Indian summers in the UK

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England is a strangely backward place, where people say ''Nice Day'' even if it is raining.

The English invented the rules for every major sport, yet rarely win any international awards - football, tennis, even cricket.
We despise foreign places even though we had an empire that circled the globe - today, the most popular dish is an Indian invention of Chicken Tikka Masala.
The English never say what they mean, preferring to say the opposite as a joke and hope you will understand - they will be overpolite to people they dont like and rude to the people they love.

Even the weather can't make up its mind here.
Summers are notoriously damp and cold, the winters rarely shudder with snow or storms. And so somewhere in between these wet summers and warm winters lies a curious English invention...

Once the wet and tedious English summer has blown away and days become shorter, the children have gone back to school and after all the chilly British folk dig out their warm winter clothes, September plays a little trick and often provides a last little rebate of sun.
British people jump with glee on the arrival of an Indian Summer, and charge to the beaches and the countryside.

An Indian Summer is pay-off for a dreadful summer and most Brits will tell you how Indian Summers are often warmer and more pleasant - none of that burning sun and balmy late nights with mozzies and rowdy barbies. Indian Summers are a sedate affair to be enjoyed in an moderate English way, like a nice cup of tea and a scone.

Indian Summers are never guarenteed but 7 of us were lucky this year to have booked ahead for a weekend mucking about on the River Wye in an assortment of kayaks and canoes.
The Wye slooped us along at walking speed past flashing kingfishers and hovering kestrels and the only effort we put in was to keep the boats pointing downstream.
Easily we drifted downstream past lazing anglers and grazing cows, all enjoying the gentle warmth of 2009s wonderful indian summer.

Saturday evening we pulled up to a quiet campsite in an orchard. Tents were dotted amongst the apple trees and the sun was setting back over the Wye.
As we pulled our tents up and wondered, like all sailors on land, about food, beer and women, more and more canoes rolled up to the river banks and teams of professional looking canoeists and organised families unloaded.
What was once a remote, empty campsite had become a busy port, and crews of people tut-tutted as they carried their packs past our tents - we had camped ourselves too close to the disembarkment area and there was a sense of annoyance brewing from the tired boats people.

But England being a backward place, no-one said anything.
Just an occasional tut-tut, a huff and a puff and then finally a man with grey hair, scout leaders shorts and chunky socks pulled up to his knees walked past our group and muttered
''Plenty of space.''
He never looked any of us in the eye and just tutted away, but in England, this was the same as squaring up and shouting at us in the face.
The professional waterpeople had us marked. We were just city boys mucking about on the river. They spied our messy tents, hired canoes and empty bottles of beer and they sniffed as they unloaded their hand-made, wooden-ribbed crafts with their traditional oars and cool bags full of food.

The next morning we decamped and cast off as quickly as the meandering stream took us. The clouds were clearing and a teasing sun was promising a warm afternoon ahead.
An hour later, as we drifted through willow boughs, legs dangling over the sides, hungover heads soaking up the rare sun rays and cracked open a bottle of wine to share, a splashing appeared behind our fibreglass rental boats.
The scout leader and his scout-wife were ploughing toward us, kneeling upright in their spotlessly clean dark green canoe. With them came the rest of the pro-boaters - a family in bright shiney waterproofs, a single lady paddling with one traditional oar and an old couple who looked like regulars on the water.
The flotilla powered down upon us.

'Where you lot heading?' came the question
'Hereford' we replied although it was a pointless question as the river only flowed in one direction.
'You best get a move on, it gets dark at six-thirty' the single lady barked at us.

And on they paddled, all thrusting their oars into the water and heaving down the valley.
We floated on, wondering how on earth we could have upset these older folk. Us? Really?
How come the young, quiet, lazy men, slowly floating downstream, trying to spot wildlife and absorb the peacefulness of the countryside had somehow annoyed the anxious, competitive greyhaired boatspeople as they charged their expensive competition rigs through the water.
The tiny waves of indignance lapped against our boats. The Scout master and his crew, still huffing and puffing, rounded a meander and the sultry calm of the Indian Summer enveloped us troublemakers once again.

England is a strangely backward place.

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Comments

[barnaby davies]

Very enjoyable
You've hit the nail on the head. We're a funny lot..

[thecrashpacker]

odd
and strange sometimes