A riverside cox
We inadvertently watched a rowing race on the Dee, but none of the coxes could compete with the riverside's loudest caller.
I've been wiped out by a doozy of a respiratory infection for the last couple of months. I'm feeling better now, and I've been out for a few breaths of fresh spring air.
A highlight was a walk around the Meadows where we inadvertently caught the North of England Head of the River. The event, organised by the Royal Chester Rowing Club, is a 5km race down the River Dee from Eccleston Ferry to Dee Lane. There was a lot of patient shuffling by the crowd on the riverbank before we saw any rowers. Caper thoroughly enjoyed being fussed by those we passed, presuming everyone was there to see her. I was intrigued by the various techniques of the coxes; they employed everything from aspirational affirmations to rasping malevolence. If there's a sideline in sports betting for this psychological coaching, I know which method I'd be putting my money on for positive results. None of them could compete with the loudest caller on the riverside however, and this one didn't even need a megaphone. Walking along the track, we were startled and amused by a small brown bird, head height amongst the fresh hawthorn buds. Beak wide open, the wren belted out a tune far louder than anyone would expect. Even my two small boys couldn't match it for volume, though of course they tried.
