Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.8

I arrived at Tramp Alley armed with a noble ambition: to experience the tranquil dignity of the South Stratford Canal. This lasted approximately eleven seconds, or until I slipped on something that may once have been either duck-related or philosophical in origin. Thus began my immersive historical re-enactmentless “Industrial Revolution transport artery,” more “man mildly at odds with mud.” The canal itself lounged beside me in that deeply unimpressed way only water can manage. One could almost hear it muttering, “I was completed in 1816, you know,” as if this justified the presence of suspiciously wobbly towpath edges and a duck with the moral authority of a parish councillor. I nodded respectfully, as one does when being silently judged by infrastructure. Tramp Alley, I am told, was once a place of spa-going refinement, where genteel visitors sipped mineral waters and discussed ailments with enthusiasm bordering on performance art. I too sampled the local atmosphere, though my…