Bristol's Own Oasis was first published by Dream of Shadow as part of The Story Trail for the Bristol Storyfest in February 2015.
Bristol's Own Oasis
'The Floating Harbour' – I'd always loved the name, it sounded like such an escape from the world, and to me it was. While the other kids would tumble over each other to get to the park after school, I would gently meander to the waterfront where I would wander alone for hours. Doted along the river were the most beautiful little boats and each housed a hidden world within. They used to remind me of my dolls' house at home, with each one telling its own unique story.
One old barge had a potbelly stove in it, but for some reason I always imagined a little pig lived in there who would heat up his soups late at night. Further down the river was a stripped-out fishing boat, its contents had been replaced with a homely set of table and chairs that were always laid out for tea. I never saw anyone in there, not once. None of the teacups or saucers moved either, but none of it ever got dusty. In the end, I thought it was magic, a perfect little picture frozen in time forever. I believed that in years to come, aliens would land on earth and the boat would still be there, perfectly preserved – a window into the lives of everyday Bristolians.
By far my favourite vessel, though, was an incredibly colourful narrowboat! Someone must have spent hours slaving away over those intricate illustrations on its exterior. At one time it depicted a field full of sunflowers, at another it was a couple of seagulls soaring over the sea. It became like my own private art gallery, that boat. I wanted with all my heart to meet the artist, to ask them why they changed the artwork so often, but I never did. Maybe they just wanted other people to enjoy it? People like me.
Late one afternoon, I hopped aboard that narrowboat. There was no way for me to get inside, so instead I traced the picture on the frontage with my fingers. Until that day, I'd only ever viewed the artwork from afar, but there was something exciting about being so close to the vivid colours and finally making contact with them. The more I moved around the boat, the more involved I became with tracing the picture until I ended up pretending to be doing the painting myself. I must have looked completely mad, as I almost fell in the water when trying to 'paint' a far-off corner.
For me, the boat's ever-changing landscapes marked the passing of my childhood; every image came to represent some moment in my life – each one like a cell of a film reel.
Eventually, though, the boat's beautiful pictures stopped changing. An image of the rising sun over a cornfield became the narrowboat's shroud, the last picture that the owner ever painted. I promised myself there and then that one day I would carry on the legacy of that artist, a person who had inspired me so much. The hours I had spent studying his pictures, re-drawing the designs when I got home, they would all be worth it in the future – somehow I just knew it.
Despite all of this, my friends who enjoyed their games in the park could never understand the appeal of my little floating world. No amount of retelling them of the wonderful things that I'd seen ever convinced them to come with me. In the end, that didn't really matter. For me, the harbour was a haven, an oasis of calm that shaped my life, a place that helped write these opening chapters of my story.
One old barge had a potbelly stove in it, but for some reason I always imagined a little pig lived in there who would heat up his soups late at night. Further down the river was a stripped-out fishing boat, its contents had been replaced with a homely set of table and chairs that were always laid out for tea. I never saw anyone in there, not once. None of the teacups or saucers moved either, but none of it ever got dusty. In the end, I thought it was magic, a perfect little picture frozen in time forever. I believed that in years to come, aliens would land on earth and the boat would still be there, perfectly preserved – a window into the lives of everyday Bristolians.
By far my favourite vessel, though, was an incredibly colourful narrowboat! Someone must have spent hours slaving away over those intricate illustrations on its exterior. At one time it depicted a field full of sunflowers, at another it was a couple of seagulls soaring over the sea. It became like my own private art gallery, that boat. I wanted with all my heart to meet the artist, to ask them why they changed the artwork so often, but I never did. Maybe they just wanted other people to enjoy it? People like me.
Late one afternoon, I hopped aboard that narrowboat. There was no way for me to get inside, so instead I traced the picture on the frontage with my fingers. Until that day, I'd only ever viewed the artwork from afar, but there was something exciting about being so close to the vivid colours and finally making contact with them. The more I moved around the boat, the more involved I became with tracing the picture until I ended up pretending to be doing the painting myself. I must have looked completely mad, as I almost fell in the water when trying to 'paint' a far-off corner.
For me, the boat's ever-changing landscapes marked the passing of my childhood; every image came to represent some moment in my life – each one like a cell of a film reel.
Eventually, though, the boat's beautiful pictures stopped changing. An image of the rising sun over a cornfield became the narrowboat's shroud, the last picture that the owner ever painted. I promised myself there and then that one day I would carry on the legacy of that artist, a person who had inspired me so much. The hours I had spent studying his pictures, re-drawing the designs when I got home, they would all be worth it in the future – somehow I just knew it.
Despite all of this, my friends who enjoyed their games in the park could never understand the appeal of my little floating world. No amount of retelling them of the wonderful things that I'd seen ever convinced them to come with me. In the end, that didn't really matter. For me, the harbour was a haven, an oasis of calm that shaped my life, a place that helped write these opening chapters of my story.
