and so is the wreck, part-raised from the sludge of the Thames by Fiddler’s Stream. I bike by here on my way to the Botley shops, watch for newcomer student joggers lost on the narrow paths and just-woken canal boaters fumbling for firewood and fodder on the bank. The wreck makes this stretch feel creepy and lonesome, with no wind in the trees, birdsong or traffic noise to cut the spell. Time is stuck around the dead hull, the waters don’t look to move. I pedal hard for the bridge over Castle Mill Stream, keep in motion, let it flash by.
