The Outward Leg

Next morning the crew rose early and grumpily.   It was still dark with the feintest hint of a dawn along the eastern horizon.   Emerging sleepily on deck Potkin listened for the sound of birds breaking wind, but heard nothing.

Ebenhaezer Coleye had cooked up  a satisfyingly filling Full English for the crew, to be followed by toast and preserves whilst for Potkin he had prepared pan fried Portuguese sardines topped with a Kean's Farm vintage cheddar cheese melt, lightly browned under the grill.   The moment breakfast was over and still holding steaming mugs of tea, the crew turned to on deck and Moses Smith descended into the engine room with a blow torch.   After roughly twenty seven minutes of pumping and hammering, some coaxing and cursing in his native tongue and, eventually a wheezy mechanical cough, there came the easy, hollow donk donk donk of a gently idling single cylinder marine Bolinder diesel which made the stern bounce and blew smoke rings from a nine inch diameter exhaust pipe in the mizzen rigging. Potkin tried to keep out of the way as everyone pulled on ropes and the skipper shouted orders.
The mooring lines were cast off and the Centaur chugged a slow gamelan as she followed the river down stream.   Once the tops'l and foresail were set the ageing Bolinder was silenced and the majestic barge ghosted down river in company with the other contestants.   By the improving light of morning further sails were set.   The main sheet was hauled out, hooked to an iron ring on the horse and moused securely in place. (For those of you who, like me, are finding this a bit technical: a sheet is a rope what controls a sail and a horse isn't a horse it's a big beam of wood going from one side of the boat to the other so as the sail can flap and clank along it; and I have no idea what the mouse was doing.   Or... if you are still confused, imagine a lot of fluttering sails and slapping ropes and people jumping about and a bit of shouting followed, mostly, by a period of calm and everything looking like it's supposed to.)   A stays'l thrashed it's way slowly skywards and was brought under control.   The mizzen sail was set and trimmed.   Rich taught Potkin to “tail”.   The stalwart cat was not sure what he was doing, exactly, but he gripped a rope firmly in his teeth and pulled backwards as hard as he could while Rich and the mate heaved and grunted.   Eventually all the sails were billowing out and the barge heeled to le’ward, straining in the freshening breeze.   It started to rain.
As they approached the start line they saw a mass of barges zig-zagging past each other, at speed.   There were distant multiple cries of, "Starboard!"
To Potkin's horror Absalom Rowbottom drove Centaur straight into the centre of the mayhem and joined in, "Starboard!" he cried, spinning the wheel wildly.   A dozen vast and unwieldy craft swept back and forth along the start line waiting for the gun.   They ducked under sterns, shot across bows.   As a dented, steel hulled barge named Ironsides rushed smugly by, rashly close to Centaur's stern, Absalom surreptitiously took a rusting shackle pin from the pocket of his long coat and, whistling innocently, lobbed it high into his rival's tops'l.   It rattled onto the deck where a whiskerless lad retrieved it, looked worriedly aloft and rushed with it to his skipper.
Something akin to a smile, but much more scary, split across our skippers face.
"They'll be a long time wondering where that's come from."
On the five minute gun all the barges rounded up and commenced their dash for the line.   (There is, I am assured only one gun, a little brass canon, but several bangs.   On the ten minute bang everyone must switch off their engines and the five minute bang signals frantic manoeuvring by the keenest skippers for the best position at the start.   The aim is to reach the starting line, going flat out, just as, BUT NOT BEFORE, the start bang goes off.)   Several craft, including Centaur, were neck and neck as there came another report and a puff of white smoke from the committee boat.   The race had begun.
With the leading barges clearing the mouth of the river the wind became a gale.   Dark clouds twisted and turned as they rolled past and the chill rain stung Potkin’s face.   He was glad to be wearing his waders and sou’wester.
Centaur began to pitch wildly as the lumpy seas battered her hull, great waves crashed over her bow and swept along the deck.   Potkin was cold and a little frightened.   He could taste his breakfast when he burped and was sure his fur was turning green.   He found an upturned bucket by the mast and curled up beneath it.
The crew, hunched against the wind, was still pulling on ropes called sheets while the skipper shouted, “Lee ho!” and “Leggo!” and the sails crashed from one side of the ship to the other.
As they swept onwards towards a buoy far out to sea, Eben staggered on deck with mugs of hot tea.   Potkin was wishing that he had stayed at home, but after the warming drink he felt a little braver and the queasy feeling in his stomach began to subside.   He nibbled a ginger biscuit and quickly perked up.   With barely a memory of his former discomfort Potkin was chatting to Rich about how much he was enjoying the voyage when they rounded the black and yellow north cardinal buoy which had been designated as the outer mark. 

SB Centaur of Harwich

Arriving on the scuffed pine deck of the sailing barge Centaur Rich and Potkin were met, close to the head of the gangway, by a rotund figure somewhat wider than he was tall, wearing a grease stained, woollen tea-cosy on his head and a leather apron with assorted boning, filleting and skinning knives stuffed into the waist.   He had a black, cardboard eye-patch and a peg leg made from the richly French polished leg of a Queen Anne chair, more ornately rococo than practical considerations required, but it did have a beautifully carved ball and claw foot.   He explained that he had lost his own leg at the battle of Jutland.   Potkin thought that he must have been very careless to mislay an entire leg, but perhaps in the heat of battle it was easy to do that sort of thing.   This fellow it turned out was cook aboard Centaur and revealed his name to be Ebenhaezer Coleye, plain Eben to his shipmates.   He showed them where to sling their hammocks and then introduced them to the saloon, a large, low ceilinged, heavy timbered space, dimly lit by hissing Tilly lamps and with a black-leaded pot-belly stove at its heart.   Here they met some of the crew.

First was the skipper, name of Absalom Rowbottom, unnaturally tall with stooped shoulders, a man, brooding and lonely, weighed down by the responsibility of command.   A jagged white scar ran across his brow, behind the patent leather eye patch and over one cheek to disappear into one of his bushy, greying sideburns.     He wore a towering black stovepipe hat tied under his chin by beeswaxed string and a black oilskin long coat over a pair of similarly coloured rubber thigh-boots.
The mate was a muscular, shaven headed, heavily tattooed native of the distant island of Mersea.   His scant clothing implied a disregard for our east coast chill, and his one good, black-hole of an eye sucked in the world around with all its suffering and woe and let not a glimmer escape from within.
“Moses Smith’s my name.” he said to Potkin.   He and Rich seemed to be old shipmates and they chatted of previous voyages and adventures.   There were no further introductions as, it being half past opening time, the whole ship’s company rushed ashore to the pub.
The local alehouse was called the Rotting Hulk Inn.   It had a faded sign swinging wildly in the wind and was a high, eccentric, weatherboarded building, clinging tenuously to the edge of the salt flats.   Inside the bar it was cramped, dark and warm.   Every nook and corner was cluttered with nautical paraphernalia donated  by travellers on all the seven seas, fixed to walls and ceiling by drawing pin and Blue Tack were tobacco browned paintings of ships, sharks’ jaws, blocks, fishing floats, dried fish, half hulls, the scrimshaw carved tooth of the very whale that had devoured Westward Ho Smy and postcards, many creased and dog eared, from every location with a seaboard.   There were wax encrusted Mateus Rose bottles with worn down candles on every table. The customers jostled noisily, fierce looking people, some ragged, others flamboyant in feathers and ribbons, some boiler suited or Guernsey smocked, and occasionally an embarassed yachty in yellow wellies trying to keep a low profile.   Many of the rapscallions carried cutlasses or harpoons and exuded an aroma of Stockholm tar and bilge water, mariners all.
Richard ordered pints of deep headed bitter beer for himself and the crew and a saucer of milk for Potkin. Eben smiled at the cat and poured a tot of pusser's rum into the milk. He felt kindly towards Potkin who was shy and nervous in the press of strangers.    As Potkin was lapping his milk a slim torti-shell coloured cat came up to him.
“Hello sailor.” She said, “Would you like to buy me a drink?”
Potkin thought it would be impolite to refuse so he ordered her something mauve and very expensive in a champagne coupe. It came with a cherry on a stick. When they had finished their drinks she said,
“Would you like to come upstairs for a cuddle?”
Potkin replied that he could not as he had to keep an eye on Rich. She smiled gently at him and sighed.
“You’re a sweet cat. Come and see me again sometime.”
When Potkin rejoined Rich he was sitting at a table chatting with the skipper of a local smack, Heartsease Finbow, whose jade velvet eye patch trimmed with lace complemented perfectly her shock of flame red hair
“I thought you’d scored there.” she said to Potkin with a smile and girlish laugh.
The drinking and talking, some singing  and roistering, went on late into the night.  
Finally, “That’s enough, now.” shouted Absalom Rowbottom above the din; “We rise at sparrows’ fart.”
Arm in arm they reeled back to the ship and turned, gratefully, into their hammocks.

Potkin & the Barge Match

Before we can contemplate embarking on another adventure it will be necessary to investigate the activities of the shadowy figure that is Slasher McGoogs.   That he is up to something there can be no doubt, but the question is what?   And will he ally himself with those children of light, the Boz-Cossacks, Kittens of Chaos and Kronstadt Sailors, or is he to be an agent of the dark forces ruled over by the Merovingian Lizard Kings and Les Chats Soutterains?  

...So, by way of a short intermission I shall recount, in serial form, the tale of a former comrade of me Dad's:

POTKIN

and the

BARGE MATCH

Being an account of 

Potkin the cat

And how he saved the sailing barge

CENTAUR

from certain destruction

Rich was packing, slowly filling a capacious black sail-bag with his sailing gear of waders, guernsey knit-frock, oilskins, sou'wester and other nautical sundries.

Potkin was sulking.   (Potkin were a black and white cat - not as big or colourful as me, of course, but with quite long shaggy fur.)   He was sulking because he hated it when Rich went away.   He hated being left behind.

"Can I come with you" he asked, trying to appear hopeful.

Rich looked somewhat dubious, but Potkin explained that he was sure to make a good sailor because his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather  had been Tufty Morgan the infamous pirate and scourge of the Spanish Maine.   Although scourging maines was now quite out of fashion Potkin was convinced he had inherited salt water in his blood.   Rich was still a little doubtful, but after some thought said OK, he could come along.

A very excited Potkin quickly packed his best kitbag with wellies, hammock and an emergency tin of smoked salmon.   The pair feasted on a fish and chip supper before setting out (Potkin preferred codfish to coleyfish, but there is no accounting for taste) and were soon on the road towards the sailortown of Maldon in the dour, dangerous and ancient county of Essex.

It was a dark and stormy night in Maldon.   The cobble-stones of the steep narrow lanes shone damply from a fine drizzle that was visible only where it sparkled around the Edwardian street-lamps.   Windows in tiny terraced fishermen's cottages glowed warmly against the weather and in the church-yard, gravestones without graves remembered lost seafarers; Zachariah Gypps, lost at sea; Vigilance Thurogood, lost at sea; Reuben Saych, drowned; Bartimeus Godsave, lost at sea; Westward Ho Smy, consumed by a whale, "His body ingested, his spirit flying free."
At the quayside Potkin stopped in his tracks, gob smacked, as some would say.   Groups of sailors jostled purposefully beneath a forest of tall masts.   Huge black hulls were made fast along the length of the quay, and stacked four or five deep. This weekend there was to be a barge match, which is sailor-talk for a boat race.   Rich and Potkin had berths on one of these mighty craft if only they could identify her, and squeezed amongst the crowding fishermen and bargemen attempting to make out the names carved and gilded upon the vessels' transoms.   At length they found themselves standing beneath the looming and garishly painted figure of a full bodied, if incautiously underdressed harridan whose ornately carved torso terminated in the forelegs of a galloping horse.   Potkin had never seen anyone quite like her where he came from.   The figurehead projected from the high bow of the sailing barge Centaur of Harwich.   Their search was over and diligence rewarded, this sturdy craft was to be their home for the duration of the coming voyage.
With barely a pause and hefting their luggage onto their shoulders the pair marched boldly up the rickety gangplank.

.

Narnia Sub Minatio

catnip road trip

and if one green bottle should accidentally fall... again and... again and... again and...

strawberry is at the wheel as we speed through strathbogie our wheels splashing mudstreeks across deserted streets abandoned shops and homes... ghost town

our winter tyres carve deep scars sad memories of disappointments and fading horrors into the gravel drive of huntly castle
stark tower of grey stone
the laird offers kippers and devilled kidneys for breakfast
clad in bonnet and plaid trews he stands beneath his portcullis armwaving local directions
he has drawn us a detailed map... in pencil on scented notepaper
back in the vicecreamvan... back on the road... tracking the bogie river
we come upon a clearing in the conifer forest

 multicoloured patchwork tents yurts and mobile homes cluster about an antique cottage
white woodsmoke pillars upwards from the lone chimney
the aroma of baking
i hope that is fresh hot catnip mooncakes i can smell says boz
anna and bui in the doorway wipe flour handprints onto their aprons
we have encountered the bravehearted refugees of strathbogie...
'twas a day in late november in the year of 2010
when snow began to fall upon this happy glen
they left for work that morning without any dread
never suspecting as they kissed their wives goodbye that by the evening they could be dead
if they had not dressed warmly and worn a woollen vest
as anyone will tell you is the very best
and those that got home that freezing night
looked out in the morning to a terrible sight
for they were cut off by ice and snow
and the temperature was -25 degrees centigrade which is awfully low
they waited and waited in horrible fear
till their rescuers came in the new year
the vicecream van with boris and aunty stella
was a welcome sight to a shivering feller
and anna and bui had baked them all a treat
because as every one knows heroes have to eat
strawberry ferdy and phoebus must be lauded as well
because they endured hardship and danger and went through hell
in order to rescue the good people of strathbogie
and now they had made it those heroes of limehousesailortown and the norwegian doggie
with supplies and aid for which all are grateful
and a poet of fame to recount their perils so fateful
...later as the sun sinks jaffa orange from the pomegranate sky
ANNA PYROTECHNIX
ignites a towering structure of redundant furniture old doors and petrol
winter's funeral pyre
campfire ceilidh
fairy lights hang in the norway spruce
an enigmatic puginesque castiron pierhead plays stage to fiddlers and pipers
fiddles prance pipes lament
bui on onestring fiddlehorn and bamse on norwegian tricycle hurdygurdy duet
the woods ring to the bonfire cackle the uncorked effervescing laughter
the skirling and whirling
the distant chainsaw whine of the encroaching loggers...

Aunty Stella, Ferdinand and Strawberry will eventually take the Vicecream van south to search out the Kittens of Chaos and restore them to the Land of Green Ginger.   As for Boz, Phoebles and myself, we will await the return of the Arctic Coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster which will take us by sea to Limehousesailortown.  Meanwhile, perhaps we can help in someway in the defence against the forces of commerce which threatened Anna's forest.

...Far away

A dapper figure in porkpie hat, zootsuit and squirrelgrey spats grubs out the disaffected, the dispossessed.

Slasher McGoogs is spreading sedition throughout leafy Surrey.

But that is another story.  

Ginsbergbear

Rothiemay

2011

Phoebles' Story

Right...   Well...   First off it's PHOEBUS, not Phoebles.   BUS as in red, two storeys, not BULLS as in horns and poo!
So, this thaw thing was really inconvenient 'cos we gorra sledge anna Brockhousecorgisnowmobile thingy an' down in the valleys was all slushy snow and melting ice an' the skid things dunna work proper.   An' we wuz forced up onto the ridgeways wot woz nice cuz we could see all about and where we woz goin', burrit woz a bit windy.   An' the streams woz all swollen an' surging with melt water an' some of the bridges had got swept away so we had to go a long way round.   Anyway it woz fun sittin' up on top of the sledge an' luggage and everything an' real excitin' 'cos we was doin' a real rescue.
Anyway, somewhere north of Edinbugh Ginsbergbear's i-Phone GPS stopped working 'cos it was broke, burrit dinnermarrer 'cos Boris still had his Dan Dare compass an' that told the way... somehow.   But Boris said we wuz running out of fuel 'cos of the Brockhousecorgisnowmobile having to work so hard an' that woz a real problem.
So, there we woz, pootling along on top of some hill, tryin' not to run out of fuel an' a bit worried, but not a lot.   An' Boris woz concentratin'  very hard 'cos he said we woz runnin' outta snow an'all an' would haffta do summat about it soon an' Ginsbergbear woz huddled up in a rug, wiyya hotwaterbottle, readin' Moby Dick 'cos he are nesh, burreye has got very woolly warm fur wot is impervious to the cold and wet and I woz lookin' around and enjoying everything and I sees it.
Down below us woz a road and on the road woz a van wot wern't movin' an I jumps up an' down an is shouting 'cos Boris canna hear above the chuggin' of the engine an' he says,
"What's up?"
An' I says,
"Look there's a van an' it might have some wheels an' we could make the sledge an' stuff work wiyout snow."
So we stops and discusses the practicalities of my idea an' Boris and Ginsbergbear aren't very optimistic an' Strawberry wanna joinin' in 'cos he were being ockard.   An' then Boris says that the van looks a bit like the Vicecream van an' there are people millin' about down there.   So we go for a closer look.
An' guess wot.   When we get closer we can see Aunty Stella, in a boilersuit anna leather jerkin like a lorry driver an' one of the van's wheels is off 'cos it has a flat tyre an' Aunty Stella is rolling a new wheel up.   An' Ferdinand is there too, workin' the jack, only he is a bit little an' the jack is very big.   Still he doin' all right.
An' we run down the hill shouting,
"Aunty Stella, Ferdy, Aunty Stella, Ferdy Aunty, Stella!"
An' they look up an' they shoutin' too.
An' we get to them and stop, an Aunty Stella wipes her swarfy hands on her overalls before she hugs us all.
Then Ferdinand tells us all about crashin' an' polar bears an' wullufses, in an excited sort of way.   An' we tell them about losing my atlas wot woz old and dogeared, an' about losing Bert who were old and dogeared too, but we woz sad.   An' we all says,
"Ah, well..." an' all mucks in fixing the van.

So anyway, when the van's mended Aunty Stella says,
"Stow your gear in the back." an' there will be plenty of room for all of us too 'cos she has had a clear out.   An Strawberry jumps in the cab wiy Aunty Stella and Ferdinand an' we all climbin' in the back 'an WE ARE OFF!
An' we are all singin' Ten Green Bottles.

Phoebus,

Extraspecial Ginger Cat,

Somewhere in Scotland.

Wolves in the Woods

Ferdinand trudged on.   It was a clear, cold day and he felt almost joyful as he strode into a pretty, mixed deciduous wood.   A gentle breeze blew showers of fine snow off the branches above him, his foot falls crunched crisply, and small creatures dashed from tree to tree leaving tiny footprints in the snow.   Birds were twittering in the thin canopy and despite being footsore and running low on supplies Ferdy joined in, humming a selection from Vera Lynne's greatest hits.
On trudged and hummed Ferdinand.   Almost imperceptibly the woodland turned foresty, the chill north wind backed sou'westerly and turned milder.   A thin mist began to form and an occasional drop of water fell from arching branches.   The sky darkened.
Past the road, into the woods, shadows were intensifying, undergrowth thickening.   It really was getting quite dark and a little spooky.   The diminutive woodland creatures had all fallen silent, but out there something padded.   There were rustles and snorts and heavy breathing.
Ferns twitched and Ferdy thought he could see dark shapes keeping pace with him, slinky, lopey, probably howly sorts of shapes.   And they were all around him.
In the deepening darkness there were yelps and snarls.   Ferdy searched his knapsack and produced a small, but brilliant flash-light which he panned about the forest edge.   Emotionless, golden eyes lit up and although not visible he was sure there were fangs and dripping jowls too.
The things closed in on him.   Ferdy flashed the torch, which only seemed to make them playful.   He shouted, which they ignored.   He threw a stick and for a moment it looked as if one of the fiends would run after it, but it's companions glared it into shame.   Ferdy needed a really good plan, quickly - but nothing practical came to mind.   The whole situation was becoming extremely unsettling, when...

Was that distant music?
The encroaching creatures heard it too.   It was growing louder, stirring, Wagnerian.   The pack backed away.   Ferdy recognised The Ride of the Valkyries, not orchestral, more jingly, but deafening.   By the time two lemony beams of light flashed over a rise the thumping waves of sound were blasting the forest.   Terrified golden eyes peeped from behind the trees.   The source of the onslaught, a black van, careered along the road, slewing from side to side, horn blazing, two flashing ice-cream cones glowing eerily above the cab.   It skidded to a halt some yards from Ferdy, the door flew open and out scrambleded a Hollywood fantasy, Russian countess.
"Aunty Stella!" exclaimed the terrified bird.
The tall, slender creature stood before him, clad as last time he'd seen her, in greatcoat, piped and brass buttoned, tall boots of black leather. still the tall Astrakhan hat, but the muff was gone.   Over one shoulder was slung a cartridge belt and she carried a Browning B78, falling block, 45-70 hunting rifle, which she fired, once, into the air.   The wolves departed.
"Oh... Aunty Stella!"
Ferdy rushed at her and they stood hugging for a longtime.
"I think I might be able to rustle up some ginger biscuits, do you fancy a fortifying snack?"
"I've had rather a lot of ginger biscuits just lately," replied Ferdy, hoping he did not sound ungrateful.   "You don't have a bag of millet around do you?"

In the back of the van they partied well into the night.   There were finger snacks and tiny triangular sandwiches and a variety of sweet meats deep fried in beer batter which Aunty Stella insisted was a Scottish delicacy.   There was pop in abundance, liberated from the Strathbogie supplies  and "The Shadows Live at Doncaster Coliseum" on the Vicecream van sound system.
Next morning they had a barbecued full english, assessed their situation and surveyed the local geography.   The first signs of a thaw were now unmissable.
The Vicecream van was looking much more serviceable than when it left The Land of Green Ginger.   It now had heavy duty tyres, the more trivial pieces of baggage were missing from the roof rack, abandoned along with their owners to the music halls of Northumbria, and replaced by jerry-cans of diesel and two spare wheels, strategically placed brackets held towrope, snow-shovel, flares.   The ice-cream maker had been removed and stored in a barn somewhere north of Berwick-upon-Tweed, making room for supplies, a small primus stove and an Elsan Visa model 268.   Ready for anything.
"Last leg.   Lets get this rescue wrapped up." proposed Aunty Stella.

Death on the Ice

Ferdinand Desai was making good time.   He had crossed the coast some time ago, somewhat north of Craster by his reconing.   He could make out Banborough Castle rising above the snow, way off to starboard.   The air was still, and a watery sun gently illuminated the chill landscape below.   Things were going to plan, and for Ferdy that was near perfection.

...And (as always) this blissful state was not to last.   Apparently without warning, he was in thick and freezing fog.   His windshield froze, the fuselage sparkled, his goggles misted over and his beak tingled with the sudden chill.   He tried to coax his craft upwards above the fog, but the build up of ice was making her heavy.   The engine began to splutter, parts were binding and the fuel turning to mush - the prop ceased to turn.   Slowly the autogyro began it's gentle descent, buoyed by the free running rotor.   Then there was a screech of locked and tortured metal, frozen rotor bearings.   The descent turned into a plummet.

There was a jarring thud, some pings and boings, a pop and a small puther.   Ferdy found himself sitting at the centre of a snow crater surrounded to a distance of ten feet or so in every direction by disassembled and slightly bent aeronautical parts.

Having checked that all HIS bits were in place and full working order, he packed a stash of ginger biscuits into a knapsack and removed the compass from its gimballed mount.   He would continue with Plan A (no-one had appraised him of a Plan B) and follow a line towards Edinburgh.   It would just take a little longer without his airborne transport.   Adjusting his goggles firmly he trudged blindly into the total white-out.

Trudging can be tiring and flying boots are not the best hiking footwear.   After what seemed an age Ferdy halted and partook of two well earned ginger biscuits.   It was whilst resting thus that he noticed a small, indistinct black blob out in the whiteness that enveloped him.   As he watched it grew larger, and blacker, and really large, and distinct, and nose shaped.   It stopped, hovering some way above him, in close formation with a pair of coldly intense eyes.   A large mouth also appeared, and spoke.

"And what exactly are you?"

Peering hard, Ferdy thought he could make out the outline of a massive white bear.

"I am Ferdinand Desai, dodo... on an important rescue mission.   Can I assist you in any way?" he added, politely.

"Not just now," replied the polar bear, "I have already eaten, and at the moment a duck is out of the question."

Tentatively Ferdinand explained his situation, without much hope for a happy solution.   The bear however was feeling untypically sympathetic.

"I could give you a lift as far as the Great North Road.   I probably won't get hungry before then and you might be able to cadge a lift from there."   Not waiting for a reply the great bear scruffed Ferdy by the collar of his flying jacket and set off at a speedy lope.   Dangling, limp limbed from the jaws of a polar bear the dodo did not feel dignified, or comfortable, or particularly safe.   He had just about got used to the gentle swinging when they approached the tops of a bus-stop sign and a row of telegraph poles, peeking above the snow.   The bear dropped him at the bus-stop.

"I can't see an omnibus coming any time soon, but you may be able to hitch a lift on a passing snow-plough.   I'm afraid I'm getting peckish and you are starting to look tasty so I'd best go find a MacDonald's, or a baby seal or summat." ...and without looking back he loped off across the icy wasteland.

Ferdinand sat for a while, then rose and resumed his trudge, 

Meanwhile...

Progress across the sea-ice had been slow for the snowmobiles.   They had picked their way though the jumbled blocks and jagged teeth of ice, forced upwards by the pressure of the surrounding shelf, thawed, weathered, and refrozen, time after time.   They had manhandled the machines over blockages, experienced moments of terror, hours of tedium punctuated intermittently and increasingly annoyingly by, "Take the next turn left." from Ginsbergbear's i-phone.

And, "Recalculating." when they didn't.  

"It will work better when we are on land." announced Ginsbergbear, without undue concern.

Travelling some way into the mouth of a wide, frozen river they eventually found a steep and tortuous route up onto the snow plateau that covered the land.   They sat on their machines astonished.   As far as they could see the snow spread before them, flat and featureless but for the occasional spire, pylon or rocky outcrop pushing above the carpet of snow and ice.   They should make good time over this terrain.

Boz eased the throttle open on his snowmobile and moved off.   From behind there was a, "Waheee!" and Strawberry wheelied his Corgi into a madcap dash, overtook Bozzy's combo and accelerating ahead, disappeared.

"Did you see that?" shouted Phoebles.

Boz stopped, drove slowly forwards and stopped again.   The trio dismounted and walked cautiously towards the black hole that marked the spot where Strawberry and Bert Wold had last been seen.   They peered over the edge.

Someway down the upturned Brockhouse Corgi was jammed between the walls of a seemingly bottomless crevasse.   A large orange fur coat lay spread-eagled across the machine and from beneath the collar a pair of wide eyes, black with terror, peered back at them.

"He's gone." a thin voice quivered, "It just kept falling, the sledge, supplies, Ber...    The atlas has gone, everything's gone... and I don't feel very safe."

"Hang on!" shouted Phoebles.

"That's what I've been doing."

"We need a volunteer to go down to him." said Boz.   He and Phoebles glared at Ginsbergbear.   Ginsbergbear glared back.

"Me... do I look like a volunteer?"

"You must be the lightest - your stuffed with horsehair.   And the vet says me and Boz are erring on the pudgy side." explained Phoebles.   "No time to waste, I'll find a rope."   He produced a stout length of manila from the back of the sledge and a bowline was tied around the bear's middle.   The other end was secured by a round turn and two half hitches to the frame of the skidoo, a means of attachment highly recommended in Phoebles' well thumbed copy of A Boy's Bumper Book of Knots.   

"Prepare to be lowered."  Boz mounted the quietly idling Corgi and as Ginsbergbear hesitated on the edge of the chasm Phoebles gave him a gentle shove.

It was as close to abseiling as dangling at the end of a rope with all limbs thrashing wildly can be.

When he alighted on the upturned machine, close to Strawberry, there was a scraping noise and several chunks of ice detached from the crevasse walls.

"Don't hang about.   Tie the rope round the two of you and wave when your ready."

On Ginsbergbear's signal Phoebles shouted, "Go!" to Boz and the Brockhouse Corgi began to inch forwards.

By the time the pair eventually popped over the edge of the hole and flopped onto terra firma it was hard to judge who was the most traumatised.   Hot, sweet tea was quickly brewed up and Strawberry wrapped in spare blankets and woollens.   He was worryingly subdued.

"I'd quite like to get away from here as quickly as possible." he shivered.

"OK, well press on till dusk before we make camp." declared Boz, "Shame about Bert... and the atlas.   Still, that's life."

They re-stowed the gear on the sledge, mounted their one remaining rig and set off once more, somewhat cautiously.

Next morning Boz put his head out of the tent and noticed something dark protruding from the drifts out to the west of their bivouac.   After a breakfast of sardines on toast they steered towards it.   An hour or so later, as they drew close to the object they could see that it was the tilted bust of a gigantic metal man with something like the wing of an aircraft projecting from its shoulder.

"At the next roundabout, take the third exit." barked the GPS.

Ginsbergbear studied the little map on his i-Phone screen, "I think it wants us to follow the Great North Road."

"And where exactly is that?" asked Phoebles.

"Somewhere below us." suggested Boz, turning the skidoo northwards.