I’ve lived in this town long enough to dread the start of tourist season, which roughly coincides with…. this weekend. There are tour groups throughout the year but as soon as the daffodils bloom the town is awash with strangers bumbling about taking photographs and impeding traffic. For the most part I avoid the city centre during the day, but the gawking crowds also enjoy the bucolic calm of the river (and so they should).
But they don’t just stroll by. They peer in my windows and, when they can catch me, ask impudent questions. Um, no, Stranger… you may not take a photograph. My boat and I are not on the list of approved local attractions.
Nor should you inquire how much a narrowboat costs, unless you wish to purchase one, in which case I can give you a few numbers of people who are currently selling.
My friend Sally lives in a thatched-roof cottage in a twee village nearby and she tells a funny story about waking one morning to find forty strangers assembled on her doorstep with easels, making paintings of her home.
This too would probably fall in the range of, at the very least, surreal, even if not technically intrusive. At least the cast members at theme parks get paychecks for dealing with this sort of scrutiny every day.