Jolly boating weather

Ceci n'est pas un bateau

The first real hint of spring is in the air at last. I know it doesn't do to complain, when the winter has been so mild (and there's still probably some to come) but I do love to see a bit of sunshine. It's generally accepted that the darkness of winter can be depressing, but to me it's as much the cold, that keeps you huddled and shrivelled and indoors, that's oppressive. So as soon as a shaft of sunshine cuts into the corner of my little garden (which gets hardly any sun in the winter, being surrounded by buildings), I'm out there standing in it, leaning over the fishpond, trying to sense the first touch of warmth. In the summer, you will never catch me complaining that it's too hot. Firstly, England really doesn't do hot, and it's a bit of an insult to people where it's really hot for us to complain about temperatures in the mid 20s c. Secondly, I reserve absolutely my right to complain about the cold, to huddle and shiver, and go round banging windows shut and lighting fires, and it seems a bit greedy to try and have it both ways.

What a lovely weekend this would have been to go boating, in the fresh, bright, newly warm air. Instead, I have been, to put it vary loosely, gardening. Or rather, working in the garden. Well, really, the back yard behind the garden wall, in the dampest corner where the sun never shines and all the old pots of plants are left to die, a place of drowned snails and green slime, sodden bricks and the sinister vestiges of the outside toilet that presumably used to serve both our house and next door. So I moved the piles of bricks, swept up the never-ending crumblings of render and flakes of old distemper and generally Let The Air Get To It (a pretty much universal panacea, in my experience. Except for fish. Oh, and I suppose old wooden boats); I emptied and scrubbed the rather impressive collection of plant pots built up over the years, and replaced them in rather winsome fashion. I can now go and hang out the washing without losing the will to live. What's more, it might even dry.

But I still wish I was boating.

Meanwhile in Newhaven....

I'm making another effort with the Newhaven blog. Just posted some old(ish) photos today with hopefully more to come, but as I'm a bit hard up for wet material for here, I shall give you a sneak preview. Here's the Rhoda B seen from the now defunct pedestrian bridge, circa 1990.

Lots of noughts

How much was BW's budget cut by last year because of the cock ups at DEFRA? Seven or eight million pounds, from memory? Cut from the funding of a directly government-run organisation. I read in the Guardian this morning that the government has found two BILLION - yes, not seven or eight million, but two million* million - £2,000,000,000,000 to bale out Metronet, who have cocked up running the tube under the Public Private Partnership forced through by Gordon Brown, when he was Chancellor, against the wishes of both the Mayor of London and the then Chief Executive of Transport for London.

The idea of BW being privatised, when it was floated (or flown as one might a kite) last year was met with horror - not least chez nb Warrior. But this just goes to show, if you want the government to dole out the cash, it pays to have the private sector on board. Canals can dry up, tunnels collapse, and fees rise for the sake of relative peanuts, but no private company can ever be allowed to lose money, despite one of the selling points of PPP supposedly being that they are taking the risk, this also being offered as the justification for the enormous returns they can garner on the rare occasions when they don't cock it all up. Why should they bother trying not to when they know that the taxpayer will have to fork out in the end anyway. How much of the twenty five billion sunk into Northern Rock will the government or the taxpayer ever see again?

And people worry about benefit scroungers and asylum seekers.

*If the Guardian has unexpectedly and inexplicably adopted the US interpretation of a billion, you can knock three noughts off that. Still leaves a hell of a lot though.

The rainy road to Ramsey

This is not a great picture - I took it with my phone, which was all I had on me at the time, but which is much better than nothing. There were these perfectly circular pot holes all full of rainwater shining in the low winter sun. In the summer the road is all dust and grit, past the lorry breakers and the scrapyard; in the autumn the fields are sprayed with acid (I suppose as a substitute for burning off the remains of the crops); in the winter they're black earth.

Ah. More tradition....

Found the notebook! Hurrah! Sadly only two more ideas left in it. Here we see Sebastian modelling the traditional way of lighting the stove, using a diesel soaked rag.

A fortnight this weekend, we'll be back up there again, using Warrior as a base for visiting Stoke Bruerne (OK, it's fifty miles away, but that's a lot closer than home). I've not been there before, so it's quite exciting. Prior to our evening engagement, I hope we'll be able to visit the museum - I must check though whether it's open at this time of year. So hang on in there, hopefully there will be some new stories and pictures soon. In the meantime I will have to entertain you with my thoughts on the contents of Waterways World in the 1970s.

Going loco

This is by way of a mindless interlude. I have lost the notebook in which I had written a long list of ideas for blog posts. Once downloaded onto paper, these are deleted from my brain. So here is a random thought: is it not ironic that the Blogger spellchecker does not recognise the word 'blog' (or, actually, 'Blogger' or 'spellchecker').

To accompany the interlude, here is a picture of Huddersfield's famous Locomotive Bridge. You may imagine (or indeed play) any music of your choice to accompany this, and hopefully normal service will be resumed shortly.

HOW much?

The Callumcraft 22, in 1972:
basic model: £598
de luxe model: £1,385

So no depreciation yet there, then.

The Hay Inclined Plane

I suppose twenty five years is quite a long time to expect to remember something, but I do wish I'd paid more attention at the time. Following Richard (Inveterate Swearer) Fairhurst's illuminating comment earlier, I went a-Googling for the Hay Inclined Plane.

The website of the Ironbridge Gorge Museum says that the inclined plane was restored in the 1980s. I was there in 1982, so I suppose that means that it might have changed a fair bit since then. I've found lots of pictures of the plane itself, but none of the area in my first photo.

When I saw the pics of the inclined plane, I realised that I had a photo of that too, in my album. I dashed out to fetch it, and when I slipped it out of its photo corners (can you still buy them?) I saw that I had written on the back: The Hay Inclined Plane. Ironbridge. 28.9.82 (Right: Chris Collard). As if I could forget Mr Collard. Or indeed, Mr (Alan) Wrigglesworth (left arm just visible), who also accompanied us and was, in fact, the history teacher. But to my eternal shame, I do not remember anything at all about the Hay Inclined Plane or the canal.

But, I was there. I've walked down an inclined plane. Lovely words.

Where was I?

Twenty five years ago my A Level History (British Economic and Social 1733-1945) class went on a trip to Ironbridge, to see the famous, ahem, iron bridge, and visit the museum.

Until now the trip has stuck in my mind largely because it was the first time I'd voluntarily been on the tube since, at the age of six, following a bomb scare and a particularly nasty public information film about escalators (I wonder just how many nightmares and neuroses those films have been responsible for over the years), I developed a quite serious phobia of the tube in general and of escalators in particular. I had in the intervening years been dragged down a few times, if not kicking and screaming, then paralysed with terror, by my mother, but now - aged seventeen and with teachers to impress - I gritted my teeth and did it. As these things often go, I now love the tube. It's only very very recently though that I've been able to stand on an escalator without gathering my skirts about me in fear of its nasty sharp pointy teeth. (One of the mottoes that sees me through life is 'stupider people than you have survived').

Anyway, I recall that it was a very enjoyable outing (see, I've always liked old industrial stuff) but I was looking through my boxes and boxes of old photos earlier and I found one taken on a bit of the trip that I don't remember at all.

I had written on the back: Disused canal, Shropshire 28.9.82 and something that looks like (I have always, reputedly, had terrible writing. I think it looks quite nice, but I suppose I must grant that that doesn't necessarily make it easy to read) Bottom of Hay I. Place. Now I have no idea whether that refers to the location where the photo was taken or to my system for filing it, or indeed whether that was actually what I intended to write, but I offer it up for what it's worth.

We went by train, so we can't have travelled far afield. This must therefore be somewhere near Ironbridge. It is surely also a fairly distinctive location. So can anybody shed any light on where it is, and what's there now? I really would like to know.

Do you remember your first ...

... lock?

Thinking back to Helyn's travels, which were really our first boating experiences (I'd been on the Broads with my family as a teenager, but certainly came across no locks there. We weren't even allowed near the low bridges.) I realised that the first ever lock we went through would have been Chertsey, but scary as they - and their keepers - were, I'm not going to count the manned Thames locks.

The first lock we ever worked our own way through was therefore Weybridge Town Lock. I remember very little about this. It was November, and it was probably raining. I think we met some people who helped, or at least advised, us ... does that count then? They owned a narrowboat, but at the time were out walking with, I seem to recall, a small dog.

I've just indulged myself with a Canalplan virtual cruise of the River Wey, and there's a picture there, of New Haw Lock that brought back memories, of grubby gongoozlers (just what we did not need) and a fearsome weir. I remember going past Pyrford Basin, and wondering what would happen to the river if all those boats decided to come out at once (little danger of that ever happening, I guess).

I can not recall which lock it was on the Wey in which I manned the boat for the first time and left Jim on the bank, and as the lock emptied so many floating leaves got clogged round the prop that the boat just wasn't going anywhere. As we drifted gently about, I was paying more attention to Jim jumping up and down on the fast receding opposite bank like a cartoon character. Not having much idea of what was going on, in desperation I finally shoved it into reverse which, thankfully, worked like magic; the boat was suddenly operational again, and I was able fairly coolly to steer us back. Took ages to work out what had actually happened though.

Pictures of Helyn

Oddly, we have very few - well, to be honest, no - photos of Helyn on the water. I can only account for this omission by the following factors:
1. While we were using Helyn, we didn't have a digital camera. But, on the other hand, we still had plenty of other cameras, and I've got plenty of photos taken from the boat, just none of her.
2. When you're poodling along a canal, it's easy to hop on and off and take photos of the boat in attractive locations, in locks etc etc. When you're on the Middle Level, the Thames or the Wey (all the places we went with Helyn) it's not so easy. That, however, still does not account for why there are no photos of her on her home mooring at Floods Ferry, the Town Quay at March, Well Creek or any number of other stopping points where there surely must have been firm ground to stand upon.
3. When we had Helyn we were new to boating, and needed all our attention just to do the basics. But again, there were usually three of us, and we did stop and tie up sometimes.
4. Can it be that Helyn just didn't strike me, until it was too late, as particularly photogenic? That it didn't occur to me to take pictures of the boat. I suppose I didn't know then that I would be blogging, and maybe I didn't think that we would use Helyn for such a relatively short time (about two years).

All the more reason to get her out onto the Ouse this summer and get some nice photos then.

Someone recognised her charms though. Peter Coe, an artist who moored his narrowboat at Floods Ferry immortalised Helyn in acrylics in the summer of 2004, and kindly gave us a copy. I hope he won't mind me posting a photo of it (I tried to scan it, but it came out dreadfully), as it's just about the only picture of Helyn we've got. That's her in the middle, by the way, bow into the bank.

It's Helyn week here at nbWarrior

As we bring you another exciting instalment in the adventures of a little GRP cruiser. Today Jim decided that we might as well go the whole hog and took the floor up. There was a little water underneath (we think rain that came in through a poorly sealed deck fitting) but considering no one had looked under there for probably thirty seven years, not bad at all. The GRP has been finished on the inside, and doesn't appear to have suffered any damage, and cleaned up a treat.

The ply floor also will be fine to go back after a bit of an airing - there's no damage to it so presumably the wetness was of very recent origin.

You can see how nice and rigid the hull is*. We put this down to it having been made in the days before the existence of computer programmes that can tell you the very minimum thickness you can get away with.

*Well, perhaps you can't actually see it, but it is.

The Callumcraft 22

Callumcraft is not a well known make of boats. Over the time we've had Helyn I've looked out for others and have seen about three advertised for sale and maybe the same number out on the water - including, if I remember rightly, one at Wheaton Aston. When we first saw Helyn the name rang a vague bell as one of the manufacturers mentioned by Graham Booth in The Inland Boat Owner's Book under 'other reputable names from the past include...'

So guess what was the very - the very - first boat ever to be reviewed in Waterways World? Only the Callumcraft 22, i.e. our very own Helyn. Volume 1, Issue 1, page 14. There are so many treats and revelations (e.g. boating is not getting more expensive. Boating has always been expensive) to be found in my complete set of back issues, but this is a very good and apposite place to start.

One of the many things one notices is that the reviews were a lot more rigorous back then. Nowadays the reviewers struggle to find anything critical to say, and then it's invariably a minor point; boat reviews in the glossies today are much more a 'through the keyhole type exercise' than anything like a useful buyer's guide - especially as the boats reviewed are nearly all bespoke.

Back in Spring 1972 it was a different matter. Here was a fairly mass market boat, and the reviewer finds a fair few things to fault it on - although it fares better than many other boats reviewed in subsequent issues.

The boat they took out was the de luxe version, supplied by local agents Shropshire Union Cruises of Norbury Junction; the boats were actually manufactured in Lancashire. One thing that strikes you about all these early reviews - and indeed the adverts - is how many berths they managed to squeeze in, theoretically at least. This 22 x 7 foot boat was deemed perfectly capable of sleeping six - the only caveat raised by the reviewer being that the dining table would be too small to seat that number. And 'the girls' were very critical of the lack of an oven, standard equipment (even on the de luxe model) being only a two burner hob and grill.

From the outside this is clearly recognisable as our Helyn, despite the fact that Helyn has been modified with a folding windscreen and solid cockpit roof. On the inside, Helyn has lost at least two berths in favour of storage space, fridge and cooker with oven (so presumably 'the girls' would be happier, although I can't recall that I ever used it), and she has been endowed with a far more generously sized table made by us (well, OK, Jim) topped with genuine Formica which took a lot of tracking down, but we wanted it to look authentic! It is good stuff anyway; there's nothing else quite like it. It's still widely used in industrial settings, but no one supplies it in small quantities any more.

I think that with the de luxe version you got such fripparies as cushions and the cockpit canopy - whatever, it was enough to more than double the price. Anyone want to have a guess at what it cost back in 1972?

Oh, what's that on the drive?

Why, it looks like a little boat. It's been there so long I'd stopped noticing it, apart from being careful not to drive into the trailer. But yesterday, being as it was so nice and mild, Jim decided to start getting to grips with Helyn again. He pumped thirty buckets of rainwater out of the bilges, and then set about completely emptying the interior, so that the air can get to it. Helyn still has some of her original 1970 cushions in their blue vinyl covers with white piping, including the triangular one that goes under the foredeck. She also has the original, tri-folding ply-and-grp triangular piece that goes in to make the bed up. I'm particularly proud of that, even though it does have a tendency to turn on you and pinch your fingers if you're not careful.

I clambered up to have a look and was slightly shocked to realise that we hadn't even emptied the food cupboard when we brought Helyn home in November. Er, November 2005. It was still full of tins of beans and soup (which I've rather optimistically transferred to the kitchen cupboard in defiance of the rust spots and 2006 sell by dates) and boxes of cereal (which I haven't). Very Marie Celeste. Thankfully we took the toilet out long ago to be a spare spare for Warrior, or who knows what we might have found there.
Removed all sorts of other treasures too, most of which has been washed and will be put back (dinky little draining rack, melamine crockery, cutlery, bits of wire for poking the outboard with), some of which will transfer to Warrior (handy lamp, tin mugs, very useful non stick interlocking frying pan-cum-cake tin things). Took up the vinyl flooring (we never quite finished fitting it in the first place, but it did beat the purple carpet that we got with the boat) for airing purposes. All has been scrubbed and is smelling remarkably fresh already. Now we just need some dry air to circulate around the south coast.

Sun, spray, and swans

Saturday December 29th, 2.30 pm, Sixteen Foot Drain.

On Stonea ground

Three weeks ago - that's all, although it seems like forever - the Saturday after Christmas, and we were on our way to the village of Stonea, intent upon visiting the Golden Lion which, we were told, did very good food. Checking back with the log book I see we set off from Bill Fen at around ten o'clock, and made our way via Popham's Eau and the Sixteen Foot Drain.

It was still very windy, but for a lot of the way we were heading straight into the wind. The sun was shining, it wasn't raining, and all in all it was a splendid and exhilarating experience. Nary a boat nor another person was to be seen, but the sun glinted off the water, spray coruscated around and over the fore end, little waves whipped past us, swans escorted us, and it was good to be alive, and even better to be out boating on the Fens.

So we'd worked up a nice appetite by the time we got to Stonea, recognisable as a habitation only by the presence of the railway bridge, by which, we knew, the pub was close. Tying up was the usual wet, reedy challenge, but that done we scrambled up the steep muddy bank, made our way around (or in some cases, through) the wire fence, and onto the road.

Stonea not only has a pub called the Golden Lion; it in fact seems to consist entirely of a pub called the Golden Lion, albeit one with a post box in its front garden. A pub, sadly, which does not open Saturday lunchtimes. Back around the fence and down the muddy bank we went, for tea and pasta on Warrior, before going on our way again with the wind and spray even more impressive steering into the setting sun.

Another pumpout for the collection

Here it is: the Bill Fen pumpout pump. Another one to put in the notebook. I was going to say not cheap at £10 plus blue, and you have to do it yourself (including starting the petrol engine), but I forgot that BW ones are now twelve quid, aren’t they? Been spoiled by the EA.

Best one we ever had I think was at Valley Cruisers on the Coventry; really scoured it out. One of the beauties of a good simple dump through toilet, once you overcome any initial squeamishness (and I never thought I would, but I have. Still not entirely sure whether that’s a good thing though), is that you can shine a torch down the hole and watch progress. Also, you can rinse it out with buckets of river water, sloshed straight down the hole, rather than faffing about with hoses and wasting fresh water. Even poke about with a stick, if necessary (although so far I have left that to Jim). There is a lot to be said for simplicity.

Look at that wind!

Thursday morning, December 27th, dawned bright. And windy. Having successfully put it out of our minds overnight, we now had to try to see what was wrong with the prop. We were hoping that it was nothing more than weed and/or other debris, but at the back of our thoughts was that nagging fear that we might have done some more serious damage, through the prolongued reversing, especially if that had been combined with having something (like a branch of the offending tree) on the prop.

So down the weedhatch with the weed weapon (I wonded what its proper name is? It’s some sert of agricultural implement, like a scythe but with a long handle and a straight blade). Over time a fair bit of weed came off, but it didn’t look like a boat-stopping amount. So we fired up the engine, and tried to push off from the bank, but the wind was blowing directly side on, and even with three of us there was no way we could get the front and the back off enough at the same time. The engine, ominously, didn’t seem to be helping much. It was about now, I think, that I suggested we wait until the wind dropped a bit. Then I checked the weather forecast and saw that this wasn’t due to happen until the Sunday – which proved to be completely spot on.

We were now starting to think that we might be in trouble, so plucked up our courage (remembering how they’d laughed at others who had the misfortune to get stuck up Holme Fen) and rang the Shotbolts. It was seriously crossing our minds that someone might have to come out and tow us back. In fact Lyn was ever so nice and sympathetic, so that was all right. With the phone propped in the optimum – indeed the only – position for getting a signal, we waited for John to call back.
When he did, he thought that we’d probably picked up more weed than we thought (apparently by this time of year it hasn’t actually gone away, it’s just sitting on the bottom), and had also probably picked more of it up again in our attempts to move subsequently. He suggested clearing it again, then poling the boat forward ten feet to be sure of being well away from any left in the water before putting it in gear again. So this is what we did. It probably wouldn’t have seemed any more successful – the wind was still doing its worst pushing us onto the bank, but through a combination of luck and Sebastian’s superhuman poling, we got the front pointing out while there was still water under the back, and we were, finally, off.
Once we were in the middle of the channel and under way it was clear there wasn’t a problem, the prop was working fine. We hardly dared stop, however, for fear of it all happening again.

Proof that boating makes you happy

One grumpy git. One teenage boy. Yet look, they're smiling! At each other.

Look closely and compare how many layers of clothing each is wearing. The weather for our Christmas trip, apart from the wind, was actually pretty much perfect. It was dry, sunny and not too cold (it was, thankfully, a south westerly wind). Even though, it was still December, and my attire generally comprised something like thin long sleeved vest; thick long sleeved vest; long sleeved t-shirt; short sleeved t-shirt; woolly jumper; fleece, all atop my lovely winter padded Rohan trousers, about four sizes too big but lovely and warm. Sebastian is wearing a short sleeved t-shirt and a cheap fleece. That's it (well, and trousers, obviously. I hope it's obvious, anyway). He simply does not feel the cold. The funny thing is, he doesn't feel the heat either. At the end of the day, dressed exactly the same, he was sitting six inches away from the back stove which was going like a blast furnace. I could scarcely stay in the cabin, but he didn't even notice.

This was at the optimistic beginning of the trip to Holme Fen. As you might imagine, sadly, the cheeriness didn't last.

Meet the Tuskers

OK, I know this is very, very stupid. Blame Jim, and (to a lesser extent) Baz. And OK, blame me a bit too; I may have played a part in creating the legend of the Tuskers. But I don't actually really believe that they're alive. Unlike some people. This is how it started ...

Many many years ago - I guess it would have been when the film of the Lion King first came out - Sebastian's Auntie Ali bought him a hot water bottle cover in the form of the warthog character. Waterhog, as he was to become known, was an instant hit. So much so that young Baz decided that Jim should have his own hot water bottle the following Christmas. At the local market he spent ages selecting one, and the elephant eventually narrowly won out over the crocodile. This was the same Christmas as I bought Jim the first of many tapes of Round the Horne, very popular with Jim and Baz alike. It thus seemed very natural and appropriate to name the elephant Kenneth. Kenneth the Elephant has quite a good ring to it, no?

Then at a jumble sale I found, on the floor, the sorry specimen that was to become Lionel. Shall I, shan't I, I deliberated... but for 10p, why not. So now we each had a hot water bottle in the form of an exotic animal. Like you do.

Ah. The walrus. What can I say about Wilhelm the Walrus? Only that Jim bought him at a different jumble sale, and he seemed a good sort of boating companion, despite lacking any sort of thermal qualities.

Over the years these artefacts have had characters attributed to them. (Well, we haven't got a telly; we have to amuse ourselves somehow in the long winter evenings). Waterhog is clearly a heavy drinker, jolly company but inclined to vulgarity. Lionel is goodhearted but dim, and rather easily led. Kenneth is a jolly old colonial type who likes a pink gin and twinkles at the ladies. Wilhelm isn't as dour as he looks, but watches over the others with tolerant amusement. We decided (or perhaps discovered?) that they would meet and drink at the Tusker Club (Lionel is an honorary member, on account of not actually having tusks).

In the summer I tell the others that they've gone off on a cruise (but really I've put them away in a box). But in the winter, they like to come boating with us. They like to be tucked up with a big drink of boiling water before we go to the pub. They really are very good travelling companions.

Meanwhile, indoors

As we wend our way slowly backwards, here's a little indoor interlude, so you can see the Christmas light. It was very lovely and cosy inside with that stove going all the time. The lights are bettery operated LED ones, the ones on the right quite dear ones from Woolies the year before last and the others, which are actually blue, cheap from Wilkinsons this year. Each set runs of two AA batteries. Just the thing.

And so we set off...

It's Boxing Day, you will recall. Bright and crisp, dry and not too cold; perfect boating weather with oh just a hint of wind. We have negotiated Lodes End Lock and the delightful River Nene Old Course (anything less like the River Nene per se would be difficult to imagine), and we have turned onto the New Dyke, which, we innocently hope, will bring us to the mysterious Shangri-La that is Holme Fen, a winding hole and the lowest pub in Britain.
It was a nicely overgrown little channel, plenty wide enough for us, but a bit shallow in places. Tall reeds, trees. Not much weed evident in the water - but, we were later to discover, plenty of it still lying on the bottom. We got as far as a very nice big house on the right bank, to find a tree - or part thereof; I would not like to be guilty of exaggeration - which had been cut down, was in the process of being cut up, and part of which was lying in the water.

Perhaps we should have been braver. Perhaps we should have struggled to the bank and somehow contrived to haul it out of the channel. All I can say is that even if this had been possible, none of us thought of it at the time. We thought we could get round it, or maybe through it. We couldn't. It was too shallow, basically. We got stuck. We pushed off, backed off, and tried again. Got stuck again. And decided to call it a day. Holme Fen will be there another time. So we backed all the way out again, all unknowingly collecting a fine wodge of weed off the bottom as we went.
By the time we got back out onto the Nene Old Course it was dark, and the wind was getting up - it was to continue relentlessly for the next four days. On top of this we were starting to sense a lack of power; we wanted to turn round, but couldn't. So we just tied up where the wind was blowing us onto the bank.
...to be continued...

Lodes End Lock

Clearly it is very important that Lodes End Lock not be damaged. More surprisingly, there would appear to be an imminent threat to it, judging by the security measures in place. More notices than the Environment Agency (take a bow, Middle Level Commissioners). A padlock that was fiendishly difficult to lock up again, as per instructions. Sharp pointy fencing all round to prevent access from the land (but of course, easily accessible by water. Boaters must be very trustworthy, and vandals incapable of appropriating a canoe.) The lock level and open both ends, but with the top gates loosely chained together (as per instructions, again.)

Doors and penstocks, not gates and paddles. It's another world here, as if you didn't already know that. It's quite hard getting your head round these Middle Level Navigations at the best of times. For example. Winter, days of rain, normal waterway - more water. Middle Level - less water. Simple when you think about it - these are, after all, drains; designed and built for the removal of water, and largely controlled, as well as made, by the hand of man. In the summer, levels are kept high because the water is used for irrigation. In the winter it's kept low - more so in recent years - to minimise the risk of flooding.

I'm guessing that Lodes End Lock is largely there for flood control, and that's why it's so important. But why is it so vulnerable? Who are the barriers intended to keep away? It's in the middle of nowhere, not an inner city or haunt of bored youth. Perhaps Red Dragon Man can shed some light on the matter ...

This, at any rate, is where we started our journey on Boxing Day; our attempt on the impregnable Holme Fen. The Lode whose End this is is the Ramsey High Lode, and we came to the lock by turning left, rather than right, onto the Old Course of the River Nene. Here is a rather feeble map. Lodes End Lock is in the bottom left hand corner. Of course we all know how it finished, but you haven't seen the pictures yet...

Mulled wine

Just the thing to have sitting on the stove when you're off on an expedition. My recipe is based on one given to me many years ago by my friend Donna, but I suspect it has subtly diverged over the years (a bit like RNs and Nationals). All quantities are fairly approximate:

a bottle of red wine - as rough as you like
a pint of orange juice - NOT the very cheapest stuff. Strangely enough, this does make a difference.
half an orange, sliced up
a couple of cinnamon sticks, broken into 1" bits
a teaspoonful of cloves
about four tablespoonfuls of demerara sugar

put into a stainless pan
heat very slowly over a low heat for at least a couple of hours.

Maybe this just happens to be the way I like mulled wine, but on the other hand maybe it is the ultimate recipe. When I have mulled wine that is horrible (thin and sour) it's usually for one (or all) of three reasons
1. Not enough sugar - it really should be quite sticky
2. Not enough cloves (but then my favourite boiled sweets are clove balls)
3. Not long enough brewing (to get the flavour out of the cloves).

Or if you want a more instant festive drink, make up a quantity of this and keep it in the fridge:
Butter, sugar, mixed spice, nutmeg.
Put a chunk in a cup, add hot water, add rum.
Thus fortified (with wine, not rum), we set off on Boxing Day in search of Holme Fen. Drinking it from pint pewter tankards feels suitably piratical, and there's the added bonus of seeing how far you can spit the cloves - not something you can do at home ... well, not on a social occasion anyway.

Oh! A wine and roses pun just whizzed past me there, but I missed it.

Warrior's roses

Red Dragon Man was asking about Warrior's roses. There are 163 of them altogether, fifty five in the bathroom, a massive eighty four in the back cabin, and a dozen each on the front and side hatches. They are a little bit different from the roses you usually see, although clearly within that tradition; they're slightly more blowsy, more exuberent. I really like them.

All Warrior's roses and castles were painted in 1995, when the boat was new, by Martin Duiker, who I believe was a local (to Bill Fen) artist. You can see his signature, and the date, in the bottom right hand corner of the table cupboard. Apparently he always painted five birds in each scene to represent his five children. I wish I'd known that when I did my little bit of repainting (see below) and then I would have just put two in. Warrior was one of, if not the, last boat he painted before leaving for Australia, never to be heard from since. When we went to the George at Forty Foot last summer and looked at the visitors' book, we saw not only where he'd signed it, visiting by boat, but also a castle scene he'd sketched in it.

The painting has stood the test of time really well. Even on the hatches, exposed to a lot of weather, where I don't think they'd received any attention over the years, were just about recoverable when I finally paid them some attention last summer. I gave them a really light rubbing with very fine sandpaper, and (so far) a coat of Craftmaster varnish. They need some more coats but it kept raining. If you look closely you can see that it's not brand new; there was some cracking, but that just adds to its character and hopefully if we keep up the varnishing regime things shouldn't get any worse.

Another problem is that a previous owner, when he painted the boat (maroon) got quite a lot of splashes and drips on the decorative painting. Ditto green paint on the coal box - gallons of it - when he painted the stove green (why oh why oh why?). I've tried rubbing these off, again, very gently, but it's impossible without damaging the original paint, so those speckles will just have to be lived with. One of the panels on the front hatches was quite badly damaged, with a great big dent in the wood. Jim filled this and made it good, and I repainted the top half of the picture. It was fun to do, and I was quite pleased with the result (having no talent whatsoever in that direction) but it doesn't look much like the original.

Sidebedspread

Jumble sales, sadly, are not what they used to be. When I was about twelve, and my friend Penny first suggested I accompany her to a jumble sale, I was horrified, like the good lower-middle-class girl I was meant to be. But not half as horrified as my mother was when I came back, completely hooked, and with loads of rather indiscriminately chosen old clothes. I was just amazed at how much could be acquired for so little money, and at the treasures that people threw away. I also honed pushing and elbowing skills that have stood me in good stead in numerous situations since.

I continued going on and off from then on, and took it up really seriously again about fifteen years ago. This time it was my turn to take a horrified Jim and get him hooked. More discriminating now, we have got some lovely things over the years, for house, boat and selves. For a few years we were going to at least one, and sometimes two or even three jumbles every Saturday; we planned our weekend around the announcements in the local paper. Then we got a boat and had something else to do at weekends, and also gradually began to notice that jumble sales were becoming fewer, and the stuff at them less worth going for. The general consensus is that the rot started to set in with the rise of car boot sales, but not everyone wants to stand in a cold car park for four hours to make a few quid, and many were still happy to have some local cause come and take their cast-offs away. I think it's probably Ebay that's had more effect - the car boot without standing in the cold. Also charity shops - no waiting for the stuff to be picked up, just drop it off at a local shop. And, more recently still, Freecycle - which is a great idea, and we're using it a lot ourselves to get rid of stuff because it's so quick and you know the stuff's going to someone who wants it (and you get to meet lots of nice people).

But there will always be things, surely, that only I could want? Like, for example, a very small patchwork bedspread made from scraps of 1950s curtains ... well, I certainly found a good home for it.

Whoo! New chimney!

Never let it be said you don't get excitement here at nb Warrior. You will recall that our old saloon chimney mysteriously disappeared at some point last year when we were all looking at the engine, and attempts at buying a replacement at Bill Fen, even more mysteriously, given the standardness of the roof fitting (not to mention the fact that they built the boat), were unsuccessful...

So we got Len Reed the Newhaven welder to make one. I did have a picture of him, at his workshop on the West Quay, just opposite the Fish and Flake Ice Society, but I cannot find it anywhere (still, at least you don't break your nails and get covered in cobwebs looking for electronic photos). He does a lot of work for the local fishing boats. Last time I was there he was making anchors, really simple, traditional picture-book ones.

The chimney's made out of a piece of pipe so it's quite heavy and looks pretty businesslike. It won't be all dollied up, as it's on the 'disappearing' part of the boat; we'll keep it plain. It's even double-skinned, lined with a piece of flue pipe I picked up by the bins at Huddersfield. I knew it would come in handy if I kept it long enough.

We kept the saloon stove going nearly all the time last week, and most of the time the chimney was off anyway for the bridges; didn't seem to make any difference to the operation of the stove, but still, you've got to have one, haven't you.

And look! So far we still haven't lost the little enamel po that makes such a good cover for when the chimney's off.

Merry Christmas chaps!

I'm not entirely sure why they both look as if they're going to meet their doom; the Xmas dinner was very nice. We had festive nut roast stuffed with traditional Paxo, veggie sausages, roast potatoes, carrots and sprouts (me only, no one else likes them), bread sauce and gravy followed by Xmas pud with custard and brandy cream washed down with local (to home) Merrydown vintage cider. Can't remember what sort of cooker Warrior has, but it's the same as everyone else has, original to the boat, taken out and refitted in the new kitchen. Only the colour (brown) really gives its age away. It works great and it was entirely my fault that the potatoes weren't done quite at the same time as everything else.

Here is my secret for the best crispiest roast potatoes - forget all that pre-boiling, shaking them around etc a la Delia. The secret is not to let the fat cool down. So you get it really hot in the top of a hot oven, get your potatoes peeled and then dry them in a tea towel, then when you take the fat out of the oven to put the potatoes in, put it on the hob with the gas (or whatever) on under it while you lower the chunks of potato in with a pair of spoons and turn them over to get them all covered in fat. This way the fat stays hot enough to seal the potatoes; if it cools down it would soak in and make them greasy.

I expect goose fat is probably the best but I've never tried it. I used to use Cookeen but recently have taken to just using vegetable oil. It doesn't seem to make much difference to the cooking. A fat that's solid at room temperature is easier to dispose of though, she says with the wonder of hindsight. As it was, after dinner, I tipped the fat into the jug along with the leftover gravy and said, if I put this outside, it'll be solid by the morning and we can scrape it into the bin. But it wasn't. Although it had settled into interesting strata. So I had to decant it into an old plastic milk bottle which I'd just rather recklessly crushed (and if you rinse them out with a drop of boiling water first, they crush very flat...)

Don't look

No really, DO NOT look. It is TOO horrible.

Is it
a. A salutary illustration from a Victorian healthy living book for boys
b. An aquatic creature uniquely native to the Middle Level. (No, eels DO NOT look like this*)
c. A cucumber that's been left in the (switched off) fridge for two months?

I was just grateful that the two months in question were November and December, not July and August. It made a nice welcome back to Warrior for Sebastian as he helpfully started putting the provisions away.

Anyway, I've come back with a hundred and fifty photos, some of them different, so will be posting them and recapping our holiday adventures over the next few days, to wring maximum value out of the experience. Most of them are nicer than this, but this was how the holiday started. Luckily it was in the salad drawer, so I could just tip it into a binliner (a proper, ooze-proof one, not a Rainbow bag), avert my eyes and tie it up before lifting it up and feeling its gruesome weight. Imagine having to pick it off (out of?) the shelf.
*Actually they might, for all I know. I've never seen one that wasn't chopped, cooked and jellied. I sincerely hope not though.

Warrior's review of 2007

While some people are out enjoying themselves, shrieking and giggling and no doubt dancing in fountains, I have dashed home in order to bring you Warrior's second review of the year just gone (and, neatly, nb Warrior's 350th post, now I've removed those double posts that inserted themselves while I was away. I'm still swaying, by the way. Who'd have thought the water was moving so much.)

And what an eventful year it's been - lots of excitement, new experiences and adventures and ambitions achieved. And what a long time ago it seems now, that it was January 2007 ...

January
Well, actually, nothing much happened in January. I tidied up the cabin, and work proceeded on the engine.

February
As it continued to do in February... while we got on with the engine room, boarding the floor and fitting the batteries and tussling with the electrics, and the first of many electricians.

March
This is when things start happening: RN in Daventry have finished their work on the engine, and it's brought back to the yard where Warrior has been patiently waiting for nearly a year, and settled into its temporary home in a shipping container where I start painting it. Also in March, Warrior is whipped out of the water and the cabin shotblasted, so we get to paint that too. Craftmaster do quite well out of us in March.

April
In April, things continue apace. I finish painting and polishing the engine, and mid-April, it finally goes back into the boat. Not (obviously) having enough to worry about, we decide to have a new hole cut in the roof panel so that we can have a Josher-style roof vent like our neighbours on Minnow. Happy New Year, Sparky and Vicky, wherever you are. And we go to Ellesmere Port to look at more nice boats and get frightened by a swan.

May
We get a keb, some temporary signwriting (still going strong), and lots of extra ballast. Warrior is now starting to look pretty good on the outside too. I start counting down to the date I am determined we will relaunch. We fire the engine up for the first time, and meet Andrew of Granny Buttons fame.

June
June has to be the most momentous month of 2007 on the Warrior front: on our first trial cruise we stay out very late and get very drunk and have a marvellous time; at our official launch party the following night we attempt to introduce the Midlands to the delights of Harveys Best Bitter, but Compo drinks it all... then on the 3rd we finally, triumphantly but also sadly, say goodbye to Stretton Wharf and all the friends we made there. We make it to Atherstone (which I really like) and tough out the Russell Newbery Rally (which I don't). Meet some lovely people with Nationals though. Continue tweaking the engine.

The French stove finally gets tried out in situ, having been repaired and fitted at great trouble and unknown expense with a new hearth and stovepipe - and it is completely and utterly worth it, because it works brilliantly (and we've really put it to the test this past week, and could not be more pleased).

Also, of course, June means Braunston ... sigh ....

July
In July, we cruise from Atherstone to Coventry and back, see Charity Dock and drink in the Greyhound. Coventry Basin is almost deserted, and the Cathedral is stunning.

August
August is a quite extraordinary month, the whole of it spent on board Warrior on our longest ever sustained cruise: from Atherstone to St Ives with detours to Ramsey and Cambridge on the way, the IWA Festival, then back to Ramsey. High spots include our time in Cambridge, where Craig from Pyxis showed us not one but four fantastic pubs; taking the real-life Rosie and Jim and relatives, including a small child, out for a trip in the rain; handing out brochures outside the festival in ankle deep mud and (at last) hot sunshine; the Northampton Arm; and coming back up the Hundred Foot River. Less favourite parts were the Nene locks (especially after the first two dozen). Really, there were too many memorable moments - if I start to enumerate them I shall be here all night.

September
In September I start writing an article for Canal Boat about our engine. It is a quiet month on the boating front.

October
As is October. Though I finish the article.

November
In November we get to do a bit more boating, and my article is published. Very gratifying!

December
And here we are back in December again. I'm surprised that such an eventful and significant year can be summed up so briefly.

So how did I get on with the resolutions I made this time last year?
Engine finished and reinstalled - yep.
Painted and signwritten - well, strictly speaking, yes, but not quite how I envisaged it.
Go to the RN Rally at Atherstone - yep
And the IWA Festival at St Ives - yes, and that really was quite an achievement.

And personally, did I learn to splice? Well, yes, actually I did, at St Ives. But I'm not sure that I still remember how now. Did I finally get to grips with crocheting? Sadly no, despite continuing efforts, that particular skill still defeats me. Did I become an all round better boatperson? I suppose I must have done, but probably only slightly. Must try harder, be braver and more persistent in 2008.

Which brings us to resolutions for next year:
The final, proper, painting and signwriting WILL be done
We will bring Warrior to London (more of an aspiration than a resolution at this stage) ....

Helyn will be finished, and we will take her up the Sussex Ouse to Barcombe before selling her.

Apart from that I think it's a case of watch this space.

Hope you have a splendid 2008. I wonder what we'll all be thinking and doing when we look back on it this time next year...

Not more pubs ...

We did stop last night at the George, and had a most interesting evening. It was very quiet when we went in, and we got talking to a man who turned out to be the pub’s owner; born in Ramsey but now living in London, he’d come back to run the place when the last tenants left at short notice. Sebastian and I had a couple of games of pool and darts, and we got chatting to the other people who came in, and had a very nice evening. Sadly there was not food on, as Tim was running the place on his own, but he did do us some very nice potato roasties, and regaled us with marvellous tales of gay pubs he worked in in London.

The next morning we were awoken by the gentle babble of traditional country fisherpersons: ‘There’s a fucking boat there’, ‘Fucking wankers’, ‘Fucking sink it’ etc. as they went about their time honoured task of extracting their carbon fibre poles from their traditional white vans. We let them settle to their noble calling before starting the engine and continuing on our way with a cheery wave.

So before we knew it, we were back at Bill Fen, Sebastian feeling slightly delicate (no doubt due to falling asleep in a draft with his neck at a funny angle and not the five pints of Greene King IPA he’d drunk), Jim got us onto Warrior’s berth single handed (where was I? Keeping out of the way, of course), and then went over the Rainbow while I (and Baz, who’d perked up a bit by now) removed the previous night’s mud deposits from the boat.

Tonight we finally made it to Holme – albeit by car rather than boat – to visit the Admiral Wells pub. This was recommended to us as ‘not a typical Fenland pub’ which |I have to say, was quite a refreshing prospect, and it was OK. Good selection of beer (I tried the Tydd Steam Brewery’s Piston) and nice food. This time we got chatting to a guy from Indiana, who lives in Ramsey and is seriously into real ale. Another nice evening.

That's enough wind now, thank you

Well here we are back at the George, at Ramsey Forty Foot. Couldn’t post last night as we were in the absolute middle of nowhere with but the feeblest signal.

Yesterday morning saw us initiated into the mysteries of the Bill Fen pumpout, which is pretty much like a normal pumpout, once you’ve started the petrol engine that drives the pump. You can then watch it labouring away. It was lucky that we did come back into the marina on Thursday night as this procedure was not a moment too soon. Whilst making a cup of tea for the man who showed us how the pumpout worked, the gas ran out, so that was handy too. And we bought some more coal too before we set off again.

We headed for March next, which has resumed its previous depressing aspect (or that might just have been due to getting a paper and finding out about Benazir Bhutto about twenty four hours later than the rest of the world). Anyway, not wishing to stay there we pressed on into the dusk and finally tied up at the junction of the Nene Old Course and Popham’s Eau. It was, and is, still very windy. I don’t mind the wind provided it’s not blowing us off course; in fact I like feeling warm and cosy inside while it buffets the boat, but this has been so relentless as to be quite oppressive, particularly last night. It also makes the water slap and splosh against the sides of the boat when we’re in bed, which I like but which annoys Jim no end. We really notice this, sleeping under the tug deck, as we’re actually below the waterline. I love thinking of that while I’m lying there. What I also like is lying under the enormously heavy duvet (this is the only time of year one can fully appreciate it; it’s a pain the rest of the time) all snug with the foredeck hatch propped slightly open and a cool breeze playing across my face. I even quite like a light spray of rain when it blows in; sadly last night it rained so much and the wind blew it so horizontal that we had to shut the hatch.

This morning dawned much brighter, although windier than ever as we set off down Popham’s Eau and onto the Sixteen Foot (remembering to remove everything from the roof this time). The wind was whipping up some lovely waves and we were steering straight into it. I stood at the front behind the closed hatches watching the spray fly over the foredeck, occasionally applying copious quantities of Norwegian trawlermen’s handcream to my face. All it needed was a few bars of Khatachurian and the scene would have been complete.

We got to the hamlet of Stonea at midday, where John had recommended the Golden Lion. Having achieved great feats of tying up (there is nothing here to tie up to, and the banks are very steep. And at this time of year, muddy) we made our way over to discover that the Golden Lion doesn’t open Saturday lunchtimes. So we had our lunch and were on our ay again. At one point we had a fantastic vanguard of seventeen swans, and when they all started taking off at once into the low afternoon sun it looked amazing. That was when I found I’d finished the film in my camera trying to capture the spray.

So here we are at the George. It’s not a pub I like very much and the food wasn’t great before, I seem to recall, but we didn’t feel much like pressing on the further half hour or so back to the marina again, so we’re tied to the same old tree back where we were at our journey’s end last August.

Maybe, just maybe, the wind has started to drop.

Latest adventures

When we stopped last night, it was really because we had to. Not only was it rapidly getting dark, but we were getting hardly any power through the prop. We hoped that this was just a build up of the notorious weed, and not some more serious damage caused by reversing for an hour and three quarters with a piece of tree on the prop. We did quite a good job of putting it out of our minds for the evening. In any case, a far more dire emergency asserted itself: we had run out of tea. We couldn’t even have a soothing, calming, warming cuppa.

A quick inventory of the hot beverage cupboard revealed a dozen teabags of spiced black tea (left over from my vegan days; it’s very nice but does have a tendency to provoke hiccups); one blackcurrant and three lemon and grapefruit teabags (left over from god knows what); a small jar of Nescafe which I think came with Andante; closer investigation revealed traces in the bottom from the carboniferous era which, after soaking in a little hot water for a few minutes provided enough for two weak cups of something that could just about pass as coffee amongst people who ere not used to drinking coffee; and about an equal amount of instant hot chocolate. It was with great joy this morning that I recalled the warming beverage potential of the unopened jar of Marmite in the back of the food cupboard. Sadly, I was unable to persuade any of the other members of the crew of its benefits.

Overnight it got really windy, and it was blowing us straight onto the bank. With a lot of effort we managed to turn round so that we were finally facing the right way, but we couldn’t get the fore end out far enough for long enough to make any headway, and despite having cleared a lot of weed off the prop, still seemed to be short of power. After struggling with the shafts for ages, we finally admitted defeat – or rather made a strategic withdrawal to regroup ready for the next assault.

One idea was to wait until the wind dropped, but a quick consultation with the BBC Weather Centre via my super internet enabled phone revealed that this was due to occur on Sunday. So we rang John Shotbolt for local advice. He suggested clearing the prop again, as it had probably picked up more crap, including the old weed, during the morning’s exertions, then poling it forward ten feet or so to get clear. We did this, and it didn’t seem to make a great deal of difference (though we did get a lot more weed off), with the wind still being a major obstacle. However, eventually, through a combination of luck and lots of grunting, especially from heroic poler Baz, we did manage to get into the middle of the channel and under way.

We had initially planned to head for March this morning, but it was two o’clock by the time we got away, and not much chance of getting there before the shops shut. So we went back to Ramsey. We saw John at Lodes End Lock, and he asked if we were coming for a beer tonight. Erm, well, what do you think? Then we went right into the town, and tied up across the winding hole waiting for fishermen various to vacate the staithe. I introduced Baz to the mysteries of the Rainbow (vs) where we stocked up on Co-op 99 tea. When we got back we tried to tie up to the quay, but there was even less water than before and we couldn’t get within four feet of it, so we’ve come back to Bill Fen. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? In the mean time, at least we’ve had a nice cup of tea.

Onwards and backwards

After some hemming and hawing, we decided this morning that we would make the assault on Holme Fen, that tiny outpost of the Middle Level that has defeated better boaters than us (but that was in the summer when it was weedy). There’s a plaque you can get, you see, for reaching four obscure corners of the Middle Level. We’ve already – all unknowing – done two of them (but sadly neglected to get our card stamped, or whatever form of proof the plaque distributors require).

I was dispatched to Ramsey for provisions (milk and a toothbrush for Baz) while he got his first lessons in starting, running and generally caring for the engine, as he hopes to come up later in the year with some friends … The Co-op, as befits a sound socialist outfit, of course wasn’t open on Boxing Day, so I went up to Somerfield. Ditto, the Guardian wasn’t published, so I bought the Telegraph. Jim has a bit of a soft spot for it as it was the family paper he read as a boy; as a fully paid up Guardianista I find it rather amusing, if occasionally disturbing. Well, there were two (sympathetic, natch) articles about private schooling, and a big feature about how hunting is making a comeback. The thing is, every time I buy the Telegraph, there are two sympathetic articles about private schools and a big piece about hunting. Does this mean that it’s like it every day?

So, we left the marina at half past twelve, about half an hour after leaving the berth … it is quite tight – and we were on our way, through Lodes End Lock (level, gates open but loosely chained together, and all contained within a locked compound with spikes and everything – now what’s that all about?) for the first time, up the Nene Old Course, headed for Holme Fen. There was mulled wine mulling away on the back cabin stove, gradually transmuting into mulled ale, as the day wore on and the wine ran out, and the greatest success of the day (that tells you something of what’s to come) was our dinner: all yesterday’s leftovers mixed up in a tin and stuck in the oven of the back cabin stove, and eaten on the move. (Only recommended for vegetarian leftovers, I think, perhaps, although it was so hot even turkey would probably have been OK.)

At about two o’clock we turned onto the New Dyke, which is marked on the map as having a turning place at the end, which is (as far as I know) at Holme Fen. Trouble is, we never got as far as the end. After an hour during which the channel got satisfying narrower and shallower, making us feel really intrepid, we encountered a tree across the channel. It was, to be honest, only a little tree, but it was getting very shallow there too, and after two attempts we decided that we weren’t going to get through. So of course we had to reverse back to the junction, which is every bit as much fun as it sounds. Including an unsuccessful attempt to wind in a little (too little, as it turned out) branch channel, it took us an hour and three quarters to get back to the junction of the New Dyke and Monks Lode, where we have stopped for the night, as it was getting dark.

A long Christmas day

Well, here we are at the end of a long day. New thing to add to the list of things to do before leaving the boat: number 13 - remove cucumber from fridge. Just wait until you see that photo!

I’m sitting writing this in Warrior’s back cabin, fairly cosy, with the stove going strong. Not very cosy, though, owing to all the doors being open – not because of smoke this time, but acrid steam, issuing from the disconnected back boiler pipes somewhere in the bed cupboard. Life would have been so much simpler if we’d never disconnected that damn thing, and the stove is going so well too. The other stove, I can never tire of saying, is still working fantastically well, and the saloon is looking rather lovely, what with that and my few but select Christmas decorations.

Dinner was very nice, the only hitch being that the potatoes were slightly mistimed, but the rest of the meal didn’t seem to mind waiting a bit for them. We brought a Christmas pudding (a bought one, Somerfield, very nice) but rather than trying to steam the whole thing for two hours, I dished it up into individual foil parcels, making sure they were watertight, and sort of poached them in a shallow pan – on the back cabin stove. What a sense of achievement!

Before we left of course we all opened our presents. We got a waterways calendar from my sister (and recognised many of the locations!); a book about the Leeds and Liverpool from Carl next door (who’s from up that way, but is currently caravanning in Cornwall – thank you Carl.) And I got, from Jim, a very big present. Some of it was in a very heavy box under the tree, and I thought it was mudweights or something, but the rest of it was out in the outbuilding, hidden under a blanket: a COMPLETE set of back issues of Waterways World; 1972-2003. Wow.

Hope Santa bought you exactly what you wanted too.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

Unbelievably, it's that time of year again. Once again, I've had to recycle an old photo from 2005 for my blog-o-card to wish you all very merry festivities and happiness and success in - crikey - 2008.

My thermals are packed; the nut roast is made; crates full of wine and spices, puddings and other seasonal goodies await by the door, for tomorrow, after a light lunch and a quick raid on the presents under the tree, we shall be making our way to Ramsey, the better to enjoy the biting easterly winds , frost, ice, snow etc. The first thing we shall do when we get there will be to cook the Christmas dinner. No, OK, maybe after lighting the fires. Plural! We have got a new chimney, in the nick of time. Tell you all about it later.

This morning I have set the new phone up as a modem for the laptop, so I should be able to post from our winter holiday destination, although I might save pictures for when we get back as I think I have to be a bit more careful with the up/download limit than was the case with T-Mobile.

Another book review

A novel this time: Leo McNeir's Getaway with Murder. Now, I would not have bought this book under normal circumstances - well, not at full price, anyway. But I encountered the author on the Canals and Rivers stand at St Ives while I was having a general moan to someone (who turned out to be the editor, oops) about the magazine's abysmal proofreading standards. I have mentioned this before.

Anyhow, Mr McNeir was very sympathetic, and shared my distress at slapdashness in the application of good grammar (by the way, if you spot any grammatical solecisms in this or any other post, I shall not hesitate to excuse them on the grounds that it's only a blog. Although, apart from the odd non-sentence for effect, anything else is likely to be a slapdash error.)

So what could I do but buy one of his books? Lucky to get away (getaway?) with one, maybe. And it is sweetly dedicated to me in the author's rather nice handwriting.

Does this compromise me as an honest and fearless reviewer? I think maybe it does, a little. Truth to tell, as a novel it's not great. The characterisation is laboured and the characters quite shallowly drawn, and there's too much dialogue, which thus has to do too much exposition of the plot.

It's a whodunnit with various romantic subplots, with a boat on the Grand Union making a peripheral appearance; it's not really a boating or canal book. I have to say that the twist of who actually did dunnit is ingenious and convincing, and the plotting leading up to it is (on one reading at least) faultless; you don't feel that the author has cheated by pulling a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute; the clues are, with hindsight, all there, but not too obvious. This is a very important virtue in books of this type, and often lacking in the work of much better known writers.

But the clever plotting is all but thrown away by the complete lack of suspense that comes, I think, from the reader knowing too much of the thoughts and quotidian actions of too many of the characters. Ironically, through being given too much detail, about too many characters, the reader identifies with them less. The relationship becomes superficial and it is difficult to care very much about what happens to them. A philosopher friend of mine (the one with the odd shoes) once dismissed the entire oeuvre of Kant with the words 'Old Manny: unpickupable'. This book is not unpickupable, certainly, but neither is it by any means unputdownable.

I think, perhaps, though that I am a very picky reader of novels, and there is much to enjoy in Getaway with Murder. It is largely undemanding in terms of reader engagement, and thus makes a perfect (boating) holiday read, but it is well researched and accurate on the Civil War (as far as I could tell from my limited knowledge of the period - perhaps I will lend it to Political Philosophy Pete and see what he thinks). It's good value in terms of length, it raises some interesting issues, and the characters are sympathetic and consistent, if not fully engaging. The plot hangs together well and, as I said, there is an effective surprise ending.

So all in all, it doesn't sound so bad, does it? Even though I didn't much enjoy reading it, having read this unbiased and objective review, I probably wouldn't say no to picking up another of his, for passing a few empty hours.