“I know most of the boats here by the sound of their engines. In the mornings you hear them before you can see who is coming. I have fished with some of these men for twenty years. If somebody is late getting back, one of us calls. We can argue over small things on the shore, but on the water we keep an eye on each other.

There is a man here who always brings more food than he needs. He says his wife has packed it that way, but I think he likes having people stop beside his boat. If we have been out for a long time, he waves us over before we have even tied up. You cannot leave without eating something.

Before leaving, I go through the boat in the same order. There are ropes to check, things to move and something I have put down in the wrong place. I can lose ten minutes looking for an object that is beside my foot. My wife says I should have a proper shelf for everything. I tell her a boat is not a kitchen, though I admit her kitchen is much easier to find things in.

The landing place is a place for news as well as work. You learn whose son has come home, who is repairing a roof and who has a spare part that might fit an old engine. Some mornings the conversation is longer than the preparations. A visitor might think nobody is doing very much. But if you need help later, it is useful to know who is nearby and what kind of day they are having.

Before leaving the bank

When I was younger, I was more interested in getting away quickly. I would be impatient with the men who stood talking beside their boats. Now I have become one of them. There is a younger fellow who arrives with everything packed and ready. He is polite about waiting for us, which somehow makes it worse. I recognise the expression on his face. I probably wore the same one for years without noticing.

The lake never looks quite as it did the day before. I notice the colour close to the bank and the way the reeds are moving. These are familiar things, but familiarity is not the same as knowing what will happen. There have been mornings when I stayed ashore and spent the time putting things in order. I would rather return to an ordinary afternoon at home than have a remarkable story about being foolish.

There are long stretches when we do not speak. That surprises people who have only met us on shore, where we can talk over each other for an hour. In a boat you become comfortable with another person being quiet. A hand moves towards a rope and the other person makes room. Somebody shifts their weight before you ask. These small arrangements take time to learn, and after a while you stop thinking of them as arrangements at all.

The people you look for

I have taken my nephew out with me a few times. The first time he wanted to know how far we were going and when we would turn back. He was looking for the plan of the whole day. On the next visit he brought less with him and asked fewer questions. We sat beside each other eating bread, and he pointed out a shape in the clouds that I could not see. He was very disappointed in me.

Coming back has its own jobs. We carry things up, wash what needs washing and make sure nothing has been left where it will get underfoot. Sometimes I remain beside the boat after the others have gone. There is always a loose end to attend to, though occasionally I am only taking my time. By then the voices from the landing place have changed. People are making arrangements for tomorrow, asking who will be there and offering to bring something that somebody else has forgotten.

We do not always remember the same part of a day. One man remembers a conversation; another remembers something that needed fixing. When we meet again, the separate versions slowly become a story we can share.”