I took that blame and accepted it but highlighted the week we now had off from canoeing enjoying the wonders of Hungary.

And so it was that we have spent the last few days flicking through old photos on the I-phone and instagramming pictures of France so that we can maintain a website that tells a tale of two graduates canoeing the continent. In the meantime we have walked the old streets of Buda and Pest, the two sides of the city, and even had a dip in the public baths. What is more, this will continue until enough time is passed that we could have actually canoed to Budapest, so tomorrow our intentions are to see our fourth cathedral and have coffee in a narrow street, standard stuff.

The only problem is... The canoe. We locked it, as I said, to the railings by the botel. That was back in Bratislava. How the hell are we to get the canoe down here for the end of the week when we will actually need to start paddling again? And so I must appeal. I appeal to all readers for help. If you know of anyone who is in Bratislava or lives there and may be able to help out please please let us know. My number is +44 (0) 7891 564 554 or email JamesWS@chilloutthealternativeblogisnotreal.com

Developments we expect by the time your favourite Canoeists return to the UK

Politics
Nick Clegg to have been squashed under someone's thumb.

The UK to be considering intervening in Syria. Very soon. Any time now.

Predicted that talk of a quintuple dip recession may soon start, potentially causing triple dip recession.

Sport
Arsenal to be going through a season of transition.

Wayne Rooney to be considering his future.

Andy Murray to win Wimbledon. (Did we mention we've been away since July?)

The 'name game' to have become an international sport.

Fashion
80s style moustache and perm combinations to be back in fashion.

Apple just about to unleash the next big thing.

DFS have a sale on.

General
Bruce Forsyth to have died or been arrested for child abuse.

Petrol prices have gone up.

Roadworks on the M1.

Two novices become internationally famous for canoeing the continent.

Noh and Argh's Arch.

Noh and Argh were primitive men in a humble craft, a boat made strong and sturdy. In their loose loin clothes they took wooden paddles in their hands and battled nature to travel the globe. Noh and Argh wanted to travel far and wide and found God's mighty rivers were a pathway to be followed. They went up rivers. They went down rivers. And in their little boat they crossed country after country.

But watching the tiny men on the big rivers God grew angry. He grew angry that they challenged nature and he grew angry at their speedy and joyful progress. So God decided to send a great flood. He decided to send rain.

For four days and four nights it rained and in their boat Noh and Argh battled on. In the strong wind, their loin clothes flapped wet against their skin and the fat rain drops beat against their faces. Stroke after stroke their paddles attacked the water and they rode high waves that kicked up in God's mighty storm. On each wave they balanced precariously on the top then plummeted back down, splashing back into the water beneath, thrown around in the fury of the river.

Noh and Argh we're citizens of the world and, seeing the rain, they predicted the great flood. As water levels rose they took on insects two by two. Two mosquito's nipped aboard, two wasps buzzed around and appeared whenever Noh and Argh ate their lunch, two spiders clambered in the boat's rafters, and two slugs slithered on the deck. In fact, having let on insects two by two, Noh and Argh felt they had been taken advantage of somewhat since before long there was an abundance of slugs who did not intend to adhere to the strict pairs only ruling.

Now Noh and Argh surged down rivers in their boat that teemed with insects. They became not only primitive nomads, but saviours of arachnid species and their kindness won them some favor with God. At a quarter past six on the fourth day of rain he sent a dry spell that lasted fifteen minutes. Noh and Argh glimpsed the sun. Life was good again.

Then it rained for another six days so that now Noh and Argh we're soaked through and even their spare loin clothes were drenched. They would grunt in primitive speak about how a full ten days of rain had passed and they would remember with a fondness the fifteen minutes of sun they had seen.

After these ten days Noh and Argh felt sure the rain was done. As the drops petered out they sent a duck into the grey mist heading downstream. An hour later, in dry weather, the duck returned with an olive branch in its mouth. Noh and Argh were most pleased, the duck had an olive branch! A sure sign that dry sunny land lay ahead.

The next morning it was pissing it down more than ever. Argh killed the duck. Noh cooked the duck on a fire. Then Noh and Argh sat and ate duck in the pouring rain, it's tender meat the only thing keeping their hands warm. The rest of their bodies were numb. Numb, cold and wet.

Noh and Argh felt rightfully bitter that it had now rained for twelve days and twelve nights in a row. They had taken on insects two by two, they had visited more churches and cathedrals than anyone could imagine, and they had sent out a duck that returned with an olive branch. What more did God want? They wondered, what more did God want?

An open letter to Heinrichs everywhere

Dear Heinrich,

I've never met you and probably never will. In fact, if I'm honest, you don't actually exist. When I say that I'm writing to you, Heinrich, what I mean to say is that I'm writing an open letter to any, and every, of the tanker crews that I've seen on the water.

I have canoed on the Rhine, the Main and the Danube. I have shared the water with gigantic ships carrying cargoes of oil, coal and even tractors. I have ridden the waves from both tiny tugboats and luxurious liners. I just wanted to let you know that I know what you're going through.

I too have stubble and an afro, Heinrich. I too haven't cut my nails in a while. Just like you Heinrich, I too have embarked upon the high seas for the good of society... Kind of.

Heinrich, I know exactly what its like. The endless days with only an S-Club 7 lyric floating around your head. The conversations with the captain where he doesn't recognise your unbelievable wit. Trying to play the name game with someone who doesn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of Spanish football... I've been there too Heinrich.

You and me, Heinrich, we're outsiders. The cruise ships that go by, wanting us to wave and smile, they've got no idea. The cyclists on the bank who want to take photos of us, they just don't get it. The holiday-makers in my campsight, the customs authorities in your port... They really don't understand. You and me, Heinrich, we're not just men of the river, we're human beings with feelings and needs too.

I too would like a bubble bath now and again, Heinrich. I too wish that I knew the German for frapuccino. I'm secretly missing Robyn from 'How I met your mother' as well. I understand that it's a travesty that you can't get baked beans in Germany. I'm missing Alan Hansen's in depth analysis as much as you are, Heinrich.

You and me, Heinrich, we're kindred spirits. So next time you splash me with your waves, blow your foghorn or otherwise cause me to shit myself, I'll know you didn't really mean it, dearest Heinrich.

Yours understandably,

Nathan the Canoeist

Dora's near death experience.

We paddle into Reidenburg after four days without a single decent stop. It's the first town that's on the water, it's been raining for all four days, and we're keen for our coffees. We duly pull up to two mooring bollards each the size of our boat and tie our ropes around them ready to hit the town. The bollards are big enough for mooring a hefty tanker but the area is clear of large boats and there are no signs to say the space is private. We muse at the proportions of our tiny canoe against the enormous mooring space. Then we depart.

Having wandered into the town, we settle down at a bakery that sells hot drinks. I eat cake, Nathan eats a pastry, we have a coffee each and glance over the maps for a while. Pondering the night's camping Nathan departs for the tourist information office as I watch our bags.

Shortly, I hear the sound of a distant fog horn. After this I think I hear the rumbling of a boats propellers as if coming into moor. The rumbling grows louder. Then, from behind me, a car bobbles past on the cobbled street and I realize I've fallen pray to a little paranoia. The wheels of the car were rumbling noisily on the road surface, there were no boats to be heard. I take a sip of my warm coffee and get out my mobile phone.

Messing around with an i-phone app I once again hear what sounds like the distant sound of a fog horn. I worry slightly, stand up and, feeling our belongings are safe enough, I wander down the road a little to where I can view the canoe. My view of the canoe is severely obscured by a throng of people, one hundred or so in number. The people are mainly middle aged, talking amongst themselves and, quite clearly, waiting to board a cruise ship. As I look in shock at the sudden throng of tourists I hear a third fog horn, this time ringing loudly in my ears and echoing around the valley. I run towards the canoe.

Meanwhile Nathan enters a tourist information office and asks a young assistant whether there is camping a few kilometers downstream. Together they flick through a pamphlet and look online to see whether the campsite has wifi. Nathan, finding the answers he needs very quickly, makes awkward conversation. He chats with an old cyclist who passed us during the day. She remarks on her surprise that we can both paddle and talk at the same time. We must be very fit, she says. Nathan smiles, continues talking and picks up another pamphlet or two simply to make the most of his wifi-enquiring, stop in the information office.

As I hurtle down to the quayside parting the masses of people. I push my way to the front and, realizing I still have my phone in my hand, grab the old man next to me. I thrust my phone into his hand and say "hold that" as I vault the fence in front of him. In that short moment I took in the look of total confusion on his face and as I reach the two bollards I'm already grinning. Untying the first of the two ropes I look up furtively to see not one, but two large cruise ships, meters away, drifting towards Dora. I dash to the next bollard, fumble with the knot, untie the orange rope and stand up. I sprint along the concrete bank, tugging the canoe along with me, and run a good hundred meters before I re-tie Dora to a piece of fencing. Now I turn and look back as the first of the two cruisers puts down it gangway for people to board. I'm still grinning from ear to ear like a cheeky boy who has secretly raided the fridge.

Nathan departs the tourist information office with a leaflet he doesn't need and makes his way back to the bakery. On the table sit my wallet and phone case, next to it the bags and paddles. He sits down, finishes his drink and hums to himself as he waits for me to return from the toilet.

By now I'm back in the sea of old people who are boarding the cruise ship. I find the white bearded man in a red raincoat and he hands me my phone, chuckling to himself. I demonstrate the unity between England and Germany with a clever blend of the two languages, "Danke you", and scuttle off away from the quay. As I run up the steps that lead back to the road a man appears on the balcony around the boat's cabin. He yells at me in German and shakes his fist in the air like a cartoon figure. I cannot help but laugh and shout "ya" a few times as I leave for the bakery.

By the time I reach Nathan, reading the bottom of a beer mat, I'm half laughing out loud. "We need to get out of here, mate!" I call out as I jog in and begin to pick up our things. Between laughing and talking I quickly get across to him what happened and he goes inside to pay while I head back to the canoe with bag and paddles.

Before long the canoe is packed and together we watch the second cruise liner being boarded by old folk. I laugh at the look on the mans face as I thrust my phone into his hand and Nathan laughs at the obscure small talk he made while I dashed around the quayside trying to avoid a catastrophe. Dora, of course, survives to fight another day and we note down another top anecdote: Dora's near death experience.

Manly things we do. Because we're men

- Canoe topless whenever the sun is visible, declaring loudly in the morning "sun's out, gun's out!"

- Never shaving. Ever. Because men of the wild grow beards and us two lads can't help but try.

- Eating 'hyperprotein' biscuits, despite the fact they are essentially ginger-nuts in packs of four.

- Assessing the running styles of people on the tow path. Because we're men, we're runners, and we know best. Their running style is always worse than ours.

- Insisting on referring to ourselves as 'on tour'.

- Carrying a football at all times, despite packing only the bare essentials and never having anyone to play football with.

- Draining a pack of beetroot. Weekly. With a penknife.

- Walking past a group of youths without so much as a flinch. It was getting dark.

- Swimming in every river. Making an effort to have swam in every waterway.

- Urinating in every river. Adding a bitter but sterile irony to the previous point.

- Never asking for directions. Well, we're on a river.

- Throwing items, despite being well within casual passing distance of one another.

- Drinking beers whenever the opportunity presents itself. Pints, obviously. Real men also like white wine.

- Regularly foregoing suntan lotion. Men don't have the time to protect against severe melanoma.

- Talking about boobs.

- Maintaining a direct course even when a swan is in our route. With only a slight diversion. Of a few meters. To avoid the swan.

- Wearing shorts and sandals in all weather. Because nothing's more waterproof in the rain than human skin.

- Squeeking a strained, "it's alright, I've got it", when someone offers help with our heavy bags. Because they have no idea and we're the only ones who could possibly manage.

- Drinking cold, strong, black, sugarless coffee. Because in Europe you drink coffee and man has no time for boiling water.

- Open discussions about our last trip to the toilet. Because it's always good to compare.

- Walking on the rocks in bare feet. Like real back-to-nature men.

- Sticking to the four main food groups: carbs, protein, grass and flies.

- Canoeing the continent.

Sprackenzie Deutsche?

We don't all need the German language to make us look stupid. Jimmy, for instance, only remembered that the person he had spent ten minutes writing a lengthy postcard to was actually deceased when he tried to remember their address. I, on the other hand, am finding the German language to be perfect for making me look like a twat.

My standard approach is to perform a half wince mixed with an embarrassed, yet cheeky smile so that I don't catch my target unawares. Then I hit them with my German bazooka.

"Sprakenzie Englische?" I say, with my voice reaching pre-pubescent levels as I reach the ische bit.

Normally this works perfectly and the friendly German does a sort of wobble from the shock of my fluent Deutsch and then replies, "a little bitt..." with the word bit again scaling lofty musical heights.

This morning it didn't work so well. It was 7am and I was using the canoe club showers. The place was deserted and I was trying hard not too look at my tan in the full length mirror. Then the door burst open.

I stood there. Starkers. Brown from the top of my afro to the bottom of my belly , a few tan lines, and then brown all over again. (I tried hard not looking at that tan.) For a fleeting second I presented this beautiful sight as a second and full English breakfast to the cleaning lady. Then she closed the door.

Unfortunately, she also started speaking in very fast and very German German. I immediately replied with my trusted phrase. However, this time the whole phrase was at pre-pubescent echelons and not just the questioning last bit.

All I could make out from her own very high pitched German was the word Klein. And the only rational explanation that came to my mind was that she thought I was Mr Calvin Klein, an underwear model visiting her canoe club.

It turned out she was the cleaner. And the cleaning cupboard was in the male changing room. And so I tried to apply German efficiency to getting changed in front of the cleaner.

Other entanglements with the German language I feel I have smoothed over with customary charm.

We stopped in a small town having seen a museum from the river. The sign said Museum Geoffnet. We went into town and there was a sign that said Cafe Geoffnet and the Tourist Information was also named after this famous Geoffnet geezer.

A couple of days later we were being hosted by a lovely German woman. Having noticed that the milk also said the word Geoffnet next to the lid, I attempted to show some German cultural awareness by explaining how we had visited the town where this famous entrepreneur had been born.

Our host, looking bemused as only a German can, informed me that the word 'geoffnet' meant 'open'. I nodded knowingly.

My most recent error occurred when I tried to simultaneously impress two fellow canoeists with both my linguistic skills and also my canoeing ability.

They had definitely asked a question. I definitely wasn't sure what it was. Improvising, I replied 'Istanbul' with a smug smile that said "Yes, you heard right. Istanbul. I'm that bigger a dog in the canoeing world."

Then they pointed at their wrists where a German normally finds his watch. They also said the word 'time', in English, very slowly.

I told Jimmy just to keep paddling. Hopefully it will catch on: you've got tea time, bed time, Chico time and now Istanbul time.

Don't worry though, in a couple of weeks we'll be finished with Germany and I can try learning some Austrian.

Pepi the paddle.

Born in French Canada, there lived two young twins, Thierry and Pepi. The pair lived and grew with one another and were never seen apart. Though identical in most respects, Pepi grew to be the taller of the pair, something he cherished since he was, in fact, younger by some 37 minutes.

In central Canada the boys were crafted into fine young men and with their slim, slender build they were shown how to work shifting water. Before they were fully adult their strength shone through and they became known through the nation as two of the hardest workers in all the land. Word spread rapidly and, before long, a letter came from overseas, neatly sealed with a Union Jack imprinted upon the wax.

The pair had been summoned by two famous voyageurs, by the names of Wilkins and Warner, who planned to undertake an epic adventure across Europe. Willing to serve these noble masters the twins bordered a ship bound for England.

However, shortly after pledging their services to Master Wilkins and Master Warner, the twins fell pray to great differences. Torn apart from their identical lives, Thierry was finely treated by his master, Master Wilkins, who appreciated the great work his laborer did. He showered Thierry with gifts, dressed him in fine clothes and kept a careful watch, guiding Thierry as he worked. Pepi on the other hand struggled beneath the angry figure of Master Warner. Though he worked as hard as his body would allow he found his master would beat him against the rocks and throw him upon the ground. Rarely addressed by his own name, Pepi grew used to hurtful nicknames and the regular hammerings he would receive.

At night the twins would sleep side by side, just like their masters. Pepi, sad and tired, would sleep solidly from the moment his head touched the earth but Thierry would lay awake miserable at his own contentment. He was content with the life he received and the pleasures he had, but miserable that he could feel this way while his brother suffered. To watch his twin battered upon the rocks caused Thierry such pain that even here the twins, it seems, were identical.

Yet as time drew on and Master Wilkins and Master Warner made progress on their voyage, a shift in atmosphere became apparent. Master Warner became aware of a bond between Wilkins and Thierry that united them in the work they undertook. Looking down upon Pepi, dirty and disheveled, Master Warner felt a surge of pity and remorse as he realized it was entirely his doing. Master Warner would watch as Thierry would whittle away the hours happily whistling or humming beneath his breath, meanwhile, hard at work, Pepi would not utter a word, head bent low with a dark shadow cast across his face. As he reflected Master Warner realized what he had done, the twins, once identical in all but height, looked wildly dissimilar as Pepi showed the scars of his masters abuse. Master Warner felt ashamed.

Then one evening in the city of Würzburg, Master Warner went with Pepi, hand in hand, to the Cathedral of St Kilian and there he knelt down, bowed his head and vowed to change his ways. He vowed to never beat Pepi, to call him by his true name and to take Master Wilkins as an example. He vowed to make Pepi as happy as Master Wilkins made Thierry. And he vowed to reunite the brothers in a spirit of mutual contentment.

But suddenly, with not even a day gone past, Thierry, working hard as usual, split his head open against a rock. Master Wilkins, terrified and shocked, lifted Thierry out of the water and nursed the wound. Master Warner looked on deeply confused. Not a day had passed since his vow in the Cathedral and now this! Was it a bad omen? Was he wrong to aspire to Master Wilkins and his bond with Thierry? Had fate brought about these happenings or sheer bad luck? What would this mean for Pepi? In the turmoil, Master comforted Master just as twin comforted twin.

Thierry now lies awake at night, not in misery, but in numb pain with the split on his head cleaned, bandaged yet throbbing all the same. Master Warner lies awake too, gazing at the stars and pondering what the recent drama means. Was it a sign? How should he treat young Pepi? Should he keep his vow?

Will Thierry survive? Will Pepi find the master he deserves? We'll just have to wait and see...

A fairy tale

This week Dora passed through the town of Lohr which is said to be the original home of Snowwhite...

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, life was good. The young people of the land were fearless and carefree: they played, they danced and they made merry from just before lunchtime until way after sunset.

However, a great curse existed upon the land. This ancient terror afflicted every boy and girl and could not be escaped.

The curse was adulthood. No more play. Less singing and less merry-making. When a girl became a woman, when a boy became a lad, when a student stopped pretending to study... Adulthood and all of its fun-stopping responsibilities began.

Now there were two young pretenders who sought to overcome this great evil. The first, going by the name of Nathaniel, was a gallant leader who had largely and grimly accepted his destiny. However, having set himself to enter the adult metropolis, he desired one last adventure before a mortgage loomed.

The second was Jamesbert. A farmer by trade, he lacked Nathaniel's good looks, intelligence and blog-writing abilities. However he was a courageous soul. Young Jamesbert refused to consider adulthood and swore that he would remain carefree and jobless forever.

So together Nathaniel and Jamesbert did as any hero and sidekick must. They spent their savings on mighty steeds, sharp swords and impenetrable armour. Then, once they'd bought their cheap canoe, wooden paddles and ill-fitting life jackets they set out to find the secret to eternal youth.

Obviously the quest started in western France. They paddled through strange countries and along massive rivers, they had their tent stolen by vagabonds, they passed giant cities and tiny towns, they stared at sunbathing nudists, they camped in dodgy campsites; all in search of a cure that would save every one in the land. At sunrise Nathaniel would run through deserted streets in lycra searching for a shop where protection from adulthood was traded. At sunset Janesbert would ring (sometimes he also wore lycra) a wise maiden for advice on finding the secret.

Days turned to cold nights, weeks turned into months and France turned into Germany but no secret could be found.

And then something happened. It had been a tiresome week on the waves. The sun had hidden, the tankers had threatened and Nathaniel had eaten something funny. On the 61st day the hero and his sidekick took rest in a crowded campsite.

As was by now their custom, as darkness fell our weary heroes followed the lights to a nearby town, hoping to find youth's secret on a Saturday night in rural Germany.

And then it happened. Our lucky paddlers stumbled across a wine festival. The finest produce from the local valleys sparkled in over-flowing goblets as the Barbarian crowds made merry. The remedy had been in front of their tired eyes all along.

Yes children, the cure is wine and beer. The old, the young, the French and the Germans; they had all drank bubbly liquors to restore those rose-tinted nights of yesteryear. There is no secret to defeating adulthood, you've just got to have a tipple every so often.

Seeing the folly in their ways, our young duo nevertheless decided to continue their expedition - at worst they would have a good story to retell over a manly cider and blackcurrent back in their homeland.

And that was that. And they made it. And they always drank responsibly. And they all lived happily ever after. THE END

'Swainus'

We rejoin out two heroes in Germany where they come face to face with a forgotten foe. A foe they once overcame but, alas, the sands of time have shifted and the same enemy reappears with such vigor that it is as though they've never seen such a creature before.

It was a good three months ago now out brave boys first encountered the white beast of the water. In the great state of Royal Leamington Spa the paddling pair embarked on their very first days of training. They're aim was to come to terms with a canoe, a fine craft that would carry them to where they are today, learn its curves, its balance and its glide in preparation for the great expedition they now undertake. Yet on the watercourses of the Great British Isles they found quite another distraction. The pair met Great British swans, the queen's birds, white stallions that puffed their feathers out in anger at the sight of a grotesque canoe splashing towards their territory. The swans would open up their wide wing span and beat the water frightening our two canoeists and sending them into a frenzy. But, as is common with such wildlife, time passed and the boys became accustomed to the creatures learning that the water was a space to be shared. British swans and British boys lived in harmony with little more than a nasty look cast here and there between the two species.

It goes without saying, of course, that the empty watercourses of France were a relief. Even though our strapping lads had overcome the common sight of a white giant on the river, their total absence in the French valleys was pleasing. The Queen's bird had no place in France, they were shunned along with all royalty during the late 1700s, and as they dipped their paddles in the shimmering water the canoeists would whisper 'vive la revolution' in the superstitious hope the good luck would continue. But before long or, indeed, after a great deal of time, the boys found themselves canoeing along the German border and then into the heart of the country through thick forests on dark rivers.

Now our boys in buoyancy aids are back in swan country and the season is ill timed for canoeing. The swans have young signets, a dirty grey colour just as one would remember from the tale of the ugly duckling, and they swim together in families, coasting along the river. The parents remain protective and are not at all pleased by the sight of our boys paddling in their direction. These German swans have a sharp efficiency the British swans lack. They swim straight in the direction of the canoe to make their point clear from the start, 'this is my river'. Unnerved by the intimidating white bulk that surges towards them, out two heroes navigate a wide arch around the creatures. Not scared, of course, the boys are merely risk averse and steer clear of the bird they've heard so much about.

The white ghost of the river Main, a natural battleship on these historic waters. The word 'Swan' derives from the latin 'Swainus', meaning "white cloaked killer". Its neck is twice as strong as it is beautiful, and by gosh is its neck beautiful. It bows its head low then swoops it upward, flexing its muscles and displaying its full size. The German swan is, unfortunately, yet to master the skill of camouflage, attempting to hide in amongst brown ducks half its size. Yet what it lacks in camouflage it makes up for with webbed feet that undoubtedly hide retracted talons ready to wound any enemy that comes within reach. This wild creature that no one dare tame lurks quietly in the night and hisses frantically at our canoeists in the morning.

Our two waterway warriors, filthy and well travelled, sleep an uneasy sleep at night. They know of the rabid stray dogs that wander in Romania, the riverside rats that scurry in Serbia, but here they lie in a true centre of danger. The true life-threat they face on their travels circles silently on the water outside, gleaming white in the August moonlight, Swainus is waiting.

A Bird's Eye View

Up in the clouds a heron is soaring. One flap and her fluent frame glides, creating new shadows. From this airy vantage point the heron watches the chaos that is about to unfold. 

The heron spies a container ship. Even from up on high the ship is imposing: the bright colors of the containers make a chocolate box of metals... but there is nothing to interest the heron. The container ship is careering downstream.  

The heron also sights a cruise liner. The heron finds this giant of the river much more inspiring. Once again it is massive, but this time the colors of the deck present a platter of opulent tourists with their lunches served in German-sized portions. The cruise liner is grinding upstream. 

The heron's eyes would be stolen by these plates of pork and fish but for the small shape that sits between the container ship and the cruise liner. 

Outlined in black is a tiny tear that is pointed at both ends. In the middle of the tear are two blocks of blue. At the back of the tear is a yellow dot and and at the front is a blue dot.  

Intrigued, the heron descends for a closer look. The tear is actually a vessel and the blue dot and yellow dot are the hats of humans. Knowing that humans in small hats are invariably fishing, the heron descends still further.  All the time she remains wary of the two gigantic ships that are encroaching in front and behind.

The two humans appear to have pieces of wood but they are not fishing lines. Although the vessel sits in the middle of the river the yellow hatted human urinates into the water, exactly as the heron would. The two humans speak their funny language and drink form bottles... but there is no sign of any fish.  

Growing bored of these floating humans, the heron flies away. As her feathered wings propel her into the clouds she cranes her neck back for one last look. But this last look does capture the imagination of her tiny eyes with the imagery of a large lunch.  

The container ship hurtles downstream on the right. The cruise liner gropes upstream close to that right channel. On the far right, the tiny tear-shaped-vessel is also now moving.  

As the two giants pass the water becomes angry. The heron sees the white of the waves. The two boats huff and puff and the river replies with her spray. Slowly, the two pass like ships in the day - obvious and yet avoiding confrontation. 

Much more interesting for the heron is the blue dot, the yellow dot and their tear. Up and down; left and right. The tiny tear jumps through each wave and slaps into the next. 

The heron watches this unusual sight in hungry anticipation... lunch could be just about to get a lot more meatier than usual. The tiny vessel bounces and sways, slips and slides rises and falls... but the two dots remain in their perches.  

The heron stays spying on the tiny vessel for a good few minutes after the waves have died down. There are plenty more fish in the sea but only one pair of crazy canoeists.  

Our phrase book for France

Je ne comprends pas le français. - I don't understand French.

Je suis perdu. Comment est-ce qu'on va à Istanbul - I'm lost. How do I get to Istanbul?

Est-ce que c'est loin? - is it far?

Il ya un tarif réduit pour les étudiants? - is there a reduction for students?

Pour les étudiants de philosophie? - for philosophy students?

Il ya un tarif réduit por les chômeurs - is there a reduction for the unemployed?

Où est le bar? - where is the bar?

Le moteur surchauffe (point aux bras). - the engine is overheating (point to arms)

On sert le petit déjeuner à quelle heure? Je mange des cerelais et du lait. - what time is breakfast? I eat cereal and milk.

C'est trip cher - that's too expensive

Pardon, où est le bar encore? - Sorry, where is the bar again?

Pourriez-vous laver nettoyer ceci? - I'd like to get these things washed.

Vous pourriez m'apporter plus de nourriture, s'il vous plait - can you bring more food please.

J'ai besoin d'un interprète. - I need an interpreter.

Je suis allergique à exercice. - I'm allergic to exercise.

Je voudrais louer un moteur. - I want to hire a motor.

Je voudrais louer un moteur grande. - I want to hire a big motor.

Je voudrais louer un bateau à moteur - I want to hire a motor boat.

Je voudrais louer in voiture - I want to hire a car.

Quand est-ce que la voiture sera prête? - when will the car be ready?

Je suis tres tres désolé, où est le bar encore? - I'm very very sorry, where is the bar again?

A Morning Routine in the Wild

0234 Canoeist 1 leaves tent and urinates 3 metres from the tent like a stray dog.

0334 Canoeist 1 leaves tent and urinates 2 metres from the tent like the same dog.

0434 Canoeist 1 leaves tent and urinates 1 metre from the tent with the same stray-like abandon.

Calm then reigns in the canoeing kingdom.

0626 Canoeist 2 sits up and stretches with all the agility of a beached whale.

0626 Canoeist 1 shows signs of alertness commonly associated with meerkats. Dead meerkats.

0629 Canoeist 2 crawls out of the tent and stands up like a baby giraffe taking his first steps.

0630 Canoeist 2 pulls up his running shorts and pulls on a skin tight Nike pro vest. Bulging like a cheetah digesting a recently eaten large meal, Canoeist 2 takes some loo roll in his running shorts.

0631 Canoeist 2 breaks into a trot. Canoeist 2 feels like a strutting stallion. Canoeist 2 looks like a workhorse on the way to the glue factory.

0634 Having warmed up, Canoeist 2 crouches in the bush like a tensed frog.

0636 Canoeist 2 leaves his bush-hiding place. He no longer has his stomach bulge or his toilet tissue.

0637 Canoeist 2 does some pre-run stretches. A German couple out walking watch this strange routine with the wide eyed shock of lemurs.

0640 Canoeist 2 runs around with the hopeless enthusiasm of a Tanzanian devil with his tail on fire.

0704 Canoeist 2 returns to the tent like a guilty wolf cub who doesn't have quite as much stamina as he thought he did.

0705 Canoeist 1 arises from the tent. His sleeping bag is rolled and his clothes are on. Nonetheless, Canoeist 1 moves with the fragility of a one-day-old badger.

0706 The two Canoeists growl greetings in the direction of one another.

0707 Canoeist 1 goes for a shit. To be brutally honest, he looks like a 22 year old graduate who needs a poo and a job.

0707 Canoeist 2 purposefully walks to the river bank. Canoeist 2 is proud to have attempted to swim in every river he has canoed upon.

Canoeist 2 enters the water, slipping on the rocks with the poise of a pregnant elephant. Canoeist 2 washes with the urgency of a drowning rat.

0712 Canoeist 2 returns to the camp. He yaps around Canoeist 1 like an excited puppy. Canoeist 2 prepares 2 mugs of cereal and sits waiting for Canoeist 1 like a slightly less excited and slightly more hungry puppy.

0714 The two Canoeists eat breakfast. There is about as much conversation as between a pair of possums playing dead.

By 0829 the canoe is loaded and the journey can continue. Some human-like attempts at conversation are now audible. While the two Canoeists have come to resemble wild animals, they were never that civilised in the first place.

C'est la vie

Voies Navigables de France are those brave men, women and teenagers who, on behalf of you and me, prevent chaos breaking out on the canal. Working from slightly after 9 to slightly before 5, with a slightly long lunch break in between, they make sure that when the lock does not work for a proper boat it will possibly be working a bit later.  

The reaction of the VNF to your favorite canoeists has been mixed. One helped us put the canoe in the water. One took photos and replaced our warm water with ice cold water from his fridge. One took photos of us and wanted to know about ze old website. Some have let us in the lock tied to a boat or advised us about how to deal with the next lock or bridge. Quite a few have told us no: not in the lock... then been silenced and pacified as we carry our worldly goods around the lock. But there was this one guy who took exception to old Dora and your two tanned tourers.  

Monsieur VNF: La canoé. (Gesturing towards Dozza and then at the empty canal...) Non. 

Moi: Pardon? 

In such a situation we have some tried and tested methods.

The first is that I explain that: "Nous portons the canoé arounnnnd the lock. Nooooo, moi, I never, ever go into the lock. C'est bon."

However to this I was met with the following reaction...

Monsier VNF: Non. Ce n'est pas bon. La canal et la ecluse est la meme. 

Now, to those without the natural gift of being able to speak in broken and incorrect French, while understanding the odd word, you may be thinking that Monsieur VNF was just saying good morning. In fact he was saying No. It is not good. The canal and the ecluse are the same. (If you need anything else translated I can be contacted at canoeingthecontinent@gmail.com)

Unfortunately my captain and the lead explorer, young Jimmy, is still lacking in the high level understanding of the French language which I have come to possess.
So while I had decided to just ignore Monsieur VNF, Jimmy again tried to explain.

Captain Jimmy: Monsieur, je aller arrrrrround ze ecluse. The ecluse. Non. Ecluse dangereux. Ecluse Non.  

I didn't say anything at this point and just let Jimmy continue to flog this dead canal horse. Eventually Captain Jimmy recognised that he and Monsieur VNF were not paddling in the same direction. At this point he attempted a classic canoeing the continent technique. 

Captain Jimmy: "Monsieur, pardon mon francais est tres mal."

Normally, we have learnt that if you say these magic words, tug a forelock and flutter your eye lashes then angry french people talking to adults turn into understanding people speaking in broken English to some very young children. It's a great technique. However, Monsier VNF was too good for any of that.

Monsieur VNF: Oui. Mon anglais est tres mal aussi.  

At this point, even Jimmy was starting to realise that something might just be amiss. So, with one final "C'est bon." from me, and one final "Ce n'est pas bon." from Monsieur VNF we picked up all of the stuff and made as if we were now going to walk to Istanbul. I also took the time to explain to Captain Jimmy what the French was for 'the same' and 'it is good. I walk.'

After about 40m of walking with the canoe and the bags, and until we were around the next corner, we re-entered the canal. We gave the guy 40m of walking, what more could he want? As we re-entered the water, we told each other all of the witty French responses that we would say to Monsieur VNF if he happened to come across us again. I told Captain JImmy how I'm sure canoeing is a basic human right and he told me that Monsieur VNF would have to phyisically drag him from his beloved canal. And that was that. Or so we thought.  

Several locks and several hours later, we had once again unloaded all of the stuff. Now, it was a hot day and this was lock 26, so we were pretty shattered. Seeing the stairs that would need to be descended in order to re-enter the canal, we sat down on the food barrels and had a quick check of the map. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a little white VNF van.

Peeking around the corner, like Brum in stealth mode, Monsieur VNF had taken to enforcing his authority over the canal on his way home. Appearing to notice that his cover was blown, the car returned to a normal speed. We put the map away, and I put on my most bored face, ready to be insolent as Monsieur VNF unleashed his fury on these two foreigners who had so blatantly ignored him.

Only thing was Monsieur VNF seemed to have a few false ideas about the impact of the towering authority of his VNF badge. He actually thought we'd walked the last 10k at his instruction. Motioning, he put his hands over his head and said in French that it must be very hard.

I couldn't believe this, and somehow managed to retain a straight face. In reply I could only muster the famous French words "C'est la vie." 

Now in the intervening few hours Monsieur VNF had made quite a few evolutionary steps. He now had a smile and had even learnt some English. He now told me in English that it must be very hard, that he was very sorry for what he had made us do, and that if we just walked for another 15k or so then we could paddle on the river around the corner.  

I managed to just about keep a straight face. The only words I could get out however were "C'est la vie." To which he smiled in the grandeur of his mighty VNF authority and my apt use of French mannerisms, and I allowed myself a smile before I burst out laughing.   

Suffice to say we then continued canoeing down the canal. Laughing all the way to our camping spot and dinner. And then laughing ourselves to sleep. And then laughing the next morning. And I would love to say that that was the end of it. If you like happy endings you should probably stop reading here while Monsieur VNF has an enhanced view of his own importance and me and Jimmy have an enhanced view of life in general.

However, next morning as the locks were beginning to mount and the sun was beginning to burn we bumped into another VNF van. Now, we had already seen three of the things that morning and two of them had waved and smiled and the other had just watched us quietly. But this was Monsieur VNF's little white VNF van.

It was a tad awkward. I happened to make full use of the canal by steering us into the lock and dragging the canoe out in the most direct fashion. Then Monsieur VNF appeared. He was now in overalls and looking like a beetroot that has spent too long at the bottom of the food barrel. However, impressively he had managed to learn even more English since yesterday. He now told us in English that if he saw us again he would call the police.

We again pretended to walk for 50 or so meters (just to be safe) before canoeing onwards on our continent-crossing mission.

Luckily, at the time we both managed not to laugh and I didn't say 'C'est la vie.' However I can do both now.  

"C'est la vie Monsier VNF."

Bad boys for life. 

Red sky at night

Red sky at night, shepard's delight.

Red sky in the morning, shepard's take warning.

Calm sky at night, all is alright.

Purple sky at night, the slugs are coming for you.

Cloudy sky at night, heavy due is in sight.

Clear sky at night, it's gonna be freezing.

Dark sky at night, it's definitely night.

Starry sky at night, quick pee, then back to bed.

Blurry sky at night, mosquito's going to bite.

Light sky at night, you're too close to town.

Grey sky at night, you're gonna get wet.

Green sky at night, you feeling alright?

Goat

Now this little tale might be alternative, but I tell no lies. Stuff like this happens out here.

We moor up our canoe, right, we tie it up to some fella's boat, and then we wander into town looking for this camping place. It's got three stars in our brochure, right, so it's got to be pretty decent, a little cafe, wifi and all that, maybe somewhere to do my yoga. In fact, once we find the place I see it's got crazy golf. A little spot where you can pay a couple euros and wack a little white ball around. But we're getting closer right, we're coming up to the campsite and I'm thinking I see a goat. I'm looking in at this crazy golf, or whatever it is, and there's some goat there looking back at me. Its real small for a goat like, but its got horns and stuff and I reckon I know a goat when I see one. Now there's a fence around it, obviously, and the goat's on the other-side; but still, it seems pretty weird to me.

I turn back and look along the fence and, sure enough, in big bold writing it says 'CRAZY GOLF'. Again, I stare through the fence and spot the bloody thing. There's a goat! It's definitely there and now it's literally sitting on top of the mini windmill. Now I've heard of crazy golf, but, come on, not with goats just strutting around. You're talking, putt the ball between the goat's legs and through the windmill... That's some crazy, crazy golf.

It's got to be me who's crazy right? What kind of campsite has crazy goats mini golf? It's not exactly been a short days canoeing and I'm not so quick on the old uptake. I'm thinking, this has got to be me being tired right? This is like a weird little delusion or something. I don't say anything to Nathan, course, because I don't want him catching on to me being one plum short of a fruit-cake. I don't want to look the fool here. I've known friends make goat mistakes before... I had a friend once, dyslexic fella, he went to a toga party dressed as a goat. Now he ended up looking like a tool and we all laughed because noone likes a dyslecsic... They just cant spell or punktuate. Can they

Nathan's not copped on that I'm staring through the fence, so I forget about it quick and head towards the camping. I walk up to this little wooden cabin, right, and I go on in to the bit with a desk and all the brochures laid out, and a computer and stuff. But there's no one there. So I pop my hand down on the bell but instead of a BING I just hear one long BAAAAAA. Now that's not right, I'm thinking, that just not right. I go put my hand on the bell and again there's another loud old goat noise. Now I'm thinking I've got to be going crazy. But before I move this woman comes out right, she's a bit dodgy looking; too much make up and curly black hair like a poodle that's gone out in some serious humidity, but she looks at me straight and starts chatting about camping. Now I'm sure I must be going crazy because walking out with her is another freaking goat! A little black billy goat who's sneaking away in the shadows and that, hiding up against the fridge behind where this woman's standing. She doesn't seem to clock it, right, and I realise that I'm not listening to a word she's saying because I've just been looking at this goat. Now she's there, looking at me and waiting for some answer. I look at her. I look back at the goat. I look at her. I look back at the goat. She looks at me. I wonder how long this silence can go on before it gets awkward.

I go to speak and she chuckles. She's chuckling because I'm looking at the goat right? Seems like it to me, so I feel a little safer. Maybe I'm not so crazy. There's literally a goat with her behind the desk, a goat grazing in the mini golf, another siting on the little windmill, and there she is, happy as Larry chatting to me like I shouldn't be surprised. But she laughed and that, so the goat was definitely there.

I get outside, right, and I sigh because in pretty relieved that I wasn't totally crazy. We drop the bags, I grab the tent and I'm chatting away to Nathan. And I'm saying "Did you see there was a goat in that office!? Did you see the goat behind the woman there?" And Nathan's like, "Yeah, I know, I was laughing. It's so weird."

I'm happy, right, because its confirmed for good. I may be tired, but I'm not crazy. Then I'm putting up the tent and that, and I look across at Nathan who's getting dinner out of the bag. And I'm looking right. And out of the bag he's just pulled a tin of beans, sweetcorn and another big tin that says along the side of it 'RABBIT'. Now I'm thinking, am I going crazy?

Bona fide true story.

The Magical Mystery Tour of Careers Advice

"Help me if you can I'm feeling downnn,
Dum, Dum, Dum..."

James is murdering another Beatles classic as the canoe lollops past cows and up the canal. Taking everything in from his perch at the back of the canoe, Nathan interrupts the paddling rhythm,
"Have you ever thought about just being a farmer?" Says Nathan.
"Well yeah. I mean I like being outside and I like the freedom but... I don't know, I'd like to follow my own path."
Thus rebuffed, Nathan returns to paddling, daydreaming and stroking his beard.

Two hours and several locks later...
"He's got a steady job, but he wants to be a paperback writer... A paperback writer... A..."
James is slaughtering another Beatles epic. Noticing the journal lodged in the day bag, Nathan again interjects,
"Have you ever thought about being a journalist?" Says Nathan.
"Well yeah. I mean I like writing and seeing new things but... I don't know, journalism is really hard to get into."
And having been rejected, Nathan returns to paddling, pondering and flexing his biceps.

An hour and two barges later, James is butchering another Beatles stonker as the canoe trundles past yet another office du tourisme.
"Got a good feeling, she's taking the easy way out,
She was a dayyyy tripper..."
Again inspired, Nathan breaches the whining,
"Have you ever thought about working in a tourist office?" Says Nathan.
"Well yeah. I mean I like helping people and knowing somewhere inside out but... I don't know, it just doesn't seem long term for me."
His grand plan once again refused, Nathan returns to paddling, thinking and checking his tan.

Forty five minutes, three tooting lorries and eight cyclists later, James is crucifying another Beatles favourite as the canoe squirms through a picturesque village.
"All you need is love,
De de-de Der..."
Apparently seeing the light, Nathan tries again,
"Have you ever thought about being a house husband?" Says Nathan.
"Well yeah. I mean I like tidying and playing kids' games but... I don't know, I kind of think I'd like to do something else."
Wind taken out of his sales, Nathan returns to paddling, counting and considering dinner.

Another hour swims past and the sun is closing the lock gate of another hot day. The boys are fatigued and James still doesn't have a career. In unison, one final Beatles tune is savaged in the canoe,

"Speaking words of wisdom,
Let it be, let it be."

And they said I should have gone to acting school

In the last blog I spoke of our cheeky scurry through the front garden of a canal-side home. An empty house lay between ourselves and our desired campsite so, after knocking and finding it empty, we grabbed the canoe and dashed through the garden, keeping our heads low to avoid the eyes of the neighbours.

After a restful day we're back to the canal, of course, and we wheel our canoe, bags on backs, down the cobbled road. Returning to the scene of our crime we find the house very much occupied. Windows open and door ajar, letting in the early morning breeze. Tactfully Nathan puts down the canoe and says to me, "I'm going to go look for somewhere to reach the canal." Now I'm no fool and I know what's going on... He's saying, 'wait here and try and get back into that garden.'

It's not long before a woman appears at the window. As if in a movie, she is putting a pie on the window sill to cool. I kid you not, this woman's got an apple pie she's putting on the window sill, and through the waves of steam she spots me. The lonesome young traveller, bag on back, leaning against her wall to rest. I look at her with that trade-mark, heart melting smile and whisper a soft "bonjour". Her heart melts and she replies.

It's now or never. Almost a month in France and I'm pretty much fluent. "il y a access por la canal ici?" I ask, waving my hands around the general vicinity. Her reply is a tumble of French words but not one of then is "jardin". I apologise for my poor French and continue to try and get my point across. Suddenly I realise. Hidden below the wall on which I lean is the canoe, she can't even see it. "J'ai un canoeway!" I proclaim, lifting one end high for her to see. The dilemma is laid out for her in full: a young man, blistered from his travels, trying to get his only means of transport onto its vital source, the canal.

She speaks again, more French words that slip past my apparent fluency. I keep talking, i know what i'm looking for and i know i will get there. Again I say "canoeway" and look forlorn before I hear that special noun. Hidden in amongst a sentence I hear "jardin" and jump at the word. "Vous jardin! C'est possible?" I cry, the mere idea that her garden might provide access to the water had never occurred to me. I looked shocked and confused. Her garden links up to the canal! Surely not. "Oui" she replies and I wave to Nathan already returning. His reaction is not dissimilar. He looks at her, he looks at me, and he raises his eyebrows so high they are in danger of leaving his face. Arms in the air, he looks as happy as if he's won the lottery... he didn't even know the house had a garden!

Our early morning friend comes out and opens the gate pointing down the cobbled steps we know from a day previously to the end of the front lawn. We thank her several times, hold the canoe above our heads and march through the garden. In a purple dressing gown, she wanders in front guiding the way.

Perching the canoe on the wall Nathan begins a stride to the far corner of the lawn where he knows the gate lies. It is only two paces before he realises his error. Shaking his head, looking around, he grins and leaps over the wall. I quickly follow suit. Down by the canal we man handle the canoe as the woman calls out to us, pointing at the gate. With a look of total shock Nathan turns to me. "Jimmy there's a gate!" We laugh together. We jumped over the wall when there was a bloody gate! How crazy we are, my gosh, if only we'd known it was there.

Seconds later our friend has opened up the gate and we're back through the garden to collect our remaining gear, chatting to her as we go and commending her on the decision to install a gate. Perhaps we overdid it a bit, but we made it clear, we had never EVER seen that gate.

With a final flourish of our acting skills we make our way through the garden for the last time. I get slightly lost, turning the wrong way on the stepping stone path I know like the back of my hand, Nathan laughs with the woman about jumping over the wall when there was a gate. He's so crazy, jumping around the garden like that when the gate was just there. Like a crazy spring. Like a crazy jack-in-the-box. Just crazy.

Back by the bank, we load the canoe and climb aboard. From her house, our friend leans out the window and waves to us. "Bon voyage!" she calls as we start to paddle. How funny she thinks, a canoe going through my garden! Who'd have thought it.

Meanwhile, next door, her neighbour leaves his home. 'I must tell my friend about the strange men going through her garden with a canoe the other day', he thinks, 'She'd never believe it.'

Girls Aloud

Dear readers,

I think I've got this alternative blog Down to a tee. If it's a big poetic build-up about a gross act... Then it was the one who doesn't wash a lot. If it's lots of talk about tans and moustaches... Then it's the one who farts a lot. Either way, it's time this alternative blog received a woman's touch.

Now just because everyday two men ride me doesn't make me any less of a lady. Even if my relationship with the boys has been through some rocky stretches, I'm still the only woman either of them will feel for a long time. I may be a whole lot dirtier than when we started, but I retain my femininity.

Recently I've had quite a few more gals to gossip with. We see each other at the locks and sometimes under bridges. Now these ladies are much more sophisticated than those old women on the Loire who had fish breath... But these motormouths don't know when to slow down. It's so hard to follow the conversation when you're being buffeted by waves of gossip.

However, as much as I complain, meeting with my girls definitely beats hearing,

"Is this the way to Amorello? Bm Bm."

...being sung 12 times a day. I know in a few months I'll have been around the block a few times, but I do hope I can find someone else's bottom to caress.

Faithfully and lovingly,

Dora

Benny the Bead

The sun is out and shining bright and the air is heating up. The canoe picks up pace on the shining water as James and Nathan work hard in the humid weather. High up in his abode Benny sticks his head out to have a look around. The angle before him is steep, a smooth forehead laid bare and barren waiting for the first voyageur to take on the noble quest. It is only early morning but the paddlers are already moving and Benny knows the time is right. Pumped up and ready, Benny leaves his hill-top residence and starts a slow role out into the open.

The space is dangerous. Benny's quest is the nose, a ridge before him that rises out in a point, the perfect place to linger. But his target is not close yet and the route is not an easy one. Slow and steady will win the race, a gentle roll towards the resting place so as not to alarm anyone. The last thing Benny wants is the wandering hand of a human, smudging across the forehead towards him. No, he must lay low, take it easy and work his way there slowly. Easy does it, Benny thinks to himself, easy does it.

Across to the east, however, there is a problem. In Benny's peripheral vision he spies another wanderer. Benny's not the only one to realise it is time for a quest and the gauntlet has been thrown down. Benny tries not to look across, he wants to pretend he hasn't seen his competitor, but it is already too late. The race is on and Benny's mind is in a state. There's an optimum to be found and he knows it. Too fast and a flat palm will be swiping in his direction, too slow and he won't get there first. His one goal, his perfect destination, the brown tip of the nose, is calling but he mustn't rush, he mustn't.

He chances a glance across. Rolling in a smooth and steady motion is Billy. Billy is fat, dirty and heading in precisely the same direction. He's gradually picking up pace, heading down the forehead to pass Benny and take the glory. Benny pushes on, there is nothing more he can do and he begins to hit the ridge.

A moment passes before Benny hears a cry and turns round to see his nemesis battling the curves of the human face. Billy is struggling, he has made it through the dark forest, Eyebrow, but beyond there is a steep slope away from the nose. Billy is turning, tumbling and falling sideways towards a glassy eye. He claws and grabs at the air but slides down and down. Benny observes, as with a final yelp, Billy grasps at the last millimetres of skin before disappearing into the eye. Then, silence.

Benny, now perched precariously on the ridge of the nose, has his heart in his mouth. He has seen peril first hand and is overcome by a strange sadness. Though an enemy, Billy was really nothing more than another bead in the great race to become champion. He was no different from Benny himself and had only the same dream and the same goal. The nose is now there for the taking but the victory seems hollow and cold. With no one close behind Benny can take a moment to settle down. He knew the risks when he set out and Billy did too, it had been the way for beads before and will be the way for beads thereafter. With that in mind, Benny rolls on.

Soon he is there. The Everest, the peak, the tip-top position protruding from the face. Benny stands tall on the tip of the nose and looks out on the world with pride. The victor of the day, he can proudly say he was the first. All he has set out to achieve has been fulfilled and with a final wave to the world he tucks himself into a ball and dives, dives deep into the abyss to be lost in the beyond. With the faintest of plops he disappears into the canal and is gone.

High up in their hairy hilltop home, Belinda, Betty, Bert, Bianca, Barry, Ben, Beth, Boris, Bridget, Bernard, Beatrice, Brenda and Bella look on and think, my god, someone should write a story about this!