Fear No More the Heat of the Sun

Fear No More the Heat of the Sun (Cymbeline Act IV sc2)

Living on a boat, as we do, you become rather more aware of the weather than your average house-dweller. They check an app and think “Showers. I’ll wear my cagoule.” We, meanwhile, live it. We hear it. We occasionally have to mop it up with an old towel and a resigned expression. In winter, we go full cosy. There’s the reliable hum of central heating, the cheer of a decent wood-burner, and the comforting percussion of rain on a cambered roof. It’s like living inside one of those nostalgic Channel 5 Christmas films—only without the snow budget or the Canadian actors pretending to be British. There’s a smugness in being warm when the world outside looks like a scene from Chernobyl: The Musical. But come spring, we begin to crave the change. A proper sunny day—deck doors open, light pouring in, shirtsleeves and sunglasses at 6pm—feels like reward for good behaviour. Recently, we’ve had a string of such days. The kind of late spring evenings where we leave the roof of the main cabin open until ten o’clock and pretend we’re on holiday. It’s got that air of wandering the promenade in Majorca with a slightly-too-loud shirt and a glass of something that fizzes. Although we tend to leave the loud shirts to others. We’re more Linen by M&S than Ibiza by ASOS. Our bedroom’s at the prow, with two double doors that open onto a small forward deck. Once the weather settles, we bring out a couple of armchairs and sit there with coffee and the morning paper, watching the wildlife conduct its unending soap opera. Egyptian geese, honking like Brexiters in a travel queue. Canadian geese, large and judgmental. Swans, haughty and smug. It’s like a floating episode of Gogglebox, but with more feathers and less agreement. And that’s just on the water. On the shores of the marina, we have our own species to observe. Jogger joggeritus: the ambitious city boys whose shorts are shorter than their attention spans. It’s not really about fitness; it’s about letting the world know they could do a marathon if they weren’t so busy disrupting a sector. There are couples taking the air, usually deep in discussion about whether Helen’s wedding is going to be awkward now that Sam’s back from Berlin and claiming to be polyamorous. Then there are the anglers—men of quiet determination who think there’s something noble in hauling carp from the murky waters of the marina. I’m not sure what you’d do with anything caught here, other than give it counselling and release it with a warning. They bob about, lines cast, dreaming perhaps of trout streams and bucolic scenes, while surrounded by Limebikes and the occasional Tesco bag floating past like a jellyfish on a city break. And cyclists. Ah, the cyclists. The towpath is, in their minds, clearly a designated Olympic sprint course. There’s a cheery ring of the bell that arrives roughly a second before they do, and then a blur of neon Lycra and aggressive calf muscles. Courteous? Not especially. But persistent. Like cold calls or verrucas. Yet despite the hustle, a sunny day on the boat is a quiet sort of joy. A real, rooted contentment. Especially when work takes me elsewhere. This week, I had one day’s filming on a project. It was a special location—a one-day shoot outdoors. Of course, it rained. Not a moody drizzle. Not a poetic mist. A full-blown soak-your-socks monsoon. Props ran off and returned with fifty umbrellas. We got one scene done under a canopy of Gore-Tex and desperation. Then we had to move to a flat roof for the main scene. No cover. No hope. Make-up and hair were marvellous—running in between takes like emergency responders, blotting, puffing, drying, re-blotting. By the time we wrapped, I’d been touched up more times than a barmaid in a 1970s sitcom. But it will look terrific. Rain gives grit. It adds a sort of desperate romance to things. We filmed Anne Boleyn’s execution in Wolf Hall in driving rain. At the time it seemed mad. But Peter Kosminsky, the brilliant director, knew what he was doing. The result is bleak, brutal, unforgettable. Sunshine would have ruined it. Made it feel like a picnic with poor planning. So yes, there are days when the sun has got his hat on and we all get to sing along. And then there are days when the rain comes down in stair rods, and we’re reminded that drama needs shadows too. Not when I’m rushing to Tesco without a brolly, mind you—but when I’m back inside, kettle on, the rain hammering above, and I’m in a dry jumper with a roof that mostly holds. And I have someone to share it with. That’s the real joy. A home that rocks gently in the breeze, a partner who knows when to pass the biscuits, and a life that—while rarely normal—is rich in its own peculiar rhythms. The world outside is doing what it does—going quietly mad. But inside this boat, with the rain on the roof or the sun on the deck, I find something rare: peace. As the Japanese say (and let’s face it, they tend to be right about these things), it’s not about waiting for the sunshine. It’s about learning how to dance in the rain. Or at least, to sit in it with a good coat and a cup of Yorkshire Tea. ⸻