Back to the Beginning

I didn’t like being at The Rock, mainly because I had no internet connection, unless I could somehow connect through CLOUDPIP or the Council of Urban Connection. What’s that all about?

Easter has come and gone, where does time go? Paul and Rose came over and stayed the night. At breakfast the only cereal I had on offer was Oat Crunchy, “That’s fine,” said Paul,

“I really like that.” Having passed it over he wasn’t happy, “What’s this? It’s not Oat Crunchy.”

“Yes it is,” I replied, take a look at the packet. “Oh, sorry my mistake, it’s Crunchy Oat.”

We took the boat a mile or so along the River Cherwell to turn around at a winding hole. Paul took to the tiller for the first time in 18 years and I have to say he did very well.

Next up was Aoiffe, Phil, Naomi and James. They arrived when Paul and Rose were still here making a houseful. Hire boats can cater for seven, but it seemed crowded to me when I am normally alone. The biggest problem, other than constantly having to squeeze by people, is the loo filling so quickly.

We went out for a few hours, stopping for lunch on way. Once moored up I went inside the boat to see a wonderful spread of food covering the table. I felt guilty for having provided nothing. Being a hot bank holiday the canal was busy, full of day trippers dressed as pirates and supping beer. Phil and James took the tiller handling the boat with ease.

Cath also popped in from time to time on her way to golf and the garden centre. Caroline dropped by, a hectic time indeed.

I moved to Thrupp for internet, water and to empty the loo. Over the Easter period I had cycled through to see if there were places to moor, it was packed. As I did so a guy really stood out. I am sure I recognised him, but couldn’t think where from. Each time I cycled through he was there. He was there again when I arrived on the boat but disappeared before I could talk to him. I eventually caught up with him in Annies’ Cafe, “I recognise you from somewhere, but I can’t think where.”

“I have been here for the past three years,” he told me.

“Oh! In which case you must look like somebody I know.”

We got chatting. Maffi works here hiring the boats out and had plenty of stories to tell. “Sometimes I have to go to Oxford Narrowboats at Lower Heyford and help them out…”

“That’s where I recognise you from,” I interrupted excitedly. “You were the very first person I spoke to about boating. I stopped by when cycling by on a fully loaded touring bike, you must remember me.”

“No.”

“Bones was there as well, you know, the girl who writes in Canal Boat magazine.”

“Yeah, Mortimer Bones is often there. Her boat is normally moored over here but she is on holiday. She has an incredible memory, she will remember you.”

I knew she wasn’t here, I passed her in Cropedy as she stood talking to a group of people.

I felt chuffed to have met Maffi and wanted to meet Bones, it was taking me back to the beginning. We chatted easily, until 18:15 when the cafe closed at 17:00. Maffi showed me the Muddy Waters books, the boating equivalent to Thomas the Tank Engine. “The guy who writes them lives in Yarnton and most

if it is based around Thrupp.” He showed me some of the illustrations, they were clearly Thrupp.

My mooring had also taken me back to the beginning for I was moored perhaps two boat lengths from where I had first stepped on a narrowboat in the days when I cycled out to chat to boaters to gain a little knowledge. A guy was painting his boat moored next to me, we got talking. Ian and his wife Kara have been living on their boat for around 10 years. I was invited on to see the handiwork of Jim, I boat furniture maker we both knew from Stourport. We too chatted easily. I told them of my house nearby. “Where is it?” they asked.

“Combe.”

“We know Combe, it’s a nice little village. We used to live in Witney.”

“Where about in Witney were you?”

“Farmers Close.”

“What number?”

“Number 2, by the council offices.”

“I lived at number 150.” It’s a small world.

Maffi’s dog Milly ran past the boat, so I stuck my head out of the window. “I am going to the pub, fancy a pint?” said Maffi. I didn’t take much persuading.

“I spoke to Bones, she remembers you and was delighted to hear you have a boat. She is up near Stoke Bruerne at the moment.”

We got on well. I am going to enjoy my time in Thrupp.

The atmosphere on the canal has changed drastically since the holidays began. Before I saw the odd boat during the day, more often than not I was alone. Those on their boats were liveaboards and happy to chat to the rare passerby. Now the canals are packed and other than passing the time of day there is little conversation. It’s the same as walking down a high street, you don’t talk to anybody, yet in the country you will more than likely talk to a stranger.

I also ponder my new life compared with cycling. As much as I love it, it lacks the excitement of cycle touring, perhaps because I am familiar territory. To start with I was alone, it felt adventurous. Now the canals are busy it doesn’t.

As much as I like to see so many people out enjoying the countryside, I suspec

t after a while I will look forward to the quieter winter months. There is no pleasing some people.

I’ve succumbed. It’s a boater ritual to feed the ducks. It’s my bread and I am a tight git, they can go and get there own bloody bread. Whilst I am moored a Thrupp with the nice patch of lawn between the boat and the narrow road I throw open the side doors. As I did so on one occasion a solitary duck came waddling over with that “I am just a hungry duck with an empty wallet,” look on it’s face. I gave in but only if it would take the bread from my hands. It did willingly, along with my thumb. Now every time I open the doors it waddles over saying “Remember me?” or the quacky equivalent. (Photo).

Home sweet home

I cruised slowly past a group of moored boats, my day had only just started. The boat at the end pulled out in front of me, forcing me into reverse. Why couldn’t they wait? A guy tending to his mooring ropes looked at me. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” I called out. His head dipped as he laughed cheekily, for the comment wasn’t aimed at the boat blocking my way, he was the owner of the boat ‘Dilligaf.’ I have seen another one since, they are as common as muck!

Other interesting boats were passed, such as the ‘Mobile Bike Shop,’ complete with brand new Brompton’s. Bike shops are never there when you need them.

I arrived at Napton top lock on the Oxford canal. I was back to narrow locks which seemed to small and easy after their heftier, wide relations nearby on the Grand Union. As I filled the lock a female mallard pranced around all agitated, quacking as though it were going out of fashion. A British Waterways guy stood at the bottom gate peering at something as water

poured in from the top gate, but my little brain still didn’t compute. Having opened the top gate I hopped back on the boat, only then realising around ten chicks had enjoyed a turbulent fairground ride from the bottom to the top of the lock. They enjoyed a bit more turbulence as I put the engine in gear and moved off. They tried to squeeze their way between the gate and the lock wall...no chance! I later heard from following boats they still hadn’t found a way out.

A series of locks had to be worked through before reaching the summit and a ten mile cruise through rural countryside where open pasture ended at the waterside. Here there were no trees or hedges to spoil the views, the grass had been trimmed low by the grazing cattle and sheep, their lambs bouncing around in the warmth of the early afternoon.

I reached the downward locks the following day. Progress was so slow. I seemed to arrive at every empty lock as a boat approached from the other direction. It’s etiquette to give priority to the boat to which the lock favours, so I opened the gates and waited for them to enter and fill the thing. Everybody was so slow. It’s early season and early holidays meaning folk arrived at locks hardly knowing what to do, opening the paddles so slowly it would have greatly speeded up the process if I had peed in the thing! I remained patient for you don’t live life on the canal to be in a rush, but it wore thin as the process was repeated at each lock. I watched a guy on a 25 foot boat as he gave the side a healthy whack as he entered the lock, “That’s the first kiss of the season,” he called out. I doubted it would be the last. As he was exiting the lock I warned him of another boat coming down causing him to immediately stop. He couldn’t work out what to do until I suggested it might make more sense for him to go and wait nearer the next lock so that I could enter this one.

As I was leaving another lock a boat was coming towards me no more than a 100 metres away. A woman appeared with her windlass above me, “There is no need to close the gates, there is another boat coming.” Do I really look that stupid? (No need to answer that.)

I stopped the night at Cropedy, a few miles above Banbury. I cycled over to Mollington to ring, then struggled to find the church. I asked a guy the way as he entered his house. “What’s the best way for you? Oh, you are on a bike aren’t you?” I didn’t bother to answer because if the cycling shorts and helmet weren’t a big enough clue, then surely the bike I sat perched on was. “Yes,” he added staring at me. Oops! I think I was supposed to answer the question. Perhaps I really do look stupid and he was making sure I realised I was on a bike. I suppose anybody cycling a Brompton looks a little balmy. I have heard it said the advantage of cycling a Brompton is that you can’t see how silly you look.

Nick and Lesley brought their daughters Jessie and Molly over, along with an Ipswich Town mug. They bought is specially knowing I am a Norwich supporter and found it hilarious. I didn’t. Norwich play Ipswich tonight and I shall have a celebratory drink from it this evening if we win. The girls were a mini riot as we cruised down to Banbury, Molly sounding like a stampede from inside as she raced along the roof.

Having arrived in Banbury I cycled back to pick up their car. I used to think cycling slowed me down but a boat is far worse. I crawled so slowly out of the car park gates as though I were manoeuvring the boat around an obstacle. On the open road I put my foot down, “Whoa, this thing goes more than three miles an hour!” I parked in the car park a few yards from the boat.

My laboured cooking ealier was wasted as they took me out for a meal and a pint in the evening. As they departed Nick made me feel good by saying it had felt more like a holiday than a day out. There departure at nine o’clock was a slow one for I had parked in a car park that shut at eight o’clock. I recommend it though as it makes the car very easy to find.

I spoke to a women at Banbury Quakers on Sunday morning, “We used to have a women

who lived on the canal who regularly brought her dog along,” she told me. I assumed it would have been parked outside, but by pure coincidence at that precise moment another women arrived with a dog which was taken in for the meeting. It ensured there would be no silent meeting as it growled and barked at all the late arrivals.

The canal was getting busier, there were queues for the locks. As I was about to pull out at the start of the day I could see another boat approaching in the distance, so I let it pass as I was in no rush. As I then pulled out another boat pulled out in front making me third in line, a theme that remained for the day.

“You can’t be very happy at the moment,” I said to a lad wearing a Sheffield United jersey as we waited at a lock.

“If they want to get relegated they have to lose the next game,” he told me.

“I don’t suppose they are planning on being relegated.”

“In which case they have to win a load of games.” I was right, he wasn’t happy.

I moored opposite the Rock of Gibraltar, home at last. Come evening I ventured in for a pint. Of the three cask beers only one was left. “Is that all you have got?” I asked.

“Unless you want this last pint with a large head. You can have it for the price of a half.” I didn’t need to be asked twice.

Where have all the boats come from?

A long day called for an early start, the boat gently gliding into the top lock in the coolness of the morning. It went well, until the lock was emptied and I climbed down the ladder and back onto the boat. The bow drifted across the lock placing me on the wrong side for the gate I had opened, the other left shut to save the effort of running around the locks to open and close the gates unnecessarily. Shunting backwards and forwards eventually saw me on my way with the thoughts ‘I don’t like these wide locks. This could take forever!’

Boating single handed makes you learn fast. From then on I made sure the boat remained against the side of the lock the whole time and if the bow drifted out when I got on, I corrected it by pushing against the lock wall from the stern.

Down the main flight I worked two locks ahead, making sure they were full and a gate opened. Once I entered the second I walked back to close the gates left open when exiting the locks, then prepared the next two ahead. It worked well, progress seemed fast. Fast it wasn’t!

“Have you been going through locks since I last saw you?” a voice called out. I had been. I was the only boat moving all day and no luxury of crew to open and close gates.

The locks around bridges were popular haunts for sightseers and picnickers alike. A mother walked her toddler up to boat. “Look, there’s the lounge, and here’s the dining area. This is the kitchen. Can you see the saucepans? It’s just like a small house. And what do you think is through this window. It’s the bedroom,” she said in an ever rising voice. I became used to

being the centre of attention whilst cycling around the world, and this is no different, but I can see it wearing thin over time. To be honest I didn’t particularly mind, but I wonder what she would have said if I had stuck my nose up against the windows of her house and said, “And this is the lounge. Look, they are all sat around watching the television. It’s just like a large boat.”

Lower down the flight the locks became spread out and too far to walk ahead and open gates. I soon decided tying up before the lock was wasting time, so nosed up to the lock entrance, walked the gunwales and tied up with the bow rope, then once the lock was ready I pulled the boat in by hand.

I made it through in six hours and thought it went very well. When I cycled I travelled slowly, deciding walking was too slow for me, yet in six hours I had travelled two miles. Walking is so fast.

I stopped for the weekend in Warwick, basking in the unseasonably hot sunshine. Two miles further on are the boat hirers Kate Boats. From there hirers head out with gay abandon. I am moored on a straight, but was still alarmed by the speed they passed, zig-zagging along the way. I watched as one made for the narrower bridge at full speed. I could see they were off course, in line for a collision with the tow path. At the last second the tiller was pushed hard to the right sending the boat careering for the bridge and the crew scurrying for cover before they became crushed along the side. At no point was the speed ever reduced. It’s madness! If I weren’t a boat owner I would probably find it funny, but it’s only a matter of time before I become a victim. I don’t understand it. Would the same people hire a car if they couldn't drive, then head down a motorway over the speed limit, swerving around without ever taking their foot of the accelerator? No, they wouldn’t. I know they are unlikely to harm anybody, but when they are in control of 20 tonnes of steel, they really should at least try and think about what they are doing. Throughout the afternoon there was a steady flow of Kate Boats.

The following afternoon brought a steady flow of Napton Hireboats. These guys now had a day of experience under their belts (and probably their first collisions) so were slower and much more proficient. As I sat reading in my conservatory I knew they were on their way long before they arrival as the canal would start to flow towards the lock as they filled it.

I wandered around Warwick checking out the castle and some of the old houses. I enquired at the church about ringing. “Yes, they will be ringing tomorrow. They are very good and will be pleased to see you.”

“Ooh! If they are very good they wont be pleased to see me I can assure you.”

“I live nearby, so if I hear a bum note I will know it’s you.”

Are little old ladies wearing blue gowns and crosses around their necks, acting as bouncers on the church doors, allowed to use the word ‘bum’?”

Dodgy areas for mooring are always referred to as ‘bandit country’ by fellow boaters as they warn me where not to stay, but I am quickly learning that swans are the real thugs along the canals. As I sit minding my own business they come up and stick their heads over the side hissing aggressively in that menacing, “Giss a bit of bread,” tone. I was saved by somebody in the apartments opposite when the resounding ‘splat’ of piece of Mothers Pride hit the surface from high above, giving me enough time to lock all the doors and close the windows.

Departing Warwick was a whole new boating experience. Before Warwick I had then canal to myself, the only boat in the Hatton flight. This week however the schools are off and the canal is full of families on boats. All but one of the locks today I shared with other boats, meaning I had a crew by default. Progress is so much quicker when you motor into open locks and motor straight out. Busy canals are not like busy roads, the locks spreads everybody out, so as two boats come out of a lock two go in, there are never boats behind and the next boats coming the other way are a further ten minutes apart. For the first two locks I shared with Martin and Cari who I had seen a number of times before. I stopped to fill my water tank while they stopped at Tesco and we never saw each other again. I teamed up with another couple and we flew along. When the locks were close together we exited and entered the locks side by side so save time.

I stopped the night at Long Itchington, I really didn’t fancy the next flight of ten locks, my crew continued. For me there is no rush, they will still be there tomorrow.

As I prepared the first lock of the day another boat arrived. They were Marian and her daughter Ruth, also new to boating and sharing a lock for the first time. Progress was again swift, though we weren’t as swift as the working boat and butty behind us, they were really fast. Once out the top of the flight we split up, so I let the working boats though at the next flight and they were out of sight before I had left the first lock. Another boat arrived and joined me, a tour boat with lots of eager faces, though useless as a team. All six of them waited for the boat to exit until I pointed out the next lock, just a few yards away, needed setting and the top gates closing.

“The top gates aren’t open are they? Why do people leave them open?” they moaned rather than getting on with the job in hand.

Their minds were elsewhere, “I need a fag!” was the phrase I kept hearing.

The Big Boys are Looming

Having glided gently away from my mooring I left suburbia behind and entered open countryside. As if to emphasise the transition I chased a Kingfisher along the cut. Each time the bow neared him he took off screeching, the turquoise strikingly bright on a dull windy morning. I eventually lost track of it. Shame, I was wondering what it would do if a boat came the other way.

Less than two hours later I was mooring up at Warring’s Green opposite the permanently moored boats. Chris called out from the boat opposite, its bow doors adorned by a skull, as was his t-shirt.

I chatted to the biker while his dog Harley raced around.

“See the name of my boat?”

“Dilligaf?” I said questioningly.

“Yeah. People ask what is means. If they are posh I tell them it’s a place in Wales, but it really means, ‘Do I look like I give a fuck.’” Apparently I don’t look posh!

He introduced to his neighbour, Sarah, a nurse. “If I was heading for Oxford I would go the long way round,” she told me. “There are 46 wide locks along the Grand Union and they aren’t fun. Go the other way and they are all narrow locks, it’s much easier.” I had no intention of going back, my fate is sealed, I am going in at the deep end. “If you head down the locks at the weekend you have more chance of joining a boat with a crew.”

The Blue Bell stood a few yards from where I moored so I ventured in.

Despite the rural setting there were reminders I had only just left the city. A Blues flag hung behind the bar celebrating Birmingham City’s recent Cup Final victory, and a guy sat at the bar with Wing Yip blazoned across his back. The Aston office where I worked is a stones throw from the massive Chinese cash and carry.

By the time I left it was pitch black. I never go out

with a torch, but for a change I regretted it. It was so dark I couldn’t find the steps down to the canal towpath, the lights of a passing car proved to be my saviour. Back at the boat Chris and Sarah were there for a chat. Eight hours I had been there, yet I knew my neighbours better than most city folk know theirs.

Sarah slipped her moorings the same time as me, heading off the other way. She was smartly dressed as though she were heading for the office, very different from most boaters who make me look well dressed. I saw one guy wearing a multi coloured jacket made from towels that line most bars in pubs.

I reached another drawbridge, this time manually operated from the non towpath side of the canal. I moored up, took a rope across the bridge, raised the bridge, pulled the boat across and climbed back on, motored though, then climbed off again, over the railing and

lowered the bridge while the front end of the boat drifted across the canal. I suspect bridges are going to be a real pain.

A couple of miles further on I arrived at the first lock going downhill. Having entered the lock I tied the centre rope around a bollard and opened the bottom paddles. The boat drifted back. If the boat is too far back as the water is emptied out the boat can become stuck on the cill (see photo). It’s bad news as it can’t be refloated and requires a crane to lift it out. I panicked and quickly shut the paddles, thankfully in time, then pulled the boat forward. It was the first of a flight of locks, if they all went like this one my nerves would be tested. At the next I used the bow rope rather than the centre rope and looped it around the hand rail on the bottom gate. Success, much easier

to handle, especially as the rope is right beside me. From there on I got into a smooth rhythm through the locks.

Small bridges passed over the flight of locks, made of two halves with a gap down the middle. They were made in such a way to allow the rope from the horse to the boat to be passed through without detaching it. They should have used diesel engines, it’s much easier.

I let Martin and Cari pass on their boat as they were quicker through the locks than me. At the bottom I caught up for a chat. They sell jewellery from their boat and I had already met them in Birmingham. They too are heading down the Oxford Canal, our paths will cross again.

At Kingwood Junction I turned onto the Grand Union Canal, a wide motorway of a canal compared with those I had travelled along, a motorway with no traffic. The boat running on the same rev count moved faster and smoother through the water, a sure sign the it was deeper too. I moored up for the night before the canal plummeted down through the Hatton flight into Warwick. I took a walk through the locks to access them before I negotiated my way through a set of wide locks. They looked daunting. It will take me all day to cover the two miles into town through the 21 locks.

First drawbridge

My desire to stay longer in Birmingham forced me to move for I was only permitted to stay at my first mooring for 48 hours. I moved 150 metres to where I could stay for 14 days.

The bollards were badly positioned for a 60 foot boat. Ideally the ropes from the bow and stern need to be at 45 degrees from the bank to hold the boat still whereas the best I could do was 90 degrees to the bank. To stop the boat from moving when boats passed I attached the two centre ropes to the two bollards alongside the boat. This not only kept the boat steady, but had an added advantage. Whenever there was a slight movement, the rope would pull through the guide on the edge of the roof

creating a lovely creaking noise like a wooden boat at sea.

Mooring in a new spot still feels strange. Unlike camping where you can tuck yourself away where nobody will find you, mooring a boat shouts out “Here I am!” to every Tom, Dick and Harry. In the middle of a city you question whether you are safe. I was, I needn’t have worried. The only hassle I had was from a couple of Canada Geese who turned up at eleven-thirty each night and tapped, rather annoyingly, on the side.

I stayed in Birmingham to wander around old haunts, taking time in places I had rushed through during my lunch breaks when working in Aston. I rather like Birmingham, but it has a Jekyll and Hyde identity. That’s not quite right, it’s more of Jekyll, Hyde and friend identity. Little pockets of redevelopment are plush. Take the canal for example, the industrial warehouses of yesteryear have long since made way for swish apartments and even swisher bars and restaurants. Or the gleaming glass of the Bullring standing proud, enticing all in to empty their wallets, these are nice places to be, even with an empty wallet. Then there are the old bits, majestic old buildings outliving the hideous constructions on the 60’s and will probably outlive the developments still unfinished. These are pockets too, but walk between the pockets of old and new and there are shabby old buildings lying derelict, awaiting their turn to be pulled down and replaced with modern offices. It will be like painting the Forth Bridge, by the time all the new building has finished we will look at what is being built now and say, “How did it ever get planning permission. Pull the thing down.” On the other hand it may warrant reconstruction due to inadequate building techniques, they aint built to last.

I caught up with old friends. Wayne and Andrea are still working at Cap Gemini and came over to the boat. They worked late (some things never change) and hadn’t eaten, so we walked to one of those swish restaurants where they were known and made at home. I enjoyed their company, but my lifestyle doesn’t permit me to splash out on such luxuries. I felt uncomfortable, a fish out of water, though I know I really had no need to feel that way whilst in the company of Wayne and Andrea, they are good friends and do not judge me on what I have, or more to the point what I don’t have.

Chris also came out to visit me. On Saturday with Chris, I moved the short distance to Edgbaston, the leafy, tree lined mooring beside the university cleverly disguising the fact I was still only a mile and a half from the city centre. At night it was silent, but by day the towpath was busy with walkers and students jogging. I began to realise why boat with portholes are favoured by some rather than the airy large windows I have opted for. There was a constant stream of people until the rain arrived. It rained hard, the towpath changed. There was silence other the pounding of rain on the roof, the towpath deserted as if hit by the plague. I became restless, eager to be out in the rain, so I walked sheltered by a large umbrella. There is something special about walking in the rain, yet sheltered by a thin piece of fabric.

In the morning I rang at Birmingham Cathedral, another place I had seen so many times before. With an early ring at eight-thirty I expected few. It was packed. Over 30 ringers turned up, mainly because one of their best ringers had died on Friday, so they all came to pay their respect. Rod Pipe was a name I knew, I met his brother George whilst ringing around Ipswich. The brothers are very well known in ringing circles so his death had come as a shock.

I visited Edgbaston Quakers. Afterwards I spoke to somebody who lives on a boat very close to where I had been moored. We talked for half an hour but by the end was still unable to decide if they were male or female, they were certainly dressed as a female. The partner was female, but that didn’t really help in drawing a conclusion.

Despite being with others and single handing the boat, today was the first time I sailed alone. It was a tame introduction, six miles, no locks and one Sainsbury’s.

Beneath a bridge workmen were digging up the towpath, “I think you have got it right,” one called out, “what a life.” I agreed.

I passed through suburbia. On a factory wall were signs ‘Warning: fragile roof.’ I assumed they were there to warn trespassers and thieves. What is this country coming to? Soon we will be required to have signs on our houses, ‘Warning: Back window has been left unlocked, we don’t want you cutting yourself on broken glass do we.

Once you have taken all the valuables please close the window to keep the heat in (unless you have nicked the boiler as well, in which case don’t bother.)’

At Kings Norton junction I turned onto the Stratford on Avon Canal and immediately passed through the now disused guillotine stop lock (photo), built by the old private canal companies to protect their water supply.

At Shirley I reached the draw bridge (photo), the first of many I will come across, and something I have been dreading. They wont come any easier than this one. Narrows before the bridge saved tying up, the bridge was operated automatically by using a British Waterways key and pressing a button located on the towpath side of the bridge. Gates came down across the road, the bridge went up, I hopped on the boat, passed through and got off to drop the bridge and open the road. Piece of cake.

The mooring was chosen to be as close as possible to Pete’s house, another ex-colleague. His sense of direction is terrible, I doubted his ability to find the place, even with his sat nav. But find it he did, providing as always, an evening of interesting anecdotes and laughter. Pete was the last of the reunions, we have all chosen very different paths, we are all on our own personal journeys. I am crap at staying in touch, but I am glad to have made an effort.