the storms last winter, we were used to picking up one or two trunks a week for the fire. But for the last seven months nothing.
I don't know if the lack of driftwood is because of the new bypass being built from junction 34 of the M6, which is cutting into land either side of the Lune, and must have felled tens perhaps hundreds of trees, which would have naturally found their way downstream. Or if the works are collecting trees coming down stream as part of a health and safety element. Although I can't think all of the wood previously arriving here came from inland. Some of it was so stripped and smooth it looked as though it had been at sea for some time.
Whatever the reason, we'd been getting none of it. And this morning, walking back home carrying the front of this piece of wood on my shoulder, the weight, the nubbing of bark, the wet frondy seaweed and our slow, syncopated steps added to my sense of carrying a dug out canoe, a viking burial ship, being part of a procession, marking the end, the beginning, the turn of events. Yes, we were collecting our winter fuel three weeks after the longest day.