← Get Sleepy: Sleep meditation and stories
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- [00:01]
Thomas
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- [01:23]
Various Advertisers and Guests
so good, so good.
- [01:25]
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- [01:49]
I'm Art Schmanning. I'm Madison Skinner.
- [01:51]
Thomas
I'm Eva Jovic.
- [01:52]
Various Advertisers and Guests
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- [01:54]
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- [01:58]
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- [02:06]
Thomas
Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. My name's Thomas and I'm your host. Thank you so much for being here. Tonight's story was written by the wonderful Jessica Miller and will be read by our equally wonderful narrator, Jessica. The story will guide you through the waterways of London from Regent's Canal to the edges of the Thames itself. All the while, you'll drift towards a peaceful, restorative sleep. I've spent a fair bit of time in our wonderful capital city over the course of my life. What I love about London is that it's always full of vibrancy, diversity, hard working and kind people. Many trains, of course, and a plethora of things to do and see. Its waterways are one of the many highlights, so I'll particularly enjoy listening along to this episode, just like you are tonight. Before we begin our journey together, let's do a body scan exercise to ensure you're as relaxed as possible. Close your eyes and take a deep breath in through your nose, Then exhale slowly through your mouth. Now bring your attention to the top of your head. Notice any tension that you're carrying here and allow it to loosen, soften and melt away. Move your awareness down to your face, once again taking notice of any areas of tension. Relax your forehead, your eyes and your jaw. Then take your focus down through your neck and shoulders, releasing any tightness as you breathe deeply. Shift your focus to your arms, hands, fingers, letting them feel heavy. Relax your chest and stomach through deep replenishing breaths. Finally, find softness in your legs, feet and toes, letting your muscles completely relax. Allow your breathing to fall into a natural, steady rhythm. And now imagine a beautiful summer's evening in London. This is where our story begins.
- [06:40]
Various Advertisers and Guests
Dusk is falling over London on this summer's evening. The city's crowded skyline is tinged golden. The setting sun casts bright gleams against the clean, modern lines of the Shard and gilds the smooth classical dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. The light dances over the surface of the Thames. The canals and waterways of London, also shimmering under the rays of the setting sun, ribbon outwards through the city. They flow through the busy streets lined with modern buildings, through lush green parks and swathes of marshland, past riverside pubs and cafes, through village like suburbs filled with neat terrace houses and rose bush, and through hidden thickets of ancient forest which stubbornly persist in the sprawl and bustle of the city. Your journey begins in the heart of Camden in North London. This area is always busy, and it is especially busy now. The lively buzz of the area's famous markets and the noise of street performers mingles with the crowds of commuters on their way home from work. You feel the energy of the crowd around you and hear the noise of traffic on the busy streets, the cries of market vendors and the strumming and singing of the buskers. And then you slip down a side street. Your feet carry you away from the busy streets. You walk until you reach Camden Lock and find yourself standing at the edge of Regent's Canal. Groups of people are gathered along the canal banks, picnicking, reading and soaking in the last rays of sun. But you are quite apart from them. On your own little patch of bank. You register the grass, fresh and green beneath your feet. You look out on the green waters of the canal and the brightly painted canal boats which bob gently up and down on its surface. Their windows glow warmly in the early evening. Their bright colours and glowing windows are reflected across the dappled surface of the canal. You breathe in deeply, letting air fill your belly and lungs, then exhale. You are calm and content. You have slipped out of the hectic rhythms of the city and found a moment of peace and stillness. The evening stretches out before you, unhurried, undemanding and tranquil. In the distance, you spy a boat. It is a traditional rowboat with a tiller at the rear, a flat bottomed wooden hull and a small cabin. The cabin is painted in caravan bright colors of red, blue and green and decorated with traditional motifs. A wreath of roses adorns one wall. Geometric patterns and castles are painted along another. White lace curtains flutter behind the cabin's windows. You have noticed already that many of the boats along the canal have their names painted on them in ornate lettering. One is called the Silver Mist, another the Persistence. A third is named the Kingfisher. As this boat comes closer, you notice two things. The first is that even though the boat is navigating smoothly through the crowded canal, no one is operating the tiller. It seems to be moving of its own accord. The second thing you notice is the name painted along its side. This boat is named the Sweet Dreams. The narrowboat glides to a stop exactly where you are standing. You understand that you are meant to step aboard, and so you do, feeling the canal's gentle rocking beneath your feet. On the upper deck, a chair is arranged for you. You sit down and stretch out your legs. The boat smoothly pushes out into the centre of the can. Soon even the faintest clamor of Camden has faded into silence and you are traveling down the waterway. You watch the world slip by. The canal is bordered on both sides by towpaths. Here, joggers run past. People walk. Their dogs and friends stroll by, deep in conversation. The benches that line the towpaths are occupied by people talking together or simply gazing out at the canal. The boat moves onward, taking you into the heart of Regent's park, right past London Zoo. You hear the faint sounds of the animals beginning to sing. Settle in for the night. The call of a parrot, the low rumble of a lion, and the occasional rustling of leaves. As a nocturnal creature begins to stir, the boat glides westward. The tow paths are less crowded here. Trees arch over the water, their branches forming a canopy of green. When you look up at them, you can see how the setting sun shines through the leaves, lighting them up like stained glass. Apart from the slosh of water and the occasional rustle of a bird settling in for the night, all is quiet. Away from the modern buildings of the city, you feel almost like you have traveled out of time. History feels close to the surface here. A time when the canal was crowded with boats hauling goods like coal, grain and timber doesn't feel too far from the present. You can almost hear the thwack and thunk of goods unloading the workers songs and the clip clop of horses hooves as they hauled boats up and down the towpaths. But then the canal bends and the city springs back into view. You have arrived at the edges of Primrose Hill. Stately Georgian manor houses line the canal banks and weeping willows dip their silver green branches into the water. The expanse of Primrose Hill park rises gently above the canal banks. Its grassy slopes are burnished gold by the setting sun. The spire of St. Mark's Church is silhouetted against the deepening colours of the sky. The boat moves forward and into the tunnel under Maida Hill. Inside the tunnel, all is darkness. You feel like you have entered a portal between worlds. The water's quiet ripples are amplified. You close your eyes and let yourself bathe in the reverberating sound of the waves. When you open your eyes again, light is beginning to creep into the tunnel. Soon the cool shadows dissolve and you are out in the world again, this time in Little Venice. This tiny canalside district is a world unto itself. Here the waterway has widened and houseboats cluster together like a floating village. You thread a path between them, admiring the daisies and ribbons and anchors painted along their cabins and the red geraniums that sprout in their window boxes. One boat displays handmade crafts and jewelry in its window, while another is a floating bookshop with paperbacks arranged in crates. On the deck, you spy some of the boat's residents relaxing on their own decks. On one boat, a woman stands painting at an easel. On another, a couple stand with mugs of tea cupped in their hands, watching as the sun finally fades from the sky. Delicious cooking smells waft from the boat's galley kitchens. They mix with the smell of damp wood and the earthy scent of water and the short, sweet bursts of rose and jasmine that emanate from the gardens lining the water. As you drift past the houseboats, you notice a pair of white swans skimming the water. You follow them for a while past waterside cafes and restaurants, the lights of the houses and cafes that line the canal grow fainter and further apart. The sky is vivid purple, the color of dusk darkening into night. You sense movement from one of the banks and turn to see a murmuration of starlings. Hundreds of birds move as one, plotting intricate patterns of flight. As they swoop and dive across the sky, they spin in circles, lifting higher and higher. You admire their aerial ballet until, as one, they descend to roost in the branches of a sprawling oak tree. Stars prick through the sky and a breeze ripples along the water. Reaching a broad point in the waterway, your narrow boat turns, retracing your earlier route. Now you are gliding eastward. You make good time sailing through the city centre, where the sleek buildings of Paddington and King's Cross are tall and silvery under the light of a half moon. Yet even among the newness, there is a sense of calm. The air is cooler now, touched by the faint fragrance of of wet leaves and moss growing along the old stone embankments. The hum of the city feels distant, muffled by the embrace of the canal. Lights from the offices above twinkle in the darkness, mirrored on the surface of the water. You sail through another canal for a few beats of perfect darkness, then emerge on a quieter stretch of water where Victorian terrace houses rise above the banks. Lamps glow warm yellow behind windows. A fox slips between gardens, flowing down the water in the direction of Victoria Park. You notice more and more narrowboats moored in the canal. They bob up and down on the water. You notice how your breathing slows and deepens to match their gentle rhythm. You breathe in and out, in and out, to the same easeful tempo as the bobbing boats. You turn towards Victoria Park. The trees are dense along the bank here, but when you peek through their branches, you can make out the regal parklands part, shrouded in darkness. An ornate pergola stands on top of a hill. Old fashioned lamp posts line the paths. As you sail by, you hear a loud clinking noise and turn to see the park keeper locking the heavy wrought iron gates at the entrance. Leaving the park behind you, you glide swiftly through hackney. When 19th century warehouses line the banks, a remnant of London's industrial history. The warehouses give way to patches of wild grass and shrubs. For a time, all you hear is the rustling of leaves and grass and the movement of the water beneath your boat. But then, from a distance, you hear voices and warm laughter. Lights dance on the canal's edge. A cluster of boats are docked on the water outside a pub. As you come closer, you may count its sign. The Hope and Anchor drinkers sit outside holding glasses of Dark ale. Inside, a folk band plays. A cluster of appreciative patrons gather round, clapping and stomping in time to the tune. The barman threads his way through the crowd with mugs of beer gripped in his hands. He goes out to the canal bank and passes the drinks over to a group on a houseboat. They toast each other, and when one of them notices you, she raises her glass in your direction. You smile back, but do not stop. You sail on, leaving the Hope and Anchor behind you, making your way deep into the Hackney Marshes. The boat hums softly as it cuts through the still waters, reeds whispering against the hull. Overhead, willows bow low, their branches tracing ripples on the water's surface. Centuries ago, these marshes were wild and swampy. They were once home to Saxon fishermen and Viking tribes. Later, farmers grazed cattle here and bargemen transported loads of coal and timber through the marshland's watery corridors up to the River Lea. Now the marshes are a wild sanctuary in the city, home to kestrels and pheasants, badgers and voles. Hawthorn BlackBerry bushes grow in tangles along the banks. Past these thickets, fields stretch out like blankets. The boat drifts beneath an old brick bridge, its arch thick with ivy, and turns into the lee, navigation flowing smoothly and swiftly down the waterway until you come to Bow Locks. Bow, in the East End of London, is a place where history still lingers among modern buildings. Old Roman roads are still in use here, and medieval churches and Victorian row houses are woven through the streets. The canal locks, too, have a history. The sturdy brickwork of the locks is worn smooth by time and etched against the night are the outlines of distant chimneys, remnants of the Industrial Revolution. Water swirls as the lock opens and your boat sails inside. Amid creaking and rumbling, water pours into the lock and gently lifts your boat level with the next stretch of canal. You allow yourself to enjoy the sensation of being suspended in air. Before the lock opens, water rushes out and you continue your journey. You are making your way towards Limehouse Cut, which leads towards Limehouse Basin. Steel bridges pass overhead and a salt tang sharpens the air. You are nearing the River Thames. As the wide, slow flowing river approaches, you find yourself gazing once again at the London skyline. The sky is velvet black now and the city is illuminated. The twinkling lights of the skyscrapers and churches and bridges are reflected hazily in the inky dark water. You stay for a moment, letting your eyes move across the scene, feeling the cool nighttime breeze wash over your skin, listening to the silky sounds of the water swishing against the boat's hull and enjoying the lilting rhythm of the boat moving on the tide. The boat sails on, making one final stop in a tucked away inlet of water. It docks where wildflowers push through the asphalt on the towpath, and a handful of other narrow boats are already resting for the night. Behind you, the door to your cabin slowly swings open. The moon provides you with just enough light to find your way inside the cabin, where a neat wooden bed made up with crisp linen awaits you. Your night on the waterways of London has left you feeling inspired and filled with a deep calm. You are ready now to rest. You draw back your blankets, settle your head on the pillow, and close your eyes. The sound and movement of the water all around you is as soothing as a lullaby, And soon enough it sends you into a deep, replenishing sleep.