Along the canal path the evening was just turning to a darker, bluish grey dusk – not quite night, and luminous under a pearly-grey cloud cover. The street lights were on already, though not yet strictly necessary. As you walk beyond the centre of town, you come to a part of the canal where there are no more street lights. From the distance I could hear music with a heavy beat – a bit like the sound that comes from the karaoke pub, only louder and more distinctive. I was moving towards the sound, and it was getting gradually louder. There were strange unearthly echoing aspects to it, something like a vibraphone or a theramin. Brief shaking glissandos as if from a musical saw mixed with streaks of thumping white noise. Blending across all that was a kind of masculine hubbub – if three or four voices can be called a hubbub – of shouting and singing.
A surreal sight was moving erratically toward me: two very bright lights beamed out, dazzling, and a third even stronger flailed around, hand-held and flashing yellow light and huge shadows onto the grey bricks in the curve underneath the bridge. What was behind the lights was dark and indecipherable – intense and wayward, at first almost sinister. As we closed, more lights were visible – the canal boat had a brightly lit interior, glowing out like a stage set, unselfconscious and with no attempt to draw curtains or make the interior private. It was, I suppose, the most un-private human habitation I have ever seen. Indeed, the interior looked quite bare – as if scarcely inhabited at all. A hired boat obviously, with a negligently drunken crew moving forward at dead slow. A stocky dark figure at the front reeled slightly and raised a can in a kind of greeting. I tried out feeling censorious: no good. The moving lights, the voices and the music made it seem full of vigour and oddly joyous.
I had reached my turning point, the dogs bounced forward towards home and supper. A canal boat usually travels at about four knots: a walking pace, which can become a bit embarrassing. Perhaps these revellers were being cautious – sober enough to know that they were drunk – and moving at about two knots, so we outpaced them easily. In this week’s local paper there is a report about a drowning in the canal: I wondered whether perhaps this was a wake. If so, it was a good one.
Behind me, a ragged shouting cheer rose from the Lords of Misrule, who had run their boat sideways into the next bridge.
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