We’ve just spent our first night on Mona. It proved to be a very real encounter with the wet soggy penetrating materiality of water. It poured all night long. We caught a saucepan and a half of rain as it dripped in around the sliding hatch. At the end of the sleeping area further occasional drips came in, seeping through what we think is a gap in the seam of the rusted ironwork around the bow. It took me back to my childhood – semi nomadic experience of constantly moving house. My parents would buy up large houses (we were six children) approaching dereliction and do them up. In one house we had a system of internal guttering and buckets going down over several floors catching the encroaching rains, before the roof was fixed.
Outside it is cold wet and grey. The rain isn’t due to ease until late in the afternoon. Tomorrow is expected to be drier but even colder and greyer with temperatures barely reaching five degrees. The river is running much faster today swollen by the overnight rain; the occasional rocking a reminder that the ground is far from solid under our feet. It’s a strange sensation, looking out of the window to see this thick brown soup of river wash running fast past our window, the damp coldness hugging the river like a blanketed shroud. Although cold and grey, it’s quiet and strangely comforting.