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Once upon a time, in a small village in the Shires, there
lived a Bobbit called Sam. Sam lived on a boat in a small mooring in the east
of the Shire where the land was flat and the mists rolled in from the sea, and
where the wind, rain and coastal fog could whistle in without a moments notice
and completely obliterate the horizon, and indeed could quickly hide the
nearest tree should it make up its mind to do so.
Generally the Bobbits were a home loving people who rarely
went through locks or journeyed great distances, who preferred to stay at home
and polish and clean their boats. They were a people who had no desire to
travel beyond the places that they knew and where they felt safe. Sam felt
differently, so he pretty much kept himself to himself. He was a very private
Bobbit and yet many of his friends were very sociable who loved organising
events and going to festivals and parties. It was a dilemma that stemmed from
his father.
Some years before, his father, with three friends Tom and
Bob and Peter, had earned themselves the reputation of being adventurers by
providing the organisation necessary to drain the wastes of the Middle Levels
in order to provide much needed waterspace and places to live and play for all
the Bobbit folk. They had earned great wealth and reputation by travelling to
far off lands and bringing back tales of castles and roses, of dragon boats and
cheery lengthsmen, of Dutch barges, of horse boats and nomadic trail boat folk,
of ancient working boats and white plastic cruisers that plied their trade on
rivers and canals beyond the great divide. They told tales of fair elven blue
shirts and mysterious red shirted wrgies who restored waterways and canals
seemingly just for fun using their own special brand of magic and holiday
entitlement. They told tales of EU gold and lottery money won with the help of
form-filling software wizards who had the patience of saints and who were
capable of dotting every "i" and crossing every "t" in the pursuit of obtaining
elusive funding.
But they also told tales of numerous navigation trolls who
charged vast and varying amounts for entering their waters or passing under
their bridges. They told of "red" diesel taxation forced from beyond the Great
Sea, and of funding cuts caused by "the Ministry department that cannot be
named". They told of bindweed and giant hogweed and of SSSi's. They told of
rain and storm and collapsed railway bridges and tunnel embankments. They told
of moorings auctioned to the highest bidder and of the giant membership spider
that pounced immediately that anyone entered the doors of the Association
marquee. And they told of the Dark Lord of the Ministry that changed its
servants like a hydra as each crisis passed only to resurrect itself on each
occasion in a new and terrifying guise as if its soul each time was maintained
in a horcrux. "The right ghoul for the right job", it seemed.
The group of friends had however survived these tribulations
and returned home as richly experienced men, determined to improve the lives
and the environment of their fellow Bobbits. Sam was particularly fascinated by
their stories of the fabulous rings that remained to be restored by the forging
of seven vital links, and whilst he remained cautious on the dangers of the
deathly shallows that could be found on any waterway, he was quietly confident
that he could find a way forward. If only he could find the way to continue his
Father's quest by restoring the Bedford link, he mused. To link the Great Ouse
with Milton Keynes would open up such a fabulous cruising ring and breath new
life into the Middle Levels. It could help with the promotion of the three
cathedrals link, and who knows what it may do for Salters Lode, and Denver
Sluice, and even Welches Dam?
Perhaps, he thought, we should organise a Festival in St
Ives?
Originally written
for FeStIves, the newsletter of the 2007 IWA National Festival |
