The Monolith by Tony Walker.

George Middleton came into Eastwick by water towards noon, with the sun high and the canal running still

between its overgrown banks. All the way down he'd worked the locks alone, without much to report,

though the upper padlet at Wansford had stuck and left him standing on the stone edge,

windless in hand, watching rooks wander around the nearby field, seeking insects.

As he stood there, a woman from a higher boat had called out,

asking if he needed help, but he'd shaken his head and said,

No, thank you, and that was the end of it.

The approach to Eastwick was slow, the canal meandered round curves, occasionally straits, with thick banks of cow parsley, elder in bloom, swifts up high, shrieking, martins low over the surface snapping flies.

The occasional bubble breaking betrayed fish in the brown

green water. It was quite weedy, not much used. He would have to open the weed hatch to

see if his prop was fouled once he moored up. Just coming in now under a red brick arch,

Bridge 147, the number cast on a black iron roundel on both flanks of the bridge, one to welcome,

the other to say goodbye as you drifted on at two miles per hour. Just beyond the bridge where

the towpath flattened out into rough grass, he brought the boat in. There were no bollards

to tie up here, just verge.

He stepped off with the centre rope, boots scuffing on gravel, and walked her gently in.

The bow came to rest against weeds.

He fetched two pins from the forward locker, took the short-handled lump hammer,

and drove one into the ground ahead of the bow, one behind the stern.

The earth was damp and stony about six inches down, but he drove the pin in, sweating as he

hammered and then tested to see if the pin held. He tied her off with the canal man's hitch

...