While Dorothea was having a siesta, Boat Husband and I went to gather some teasels and poppy heads along the quayside.
We had noticed that the bow of the Minesweeper, which we visited a few weeks ago, was no longer visible from Davenham's deck so, curious, we walked down to have a look.
This was the miserable scene...
Jonty wandered sombrely through the wreckage, in the hope he said, of finding some commemorative object - perhaps something with the Minesweeper's name or number - that could be preserved.
There was nothing but eerily sculptural forms.
And an eight of clubs, with its suggestion of convivial evenings amongst the crew, now perversely at odds with its surroundings.
The remains of the vessel had evidently been dragged from the mud and smashed mercilessly with some brutish machine.
It's destruction was absolute. Even the weather, chill and damp under a brooding sky, seemed in bleak sympathy with the aura of melancholy that pervaded the site.
Even at its life's end though, there was beauty in the textures and fabrics and colours of this fascinating boat.
It felt a little morbid, taking photographs of the carnage - like war tourism - but it also seemed important to bear witness for Minesweeper 483.
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