Botanical calligraphic letter with leaves and rose

We came through the lock at Hythe this morning with the paint still wet on the cabin side, so you'll have to forgive the smudge on this page. Dad painted the big black letter himself, curling across the green, the way Mum always wanted. He says a barge should carry its name like a coat of arms, but the rest of the word went into the river the winter the hold flooded, so now there is only the letter and the leaves.

Mostly the canal is flat and slow. Herons stand in the reeds and do not care who passes. Last Tuesday a boy ran alongside us along the towpath for a mile, asking what the sprigs on the bow were for, and I told him they kept the bad weather off. He believed me. I think I half believed it too.

Before we left, I pressed a rosebud between the pages of Mum's almanac, the one with the cracked spine. It has gone the colour of weak tea, but the stem still bends as if it is listening. I thought you should have it, or at least know it exists. When we reach Braunston I will post it, if you tell me where you are living now.

The last lock on the Oxford is a long one and the gates groan like a ship. Dad says the trick is not to hurry the water. I am learning to wait for it to fill, which I suppose is the thing we came out here to do. Write back soon, and tell me what you made of the new flat, because I want to know everything.

Love, Tilly