A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square
What happened to the Wave? It was no-show from the Doc on Saturday; he cited “things to do man”. I went to the Flowing Well with Special anyway. The band was excellent; a jazz line up of drums, guitar, and double bass, fronted by a superb tenor sax. They went through some old standards, putting their own touches to them. Once again, I can’t remember their name but they were musicians I would definitely go to see again. That all seems like weeks ago.
Where did all that rain come from? One minute we were grooving away to an Indian summer, the next minute its monsoon time! I did eventually move my boat, and fortunately the weather was good that Thursday. SB, who is recovering nicely and amazingly quickly from his motorcycle accident, crewed for me. It was great to spend a bit of quality time with him; it had been too long. He was limping a bit but no longer had a stick. I tried to stop him opening all the locks we had to go through but he was stubborn and insisted that it was good for him to get the exercise. He did allow me to open a lift bridge or two, just to pay lip service to my advice. There was little traffic on the cut; in fact I think we only passed one other boat. I had a pack of German larger left over from the trip to Lechlade with Special, and SB busied himself with popping the tops off as required. We didn’t overdo it; it isn’t too clever being drunk on a 25 ton boat and heading towards a swelling river.
The rain held off and the sun sometimes shone. It was still warm enough to be wearing only T shirts (well, jeans as well, you know what I mean). It took us about three hours to reach Dukes Cut, the cut through to the glorious river Thames. It is such an amazing feeling leaving the confines of the cut and seeing/feeling that big river open up around you. It was my second time there this year but it never fails to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my spine tingle with excitement, like when you hear good music. The wind had picked up and the river was noticeably cooler than the on the canal so we donned our fleeces and SB popped another couple of bottles. The majestic river stretching out its meandering path before us; the river that has inspired painters, sculptors, writers, musicians, photographers, poets; The Old Father Time river that has irrigated and bought life to fields, trees, animals, villages, towns and cities for centuries. The big clear river that has lured millions of fishermen, old and young, to sit on its banks hunting Rudd, Roach, Barbel, Carp, Perch and the hunter Pike.
I don’t really go fishing myself, but I did hook a 14 pound Pike in the Wallingford stretch of the Thames last summer. I was with a friend on my boat and I used his small telescopic rod with a cheap spinner. Luck? Skill? I dunno but it fed ten people and tasted very nice. Pure white flesh, fresh as you can get it. I have a bit of a problem with fishing for sport, well harming any animals for that matter, but fishing for food is different. I love eating fish and fresh fish is the best.
It started to rain just before we got to Eynsham Lock. We moored on the 24 hour moorings below the lock and called it a day. The lock keeper there is friend of mine so I stopped off to say hello and let him know I was around, gave SB a lift home, then went to Sainsburys on the ring road to meet Special and do some shopping for the weekend. A trolley load of fruit, veg, meat and wine later we were back at Specials, drinking a glass of red. A slide blues band were playing at the Flowing Well and we went up to watch them. It was a disappointment. You don’t need to live the blues to play the blues, but you do need to be able to play the blues to play the blues! We didn’t stay for long and I was soon tucked up sleeping the best sleep I had experienced for days. Restless, that’s the only way I can describe the previous few nights sleep. I don’t know what they were but I had things on my mind, things that were bothering me. I know the boat was in there somewhere but I am not sure what all the other concerns were. I had been tossing and turning, getting up, waking up talking random nonsense, all sorts. And the dream soup was thick those nights: sinking boats; strange lands; lost and fearful; sad and tear full. But the Friday night after the lacklustre blues band, I slept like a baby. Only one sweet dream entered my rest. A German lake surrounded by pine trees, me walking the shore of the lake playing tenor sax, being followed by a, strange but unthreatening, person, sex unknown. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square; note perfect I was!
Saturday I did my lunchtime shift at the moon with nothing noticeable occurring except for more heavy rain. Rain and the point in time when I stopped smoking for good! Saturday night we stayed in; too much rain and Specials daughter and her boyfriend were coming the next day for Sunday lunch. We had gone to London last Sunday, the night after the Wave didn’t show, to have a birthday meal with Special’s other daughter. The Blue Elephant in Fulham Broadway had been booked, and a lovely Thai meal we had there. That also seems like a long time ago.
The now is: boat moved, a few good nights sleep under my dome, fridge empty, and lots to do. Maybe it was all those ‘things to do’ that were worrying me.
That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear,
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkley Square.
The moon that lingered over London town,
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love,
The whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
How strange it was, how sweet and strange
There was never a dream to compare
With that hazy, crazy, night we met
When a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
This heart of mine beat loud and fast
Like a merry-go-round in a fair
For we were dancing cheek to cheek
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous
I still remember how you smiled and said
Was that a dream or was it true?
Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing feet of Astaire
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
Where did all that rain come from? One minute we were grooving away to an Indian summer, the next minute its monsoon time! I did eventually move my boat, and fortunately the weather was good that Thursday. SB, who is recovering nicely and amazingly quickly from his motorcycle accident, crewed for me. It was great to spend a bit of quality time with him; it had been too long. He was limping a bit but no longer had a stick. I tried to stop him opening all the locks we had to go through but he was stubborn and insisted that it was good for him to get the exercise. He did allow me to open a lift bridge or two, just to pay lip service to my advice. There was little traffic on the cut; in fact I think we only passed one other boat. I had a pack of German larger left over from the trip to Lechlade with Special, and SB busied himself with popping the tops off as required. We didn’t overdo it; it isn’t too clever being drunk on a 25 ton boat and heading towards a swelling river.
The rain held off and the sun sometimes shone. It was still warm enough to be wearing only T shirts (well, jeans as well, you know what I mean). It took us about three hours to reach Dukes Cut, the cut through to the glorious river Thames. It is such an amazing feeling leaving the confines of the cut and seeing/feeling that big river open up around you. It was my second time there this year but it never fails to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my spine tingle with excitement, like when you hear good music. The wind had picked up and the river was noticeably cooler than the on the canal so we donned our fleeces and SB popped another couple of bottles. The majestic river stretching out its meandering path before us; the river that has inspired painters, sculptors, writers, musicians, photographers, poets; The Old Father Time river that has irrigated and bought life to fields, trees, animals, villages, towns and cities for centuries. The big clear river that has lured millions of fishermen, old and young, to sit on its banks hunting Rudd, Roach, Barbel, Carp, Perch and the hunter Pike.
I don’t really go fishing myself, but I did hook a 14 pound Pike in the Wallingford stretch of the Thames last summer. I was with a friend on my boat and I used his small telescopic rod with a cheap spinner. Luck? Skill? I dunno but it fed ten people and tasted very nice. Pure white flesh, fresh as you can get it. I have a bit of a problem with fishing for sport, well harming any animals for that matter, but fishing for food is different. I love eating fish and fresh fish is the best.
It started to rain just before we got to Eynsham Lock. We moored on the 24 hour moorings below the lock and called it a day. The lock keeper there is friend of mine so I stopped off to say hello and let him know I was around, gave SB a lift home, then went to Sainsburys on the ring road to meet Special and do some shopping for the weekend. A trolley load of fruit, veg, meat and wine later we were back at Specials, drinking a glass of red. A slide blues band were playing at the Flowing Well and we went up to watch them. It was a disappointment. You don’t need to live the blues to play the blues, but you do need to be able to play the blues to play the blues! We didn’t stay for long and I was soon tucked up sleeping the best sleep I had experienced for days. Restless, that’s the only way I can describe the previous few nights sleep. I don’t know what they were but I had things on my mind, things that were bothering me. I know the boat was in there somewhere but I am not sure what all the other concerns were. I had been tossing and turning, getting up, waking up talking random nonsense, all sorts. And the dream soup was thick those nights: sinking boats; strange lands; lost and fearful; sad and tear full. But the Friday night after the lacklustre blues band, I slept like a baby. Only one sweet dream entered my rest. A German lake surrounded by pine trees, me walking the shore of the lake playing tenor sax, being followed by a, strange but unthreatening, person, sex unknown. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square; note perfect I was!
Saturday I did my lunchtime shift at the moon with nothing noticeable occurring except for more heavy rain. Rain and the point in time when I stopped smoking for good! Saturday night we stayed in; too much rain and Specials daughter and her boyfriend were coming the next day for Sunday lunch. We had gone to London last Sunday, the night after the Wave didn’t show, to have a birthday meal with Special’s other daughter. The Blue Elephant in Fulham Broadway had been booked, and a lovely Thai meal we had there. That also seems like a long time ago.
The now is: boat moved, a few good nights sleep under my dome, fridge empty, and lots to do. Maybe it was all those ‘things to do’ that were worrying me.
That certain night, the night we met
There was magic abroad in the air
There were angels dining at the Ritz
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
I may be right, I may be wrong,
But I'm perfectly willing to swear,
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkley Square.
The moon that lingered over London town,
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love,
The whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair.
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
How strange it was, how sweet and strange
There was never a dream to compare
With that hazy, crazy, night we met
When a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
This heart of mine beat loud and fast
Like a merry-go-round in a fair
For we were dancing cheek to cheek
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
When dawn came stealing up all gold and blue
To interrupt our rendezvous
I still remember how you smiled and said
Was that a dream or was it true?
Our homeward step was just as light
As the dancing feet of Astaire
And like an echo far away
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
[Composer: Sherwin, Manning - Lyrics: Eric Maschwitz]
posted by Outcast Poet | 12:13 pm
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