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).