Today it did not rain

Day 17, Lechlade to, er, Radcot, accompanied by relatives

Part of the grand plan of coming up to Lechlade was to meet up ith some of the Swinon branch of the family; namely my cousin Janice, and my sister who came over from Newport in South Wales. Janice collected Ali from Swindon station and they arived in Lechlade around noon. Following some comedy mobile phone conversations (we were at the Riverside, we're now heading for the town centre... no stay at the Riverside... what do you mean it's muddy, is there a different Riverside? (answer: yes)... we're driving over the bridge now... we can see the boat ... Are you in the silver car behind the transit...etc) they found us. Or we found them. After some deliberation, Auntie Doreen (aged 89 1/2) decided not to come, but we all agreed that was a shame as she would have managed to get 0n the boat OK (not so sure about getting off, but that comes later).

We'd promised them a trip, but weren't sure how it would work. Wechecked with the lock keeper at St Johns where we might wind, but also had the bright idea that if we went on to Radcot, Janice's son, David, who was hoping to join us when he finished work, could meet us there and take Janice and Ali back to Lechlade to collect Janice's car. In the event, that's what we did. I think we had a super day. Ali and Janice liked the boat, as did David and Natalie. We all went for a few pints at the Swan at Radcot - as we had promised the landlady we would on the way up - and then off they went, taking Baz with them, to be dropped off at Swindon and catch a train home (which I note will cost between £51 and £67, making a 15 day Thames licence look like good value). Baz has left all his clothes behind, but taken his accordian, and promises to be able to play us a tune when we return.

It won't be the same without him, but he has been brilliant (including steering us through Radcot Bridge on the way back just now), and I don't blame him for wanting a bit of time and space to himself.

Thames lock keepers are marvellous, cheerful and friendly and helpful, despite the fact that they have a very responsible, and now apparently insecure, job, and have to deal with useless and half witted members of the public every day. Mostly. We had already taken a bit of a dislike on the way down to the keeper at Buscot Lock, as he had officiously insisted that we stop the engine, despite being the only boat in the lock, I know this is officially a requirement, but none of the others so much and mentioned it, and one or two actually showed an interest in the engine. Sure enough, same again today, but that wasn't the best bit. In the lock with us were three chaps in a small rowing boat. Where was their licence, he demanded to know. Very apologetically, one of them explained that they did have a licence, but it was in the pocket of his jeans, which had been left behind in the car following his having to jump in to retrive a rope when launching the boat. The lock keeper replied that yes, indeed they did have a licence; he had the record of it right there. But sadly this was not enough; they had to be carrying the licence. It was - and he really truly said this - more than his job was worth if they got to the next lock without it. I'm not quite sure how the epidode ended, other than that he took down all their details again, but I'm pretty sure that the very reasonable and pleasant keeper at the next lock would have not been bothered one iota. Bring back Richard Stilgoe! (On the other hand, as he was responsible for turning a whole generation of people like me into cynical paranoiacs, perhaps not)

End of the road

Day 16, Radcot to Lechlade, via Inglesham

This morning found us sitting on the bottom at Radcot Bridge, with it not having rained overnight and levels having abated somewhat. Having sensed this when I first got up (It's always easier to tell that you're listing in the dark), I sneaked outside for a look. The surrounding fields were saturated, but there was definitely less water in the river. It didn't look too insurmountable; we were only sitting on soft mud and the back wasn't on hard, and while we stood and stroked our chins, the boat began to move - the result, I guess, of lock keepers upriver coming on duy and letting some water down.

After a brief chat with the licencees of the Swan, which, unforgiveably, we hadn't visited, we were off through the notorious Radcot Bridge, without touching the sides - quite an achievement I am given to understand. Though the yellow boards were still out, the river was running nothing like as fast as yesterday, and there was much less wind - adding to my sense of achievement for my steering then, if doing little for my still aching shoulders.

A few more locks brought us to Lechlade, but we proceeded the further three quarters of a mile to Inglesham and the junction with the now disused Thames and Severn Canal which, according to Nicholsons, really is as far as you can go. We winded in a willow tree, and were back under Halfpenny Bridge and moored to a field in Lechlade in time for lunch.

The staple product of Lechlade appears to be antiques. We like a nice root around in a tot shop, and at least some of these didn't disappoint; in particular, if you were in the market for old enamel signs I should head this way post haste. We may yet take one home with us. There is also a small Londis supermarket; the extent of its range may be gauged (OK, I can spell it now Moominpapa) by the fact that it includes pickled eggs. There is also a boatyard/marina here, which we visited in pursuit of mooring pins, being down to our last two, but on both occasions there was no one to be seen. I am finding it quite hard to come to terms with the fact that I am in Gloucestershire; to my knowledge, this has never happened before.

While we were washing and polishing the boat in readiness for the visitation of the Swindon branch of the family tomorrow, Steve rang to make a date to hand over the pistons, liners etc. We arranged to meet at the Crown pub, which turned out to be rather nice and had chinchillas (asleep). As luck would have it, it was quiz night, and despite Jim's objections we entered the four of us as a team (The Three-Pot Club; you knowhow hard it is to think of a team name. Steve has just bought himself a boat with a JP3, but he'll always be 3D Steve to us). And guess what, we won. Then we weren't sure what constituted a decent interval after winning the quiz for a bunch of strangers in town to up and leave. Tirteen minutes, I think it turned out to be.

Break out the nylon trousers

that's the landing stage under water; apparently it was even higher earlier in the day

Day 15, Eynsham Lock to Radcot Bridge. In the bloody rain again.

Last night we went to the Talbot at Eynsham. It didn’t look much from the outside, but it was splendid; Arkells beers straight from the barrel, friendly staff and very good food.

It may then have been overindulgence that led to my having a rather restless night, involving dreaming of, inter alia, a particularly annoying cat coming back from the dead; bits of the boat I hadn’t formerly known existed (that happens a lot to me in dreams) filling up with water, and Jim having to go shopping rather than bringing the boat out of a lock because of a toothache which, in the opinion of the lock keeper, made him unfit to drive. On the other hand, it might have been the relentless rain, the rushing of the weir, and the slap of the water against the hull at ear level.

Whatever the cause, I awoke feeling not particularly rested, rather testing my resolve to get to grips with the river and learn to appreciate it by engaging with it rather than just watching it go by. To do a bit of steering, in other words. This resolve, such as it was, was tested further – and ultimately steeled – by the lock keeper coming on duty and immediately putting out yellow boards; hardly surprising in the light of all the rain we’ve (ahem) been having. We toyed with the idea of staying put, but sought, as one always should, the advice of the lock keeper.

He said that on the contrary, we should make a dash for Lechlade before it got any worse, suggesting that red boards might be out within a couple of days. Anyway, with it only on yellow, there was no way he was going to let us overstay on his 24 hour mooring, oh no. Having planned to take two days meandering leisurelyly (?) to Lechlade, we’d been mooching about not very urgently, gathering our strength (me) and going shopping (Jim), and also needed a pumpout, so didn’t leave until quarter to twelve. It’s quite disgraceful; we’re getting later by the day.

I maintained my resolve to steer despite Jim being quite vocally dubious about my abilities in that direction, and got off to a relatively good start, negotiating the weirstream (which had looked terrifying when we watched other boats going through earlier), lining up and stopping in the lock quite nicely. Obviously a fluke! Although there were no disasters, things didn’t go quite so smoothly at the next lock, where I, smoothly and oh-so-gently, parted the boat in front from the landing stage by the simple expedient of remaining in neutral whilst being convinced that I was in reverse. I had a small rope-throwing triumph, lassooing a bollard, ooh, all of eight feet away, further down the line which restored my faith slightly.

Best of all though was the actual steering. You do get a different perspective when you’re part of the action and not just an observer, interacting with the boat and the river. I don’t have much experience to compare it with, but I suppose it was quite challenging conditions: strongish stream and very windy, on a winding river. It was certainly physically hard work, but exhilarating, especially taking the bends; it really felt like working with the boat rather than controlling it.

I enjoyed it most out there on my own – even though this was mostly when it was raining. Today’s rare bouts of sunshine were interspersed with very heavy showers, often accompanied by driving wind, but at least it meant I got to wear my hat. For some reason I haven’t yet fathomed, the hat worked better when steering left handed. I’m working on that. The heavens also opened, I kid you not, every time (bar one) that we got to a lock. Is there something about locks on the Thames that attracts rain clouds to hover over them? And about us that makes them discharge their watery arsenal? Today was notable for the sight of a variety of lock keepers running for their waterproofs. Aching shoulders drove me to hand over the tiller after three hours, but I can feel them getting stronger already.

We didn’t make it to Lechlade tonight; we’ve stopped at Radcot Bridge. Tomorrow, hopefully, we will proceed as far as Inglesham, before coming back to Lechlade, where we will pitch camp until Saturday. I am hopeful that there will be improving activities to be had in the town, although disappointed that William Morris’s house at Kelmerscote is only open on Wednesdays.
.

Showers

Dat 14, Shipton on Cherwell to Eynsham Lock, via Isis Lock

The weather really is not being kind to us this trip. I mean, it never is; the last three Augusts I have been boating, and it has rained more than not every year. But lately it has been particularly malevolent, teasing us with a little sunshine, then battering us with hailstorms. It really lashed down last night - I suppose I should be graeteful it saved it until after Cropredy. Then this morning dawned fair and lovely, and after a very brief sightseeing foray into the village we left Shipton at half past ten. We seem to be getting quite bad at getting up in the mornings, but I suppose that's what holidays are about. We got water at Thrupp, where we also collected some new books and left some of our read ones behind, along with a donation to the local hospice.

There must be a reading in the toilet joke here somewhere

It's a brilliant idea to have book-swapping points around the system, and I hope there will be more. There were some at the Brasenose, but I never investigated. We chugged blythely past the Dukes Cut - a short, ahem, cut to the Thames, because I wanted to go further towards Oxford - not all the way in like Amy and James have (although perhaps we should, as we have plenty of time to spare; as long as the Thames behaves, that is). I was glad we did; saw a lovely selection of hippy boats (and I'm not being sarky, I really do like to see them. I wish I could live like that but I have learned to live with my compulsive tidiness); saw some interesting boats, including Banbury and the blue top prototype Beryl. Just before the lock was the endlessly chronicled Castle Mill Boatyard, of which sadly there was very little to see. What was in evidence was a lot of new building, of which we are presumably to expect more of the same, of the grim-as-fuck school of architecture. It might have been horrible, sinister and sordid before (I've read my Morse) but that's no excuse for making it horrible, bland and soulless instead. It was, quite literally, repellent, some of the developments even having tall fences to isolate them from the canal.

Nonetheless, it was with great sadness (well, on my part anyway) that we passed through Isis Lock onto the Sheepwash Channel and thus on to the Thames. What a contrast; as if to shock the unwary newcomer, the river is particularly wide and windswept at this point. It felt like being at sea, so soon after the cosy narrowness of the Oxford.

At Godstow, our first Thames lock since Helyn days, the lock keeper was at lunch, so couldn't sell us a licence (although his colleague locked us through). I'd phoned in advance to check that they took card payment, and he said they did, though not all locks did. However, we were told that they also did at the next lock, Kings. When we got there, the skies opened again, and we all got soaked. As soon as we were through, it stopped. We got our fifteen day licence (£98.50) and made our way to the next lock, Eynsham. We'd been told that this would be the best place to find a shop, and there was a twenty four hour mooring available, so Baz and I set off into the ominous thunderclouds.

It was about a twenty minute walk, to, I think, Swinford rather than Eynsham itself, across a charming toll bridge at which a man sits to collect tolls of 5p from cars, rising to 20p for double decker buses and 10p per axle for lorries. How come there are all these things going on in the country and I've never heard of them? As we walked up the road, the lightening and thunder grew closer and closer together, and soon we were engulfed in the most violent hailstorm, and soaked to the skin once more. This is fun, isn't it, we said to each other. I have a sneaking suspicion that this might be the last time Baz comes on holiday with us. Anyway, wherever it was it had a Co-op, which was a blessed sight as we haven't had any bread for three days and were eating savoury rice for lunch.

Getting back to the boat, we decided to stay here, as we were already tied up, making this our shortest day's travelling yet, at four and a half hours. Still, we don't have to be at Lechlade until Friday, so it will be nice to take it slowly and stop off and explore places a bit more often, rather than just getting from A to B. So we've lit the fire again to get everything dried out, and may eat out tonight.

Five hundred glorious posts

Day 13, Aynho to Shipton-on-Cherwell

Imagine. Five hundred posts since April 2006. Many of them different.

A relatively uneventful day today. We did slightly ram another boat, but only very gently; we visited the unspeakably sweet floating farm shop (the shop was floating, that is, not the farm); we met a little dog called Arthur who could not possibly have been called anything else, and saw probably the most beautiful new boat (as opposed to Old Boat) I have ever seen. I am in love.

What is more, I correctly guessed its builder to be Ian Kemp (Jim checked with the man at the wharf).

We traversed two weir locks (am I right in thinking that their unusual wide shape is to maintain some consistency of water volume with the deeper locks?) and Somerton Deep Lock (which didn’t look very deep compared to some on the Huddersfield, but mercifully didn’t have leaky sides like many of them. I have looked into, although not boated through, Tuell Lane Lock in Sowerby Bridge, which is the deepest lock in the country and has the grumpiest lock keeper. Allegedly). It mostly didn’t rain, but didn’t sun either.

Last night I caught up with reading the doings of Lucky Duck. You must read it. It is so well written and entertaining; puts my recent drunken and exhausted efforts to shame, and I’m not only saying that because they were complimentary about Warrior.

According to Canalplan we are supposed to turn off down the Dukes Cut tomorrow and onto the Thames that way, but I don't want to miss out on going into Oxford, so we might take the longer route.

Back to reality (well, it's all relative)

Day 12, Cropredy to Aynho

We did not wake up very early this morning. Certainly not early enough to accompany the Alnwicks, Bones and Maffi to church, even if we had been so inclined (and they did make it sound like fun, but I have my principles). Baz showed everyone his new acquisition, on which he could already play some scales and a slow version of Kumbaya, and improvise very impressively. The accordion sounds great and seems very versatile. Then we said goodbye to Graham and Jane, our hosts, as it were, and to Maffi and Bones, our newest friends, and untied Warrior and set off after five strange and wonderful days in Cropredy.

I like the Southern Oxford a lot. Except for Banbury. Banbury, where we stopped for water, is horrible. Apparently it’s always had a rough reputation, but has been smoothed off in the most soulless, soul-destroying way, architecturally speaking. The legendary Tooleys yard appears to have been encased in some sort of glass edifice (give me a Charity Dock any day); I admit we didn’t investigate closely, because we wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Our water finally ran out en route – how’s that for timing – so lasted six full days of reasonable, if careful, usage, which is good to know.

The rest of the journey today has been very pleasant, with the sun shining (eventually) and Baz improvising away on the foredeck. Some of the locks are quite hard work, and the towpath is very overgrown, but that all adds to the charm. Rather than going on into Aynho tonight, with its pubs and no doubt exciting nightlife, we felt like a bit of quiet and middle of nowhere for a contrast to the hectic last few days, so are tied up in a jungle below Aynho Weir lock, opposite a field of cows.

One of our piling stakes got dropped in in the process, but was eventually recovered using the keb and the cabin shaft. Jim has asked for a magnet for his birthday, and I can see one would be useful. The other stake got bent (but it still works) when a passing large Woolwich, Chiswick, (another one to tick off my list, though I didn’t atke a photo) nearly pulled it out. It dropped back in again, but was bent in the process. I still think they’re very impressive though, and easy to use.

A weird and wonderful weekend

Day 11, Cropredy

After falling – well, crawling, given our headroom – utterly exhausted into bed at one this morning, I was awake again at half past five for another, even longer, event-packed day. It started by pouring with rain again, to ensure that the festival had that authentic muddiness without which no British outdoor event is complete. After waving Amy and James on their way, we trekked as far as the Brasenose for bacon rolls for lunch (two apiece).

Then we went back to the field, to visit the Hobgoblin Music stand, where Mike bought his accordian. We left there half an hour later with Baz carrying a rather magnificent two row button accordian (red in colour) and my overdraft lighter (or, rather, heavier) by some three hundred quid. Still, he got a book thrown in and set to mastering the instrument straight away, while we entertained Bones and Maffi to tea on board Warrior. I had intended to go and see Julie Fowlis but at that point it poured with rain more heavily than at any time previously, so I’m afraid I chickened out. tea, we joined and Maffi and Graham and Jane for pre-pub drinks and philosophical discussion on Alnwick, before heading off to meet Keith at the Red Lion. I have experienced an endless social whirl at last.

As we were about to leave the Red Lion (in our limited experience, nothing like as nice a pub as the Brasenose) to witness the festival’s grand finale, an extremely drunk man fell backwards down the steps. To cut a very long story (as it often is with extremely drunk people) short, Baz volunteered to accompany this man’s companion, as he escorted his friend (with great, if exasperated, patience and fondness, it must be said) back to his van, in order to look after the friend’s dog. Apparently it was an eventful trip, involving the divestment of trousers in the churchyard and more, and we then had to set off on a tour of the village looking for Baz.

Eventually our party was reunited, and we made our way onto the field. Fairport Convention were great. Naturally, we felt somewhat nozzers (new bods; parvenus) amongst so many for whom this was a religion, but it was absolutely fantastic nonetheless. The field by now was packed, and we quickly lost sight of Baz and Keith, but found a space with a great view of the stage. Baz found us later, having purchased a further shirt, and we met up with Keith again as we filed out, just in time to say goodbye.

So, exhausted again, but happy this time, we watched the poor huddled masses tramp like refugees to their far-off mud-sodden encampments and peeled off alone down the towpath to Warrior.

A long day's journey into night

Day 10, Cropredy

A long day and a long night, Friday, which is why I didn’t get around to posting this last night. I can hardly remember the beginning of the day, other than that it rained and I lit the fire again, and the surprise appearance of Keith as we huddled around the stove. Lots of people turned up yesterday, of whom more later.

The rain eased off mid morning and Baz and I went over to the festival field to buy a pretty little star-shaped glass lantern (the first small step towards Warrior becoming a hippy boat) and listen to some music – in particular Siobhan Miller and Jeana Leslie, the Scottish duo who won the BBC Young Folk Musician award this year. We listened to the final on Radio 2 because one of the other finalists, Dogan Mehmet, used to be in the same Brighton orchestra as Baz. They were great and so were The Family Mahone. Baz has been buying loads of CDs and queuing up to get them signed – it’s a very efficient operation. Never having been before, and not being an expert in this kind of music, though wanting to know more about it, I’ve found that the earlier, lesser known bands have been much more enjoyable than the evening big names, of which more later. (See how I’m building the suspense?) Baz also tried out an electro-acoustic cello, which he now wants. Mike revealed later that he has purchased an accordion, fulfilling a long-held ambition, so we look forward to hearing him play it next year.

After lunch we had the excitement of the arrival of Lucky Duck, by which time the sun had come out. Baz and I went up to the lock to meet them and rode down with them, and they tied up to Warrior. We decided that we should go and get plotted up on the field relatively early.

We found a fairly good spot, and settled down there with Mike, and had an enormous plate of curry, which was very nice but I couldn’t finish mine. Now, we had heard tell that Bones and Maffi and 3D Steve were on their way, and that Steve had our old pistons and liners to hand back. So I agreed to meet them in the Brasenose at eight. They arrived some time after that, having been setting up camp in some far-off corner of a field… withou the bits; I suppose it would have been unreasonable to have expected Steve to carry them all that way. We had a drink anyway, with Megan and her friends, and I headed back to the field having entirely missed Joe Brown’s set, which apparently wasn’t missing much, as the general agreement was that the sound quality was terrible up the field.

I made sure to be back in time for the Levellers though, who way back when busked for Christmas drinks in the pub where Jim worked. After a while I made my way down to the front, where there was a great atmosphere, and thought you couldn’t hear the words, you could feel the bass, which is much more important.

Fame (local), fortune (spent) and stripey trousers

Day 9, Cropredy

Today marks the official start of the festival, and people have been processing onto the site all day. The village is now heaving with people, and a number of stalls have been set up both there and on the festival site, enabling us to quickly satisfy all our stripey patchwork trouser requirements. Truly, this is a place where stripey trousers, cowrie-embellished hats and a wide range of beards can be worn without fear or irony. I’m amazed there’s anyone left in Lewes.

Baz is loving it and has two new pairs of trousers, a shirt and a splendid hat. My boating hat is very much in the right vein and, I venture to say, outdoes the rest.

The day started with rain, and us sawing off the padlock that was put (I will not say by whom but it wasn’t me or Baz) on the back slide upside down, meaning that the keyhole was underneath and we couldn’t get the key into it. It sawed off with frightening ease and quietness. We had a lovely evening yesterday at the Brasenose Arms with Mike, and did indeed meet Megan; and we were back there at lunchtime in lovely sunshine to listen to a band in their garden, after collecting our wristbands and touring the village. Then onto the field as soon as it opened to spend all our money on sartorial enhancement.

Sebastian and I also got interviewed by a young man called Tim in a rather startling white suit for BBC local TV, on account of having come to the festival by boat. I thought we’d be safe and wouldn’t have to look at it ourselves, but later discovered that Baz will find it on the internet.

The calm before the storm

Day 8, Cropredy

Well, we did get here yesterday at lunchtime, and the rain eased up long enough for us to tie up alongside Alnwick as we’d arranged some time ago at the Napton CWF banter. We’re greatly indebted to Graham and Jane for their very kind offer, as moorings are already in very short supply here. In fact, the boat behind them is moving later and we have been promised his place on the towpath, so that will be even better. We went and socialised on Alnwick last night until mdnight too, so getting into the festival mood already.

We went into the village this morning and it was very, very quiet – almost unnaturally so. But I’m assured that this really is the calm before the storm, and that by tomorrow the towpath will be heaving. Already this afternoon we have seen more festival goers. Something tells me that this will be a good place for stocking up on patchwork trousers and hippy accoutrements various. Particularly useful for Baz, who took the injunction to travel light very seriously and brought only two pairs of shorts and no other trouserings whatsoever. As he had rather rashly washed one pair (not so’s you’d notice) on Monday night, and getting the others soaked yesterday, it was a case of weighing up which were marginally less damp.

I went for a walk down the towpath as far as the next lock earlier, and there are some marvellously hippyish boats here. I also saw Invicta and chatted to its owner, whom I met once in Huddersfield through admiring his Kelvin. Alnwick also has a K3; I think Jim is still a bit jealous…

Mike has visited us this afternoon. Zulu Warrior is moored up beyond the lock. I was mortified that we hadn’t noticed it on our way down, but of course, Baz and I were hiding away inside out od the rain at that point, just squinting through the hinges for the sight of a lock up ahead.

After dinner we are off to the pub(s).

Here we are enjoying our summer holidays

Day 7, Fenny Compton to Cropredy


I wonder whether he will ever forgive us.

You can keep your tumble driers...

Day 6, Napton to Fenny Compton

Thought you might appreciate an update on how the apparel recycling is going. Without being too indelicate, I can report that only three sets/pairs (and yes, that is with clean ones every day, thank you) of anything have been used by me so far, so perhaps I could have saved even more packing space. Also I have been washing my tops and today I got ambitious and washed my shorts… and by this evening, they were dry, thanks to the patent National clothes dryer. It’s not as efficient as it was, of course (and you can no longer make tea with water out of the tap) but that’s a small price to pay for the engine not blowing up.

Today we set off a bit later, as we’d decided to take it a bit easy (all relative as it turned out) and I got some more brass done this morning. It was slow getting up Napton with queues of two or three, and we stopped at Fenny Compton at quarter to seven. And guess what – went out for more chips, at the Wharf Inn, which was pretty good.

So not much exciting happened, again, today. There was a cow in the canal at one point, which caused us some consternation, feeling we should do something but having no idea what, but it got itself out as we watched, finding the shallow bank. It was quite touching to see the concern of its bovine comanions/relatives, who looked as if they were encouraging it out.

So, Cropredy tomorrow and a chance to relax and do absolutely nothing. Not sure how we’ll cope with that.

Another night in Napton

Day 5, Gayton Junction to Napton

Forgot to mention yesterday, that the Northampton Flight were all in our favour, just to make the afternoon perfect. Not so Buckby and Braunston today, I think the first two were, and I had to turn the rest. Since yesterday, Sebastian has been hankering after chips, so this morning I rang up the Bridge pub at Napton (where we had a CWF banter a few months back) and asked if they were doing food this evening. Yes, until eight, was the answer. Well, that gave us something to aim for. We got up Buckby fairly efficiently, sharing with Morpheus, through the Braunston Tunnel without hitting anything (I was on searchlight duty this time), but had some terribly slow people in front of us through the Braunston locks. Now I know it’s not a race, and I keep telling Jim that, but Baz really really deserved these chips.

I dashed into the shop at Braunston bottom lock for a loaf of lovely bread and a big tin of their very reasonably priced Brasso, and then dashed back again for ice creams all round. It is much more fun being here, with boats to look at, even if they do slow us down. Saw Aldgate and Angel in their new GU livery (but didn’t have the camera with me), and at last, but very sadly, Usk and Lucy, as well as a lot of the same boats we saw last year and some I couldn’t identify. It’s also nice having locks you can actually control, and that at least have a chance of being in your favour. (Of course all the Nene ones were, coming up, but it doesn’t count when you have to empty the bastards afterwards.)

We made it to Napton with about twenty minutes to spare and Baz and I left Jim to lock up and ran up to place our orders. The barman was on the verge of telling us that we were too late, but I gave him a look that suggested that I would have hysterics if he didn’t reconsider so he consulted a higher authority and we got our dinner.

Later, waiting at the (very quiet) bar, there was a man looking at the various real ales on offer. As I had just tried one, and Jim another, I ventured to describe them to him. I don’t know if he plumped for one in the end, but it turned out that he was someone rather famous (although probably not in Heat magazine, although I wouldn’t know for sure). Can it really be, I thought, and apparently it was. Tell you later – let the poor chap have his holiday first.

So, it looks as if we could be at Cropredy by tomorrow night, such is the insane pace that we have set; ten and a half hours today, ten and a quarter yesterday. If we do get there tomorrow, then we’ll be staying a week, so plenty of time to see everyone.

By the way, here is a typical mother/teenager conversation that took place the other day:
Mother: I like rivets.
Teenage boy: I said you were weird.

A good sign

Day 4, Wellingborough to Gayton Junction

Today did not start very promisingly, with that heavy drizzle that soaks you through before you even know it. We reversed all the way up to the water point at Wellingborough to find that our short hose didn’t quite reach. There followed much scrabbling around under the floor looking for the long hose, which we hardly ever use – long hoses are such a pain to handle and store – before reluctantly concluding that it had been left at home. So I set off across the park for a third trip to the 24-hour Tesco… Will they sell hoses, Jim asked? They sell everything, I jauntily replied. Well, up until last week, it seems, they sold hoses, but gardening accoutrements have now been supplanted by schoolwear, so I came back empty handed.

So we set off in the wet wet rain to do battle with thirteen more Nene locks, and in my hurry to shut the slippery front hatches against the rain, I managed to shut some of my fingers in them, which was very painful. After a while it resolved itself into just two fingers that were actually hurting, and now it’s only one, my left little finger, that is noticeably bruised. This makes an interesting addition to the bruises I obtained in my unsuccessful attempts to be hauled out of the Old River Nene on Wednesday (before I worked out the trick) and some bites from insects which you certainly don’t come across on the south coast, and I have augmented these blemishes this evening with some nettle stings to the legs in the course of tying up just beyond Gayton Junction.

A man at Wollaston Lock told us that the rain would stop at dinnertime (Baz and I debated at some length whether this referred to the midday or evening meal), and sure enough, as soon as we finished our lunchtime sandwiches, it did emerge, albeit not permanently. With the end in sight, we polished off the remainder of the Nene by 3.15, and as we turned onto the Northampton Arm, the sun came out properly, and stayed out until we arrived at Gayton Junction, three hours, twenty minutes and another seventeen locks (lovely neat little narrow ones) later. Yep, that’s thirty locks altogether today, and I had a hand in every one of them (no, not literally), as in the twenty five of the previous three days. So we are now quite well ahead of schedule, which is a good feeling, and the engine is still running well. And we got some water at Gayton Junction.

Muscles

Day 3, Ashton Lock to Wellingborough Mill

Amazing things, muscles. Given that for eleven months of the year I don't lift anything heavier than a book; turn anything more onerous than a nice phrase, or push anything more resistant than a disciplinary boundary, and have never visited a gym in my life (well, I tell a lie, I did once visit one but one look at the equipment was sufficient to convince me that this was was somewhere that I very much did not want to be), come holiday time they leap into service and do all sorts of demanding things that surprise even me. Locks mostly. What a splendid all-round workout (I believe that's the correct word?) they provide. Imagine how frighteningly fit I'd be if I did this all year instead of sitting on my arse for eleven twelfths of it.

Today we polished off a further fourteen locks, leaving thirteen for tomorrow which will take us to Northampton. I know that objectively the Nene is very nice, but it just doesn't do it for me. It's all relative though; I'd still rather be boating almost anywhere than doing almost anything else. The engine is still behaving impeccably and running steadily at 70. Tonight we are back in Wellingborough. For the last two nights we have been lulled to sleep by the sound of water rushing through/over/round a lock; tonight we have the A509 and the Whitworths flour mill.

It's not the nicest spot in the country, but it provides some welcome historical interest; we're just across the river from where the Grand Union boats would have unloaded imported grain brought from London.

Thanks to everyone who's commenting by the way - keep them coming!

Ten down, 27 to go

Day 2, Stanground Lock to Ashton Lock, River Nene

Poor River Nene, a totally inoffensive – even pretty – river, but I have taken agin it, and even though it has been green and pretty today, I still have not altered my view of it as a kind of boating purgatory, that must be passed through between the Middle Level and canal heaven. Partly, it is because it is boring. It isn’t even pretty in an interesting way, and it lacks buildings and settlements and boats. There are swans and geese and herons, and I confess that I did see my first ever woodpecker today, which was the high spot of the day.

Mainly though it is because of the locks, which are clearly the work of satan, designed to sap the will and induce despair in the most cheery of people. It’s not that they’re hard work – although some are – at least that provides a challenge and a sense of achievement. It’s not that there are lots of them – the Huddersfield Narrow has exactly twice as many, but is so, so much more rewarding and enjoyable. It’s not that they’re big or scary – though they can be, a bit. It’s not that they’re slow to fill or empty; they’re not. It’s that they’re just so bloody relentless. Every one has to be left empty, with the bottom gate open. I’m not sure which is worse; coming down like we did last year, when we had to fill every one before we could use it; or going up like we are now, having to empty every one after us. The worst one actually was the one that had been left full, so we had to empty it, go through, and then empty it again. They have standard V gates at the top, which are fine, but guillotine gates at the bottom, which take forever to open and close, whether electrified, or using the big, completely smooth stainless steel wheel specially designed so that it cannot injure the user in any way no matter how stupid they are, but an absolute pain to use.

Oh, enough moaning. We have made good progress today and are tied up in a nice spot just off the main navigation above Ashton Lock. I remembered it from last year. We came through Stanground at ten past nine this morning and travelled solidly for nine and a half hours. The engine temperature stayed at a lovely steady seventy throughout. What miracle could have wrought this? Perhaps taking the thermostat out this morning?

One other interesting thing I forgot to mention yesterday. John Shotbolt told me that Martin Duiker, who painted Warrior’s roses and castles, had been in touch with him, because he’d read that I’d written about him on here. It wasn’t Australia he went to after this lasy job, but Wales. Apparently he still paints, but not boats. Hope he does get in touch.

No picture tonight owing to lousy reception.

Cooling off

Day 1, Bill Fen to Stanground Sluice

Well, here we are at Stanground after an extremely pleasant, although not uneventful, day. We got to Bill Fen in the car at 10.30 this morning, topped up with diesel (£130.64), and left at one o'clock. It was a perfect day for boating, lovely hot sun, and I was trailing my feet in the water (one of the many advantages of a tug foredeck) and toying with the idea of getting right into the lovely clear water. It's like an subaquaqueous forest, of fantastic plants, populated by fascinating darting fishes.

So we watched the water temperature guage rise and rise, as we always do, and just at the point (around four o'clock) I went to tell Jim that it was over 100 and the oil pressure was 15 (it should be 18-20) there was a sound like Vesuvious erupting and the expansion tank boiling like a kettle, so we considered it politic to stop and drift around for a bit.

Jim has long held the view that the overheating is exacerbated by weed on the skintank (not going too fast, oh no) and we wondered if there might be a way of getting at it. Baz suggested that he could get into the water and have a look - or, at least a feel. We didn't have a scraper, but equipped him with the coal shovel, and he bravely lowered himself into the water. Well, the conclusion was that there isn't significant weed growth much below the waterline, but he looked like he was having such fun that I wanted a go. This might be the only opportunity - too much current on the Nene, too much filth in the canals. The only drawback being that I am a notoriously bad swimmer and the water was a good ten feet deep.

However, to compensate, I have mastered the art of floating, so I too grabbed a rope and eased myself in. Keeping hold of the rope, I had an absolutely wonderful time floating and splashing about. Although I have a deeply embedded image of myself as a non-swimmer, inculcated from my utter hopelessness in the school pool, which had very bitter green water and was lined with slimy polythene, I now realise that I can propel myself at least eighteen yards (how do I knowe that, I wonder) It's getting out again that's the thing. It's easy when you know how, and have two strong assistants though. The trick is to turn your back on the boat and be hauled up by the arms. It doesn't even hurt. Baz could haul himself out; playing the double bass is very good for upper body strength. I have never swum in fresh water before; it was absolutely lovely.

So after things had cooled down a bit, and we'd topped it all up again, we set off at about half past five, and got to Stanground just before nine. We're booked to go through at about 9.15 tomorrow, so will get full value from out three day Nene licence (must remember to affix it!)

WE also went through one lock (Ashline Sluice; I wonder if Helyn's boathook is still at the bottom of it), and we saw an owl.

Last day of school

It's amazing what you can get done when you know you've only got two days to do it. Things that I would have put off for weeks have been tidied up and whizzed off, so that I can have a nice clear diary before I go. And when I come back, I start of a crisp, new, unsullied diary for the academic year 2008/9.

Because it's not just the start of the holiday for me, it's the end of the year. When I return, with Autumn crisp in the air, it will be to new beginnings, new students, new possibilities. What exciting engagements will those crisply lined pages be filled with by this time next year? It's been a very good couple of years for me, not only personally and with the boat, but also on the work front. Hoping my luck will continue to hold...

So another couple of hours, a few people to see and signatures to collect, and then I'll be off. Have to leave early because Sebastian is leading the basses of the East Sussex Youth Orchestra in Rachmaninov's second symphony at the fantastic De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill tonight. Then tomorrow, up bright and early, and hopefully at Bill Fen in time to leave with Warrior the same day.

Must just set up my out-of-office email reply - with a link to the blog of course - and that'll be it for the year.

The keys to the kingdom

Yesterday Amy and James of Lucky Duck were wondering where they could get a BW key in London, at short notice. I offered to lend them my spare one so that they could get one along the way, and give ours back at Cropredy, because we'd already agreed that we'd see them there and inspect each other's boats. So with a few text messages we fixed a meeting near Amy's work, had lunch and a lovely chat, and will be seeing them again in a couple of weeks.

Isn't technology wonderful?

Moderation in all things

I've just noticed that Caxton use the comment moderation facility on their blog, meaning that they see any comment left first and then decide whether to make it public. It's clearly a useful facility if you're running a site where you might get people libelling third parties in your comments and be held responsible, but I'm glad I haven't felt the need to use it, and hopefully never will.

It must present dilemmas. Suppose someone leaves a critical or nasty comment. If I don't allow it, it looks like cowardice or censorship. On the other hand, if I do, then it looks either like masochism, or - if I then respond - as if I'm looking for a fight. On the other hand, if someone says something nice, surely modesty should forbid my broadcasting it to the world once I have control over it. So I prefer not to be in control of what comments are posted. Very occasionally, I have deleted comments. Once, on impulse, to protect someone else's feelings; once one of my own, because of a spelling mistake - but I still got accused of censorship - and a couple of times when they were obviously spam. Since instigating the old squiggly letters thing I don't think I've had any more of that.

I don't require commentors to be registered with Google/Blogger - I've had that frustrating experience when I've carefully crafted a comment and then at the last moment find I can't post it unless I go through some signing up rigmarole. Finally, I haven't taken the option of not allowing anonymous comments. I can't see the point. I've been involved in debates about the rights and wrongs of anonymity - albeit in the context of political blogs - and am surprised by how many people are against it. Firstly, in an online context, any name or identity is pretty meaningless anyway. People choose who they want to be. I'm all for that. I'm not pretending to be anyone I'm not when I write on here, or post on CWF as WarriorWoman, but I am representing only one particular aspect of myself, and the name and online identity I use highlights that.

The arguments for and against anonymity seem to me to be analogous to those for and against the secret ballot. My hero, John Stuart Mill, although in favour of widening the franchise and, incidentally, one of the very earliest advocates of votes for women, was opposed to the secret ballot. He thought that people should be prepared to stand up and be counted, literally, because if they couldn't be identified with their decisions they might decide selfishly or irresponsibly. He was probably right, but the advantages of secrecy, in terms of the liberation from possible coercion or bribery, surely outweigh this.* At least, we seem to have accepted that they do in political life. In blogging there's probably even less grounds for denying anonymity, given that anyone can respond and make their own points in response. We should be able to consider points and arguments independently of our views or knowledge of the people making them.

*For this to work, it is vital that you not only can vote in secret and not show anyone else your ballot, but that you must, and that you must be prevented from showing it to anyone else. This is one of the reasons that the expansion of postal voting is worrying.

Stick this in your window (in seventy words)

What can I say when this speaks so eloquently for itself? Please, take the time to savour the carefully crafted prose. Appreciate the attention to detail that the Environment Agency lavish on such an apparently small and insignificant detail - if they care this much about a three inch square of paper, what safe hands our rivers, lock cottages &c. must be in. Indeed, we can all sleep more peacefully in our beds knowing that up and down the waterways of this great nation, while clumsily deployed British Waterways licences may be displayed with no thought to whether the obverse or the reverse should be facing the user for transom affixment, EA certificates will be lined up smartly like soldiers awaiting a royal inspection.

Alternatively, they could have said, 'stick this in your window'.

But where's the magic in that? Where is the expansion of our vocabulary? Yes, I mock, but really I secretly love this arcane language. I'm glad they do it. It's easy to poke fun at it, and that's part of the reason, but it does represent something wonderfully old fashioned; one of the good things about the past, when people used the English language in all its variety and complexity, without shame or fear of elitism, to communicate rather than obfuscate. It's not the meaningless jargon of modern companies' 'mission statements', or the weasel waffle of politicians with their feel-good buzz words. It may be excessive, but it's good English; all the words mean something, and once you get over its redundancy, it does make sense.

So as a gesture of my admiration, I shall, forthwith, deploy my square of sticky plastic as advised, and I shall mock no more. Also, I have decided that henceforth I shall write 'etc' in Victorian fashion as above; it looks so much more elegant. Kindly pass me my quill...

Come rain or shine

There is now a boating hat for every meteorological eventuality (because there's also a furry one with ear flaps for when it's freezing, but it's packed away somewhere).

It's my birthday today, and the sou'wester was my present from Jim. I'd mentioned ages ago that I thought it would be a good thing to have, but I wasn't expecting it so it was a splendid surprise. I realised I needed one, or something like it (and what could be better than a great big yellow one?) last time I was steering in the rain, trying in vain to see out of the side of my anorak hood... because when you're steering, you stand sideways on, don't you. Don't you? Well, you should. And I decided that what was required was some sort of waterproof covering that actually moved with my head, and prevented rain from dripping down the back of my neck. What better than something designed for the very purpose. I have tried it on, and custom-folded the brim, and practised rotating my head, and it works very well, provided there are no ornaments within range to be swept off shelves. Additionally, I can wear it backwards and pretend to be a duck.

He wants me to say that he bought it from Bacons Dozen in Lowestoft (01502 564 120) who sound rather marvellous, especially if you need some Whitworth spanners or similar.

The fairweather boating hat was acquired by me at a jumble sale, and was, the label tells me, manufactured in the British colony of Hong Kong, so is clearly Vintage and not just old rubbish. I didn't have the nerve to wear it last year (also, last year it wasn't actually all that sunny) but it has been donned this year already as I am a lot more confident now that I am forty three.

Packing

Six days to go!

Like the big kid that I am (sometimes), I started packing for our summer holiday weeks ago. And finished. We don't have wardrobe space on Warrior; seems a bit inefficient when we can just keep everything on the bed during the day and it's the work of a moment to sling it out at night. In the past we've used those big laundry bag thingies, but I find them a bit unwieldy to handle and to scrabble around in, so I have invested in some Woolworths laundry baskets. They have nice smooth bottoms to slide onto the bed easily, and stack inside each other when empty.

I managed to fill two of these with my stuff; just my clothes, none of the other stuff we're taking. As I'm always berating Jim for taking too much stuff (no, you do not need three pairs of boots, smart trousers and a shirt for every occasion), I thought that this really wouldn't do.

Firstly I removed two thirds of the undies. It will be jolly good for my soul to wash them in the bath and hang them up to dry over the engine, and will make me feel very virtuous and horny-handed (but I use Neutrogena for that). Then I removed about half the t-shirts and most of the long sleeved ones. It won't be cold, will it? Even if it is, they'll be on the outside so it doesn't matter how filthy they are. I removed the pretty little tops I was taking for best; a clean vest will do instead. I shall still take one skirt, and am still debating over a pair of jeans. They're fearsomely impractical from a washing point of view, but if fairly clean, will take you anywhere. The other leg coverings I have packed are strictly for boating only, being of the hi-tech synthetic fibre, multi-zipped, outdoor type which I wouldn't want anyone to think I wore as a style statement.

In pursuit of a stylish birthday present for my friend Donna, I went Up West (as we denizens of the metropolis call it), and they have clothes shops there, on Oxford Street and Regent Street. Normally this would be a closed book to me, my main suppliers, since the demise of jumble sales, being charity shops and, if I'm feeling particularly wicked, Primark, but I was feeling bold, and stepped inside a few of these pulsating temples of youthful adornment. The fact that it appeared to be the tail end of the sales helped. And in H&M I found some splendid shorts. I shall say no more other than that they go rather well with my Boating Hat... must remember to pack pink and orange socks.

Anyway, I got it down to one basket in the end.

Hostage to fortune

Well, only a week to go. I was so impressed with Amy's sidebar calendar on Lucky Duck, I wanted one myself, so that everyone can see where we are, and when.

Baz said, isn't that a really bad idea, because then everyone will know we're away and come and burgle the house. I pointed out that the fact that we're going away is already public knowledge, and the burglar isn't going to much care whether we're in Northampton or Acton. And anyway, for all you burglars reading this, Aaron is moving in while we're away, and Carl next door is a one man neighbourhood watch, so I wouldn't try it if I were you. Furthermore, we haven't got a TV for you to nick.

Amy told me how to set it up, but I enrolled Baz too - although with hindsight I think I'm getting the hang of this now - and here it is. Only it's not quite right yet, because some of the entries are too long and you can't scroll across, but you can get the details up with a couple of clicks. It's all very provisional of course, so you'll have to keep reading to see where we are, when, but if you're in the area get in touch.

My, that's done me in.

Converging on Cropredy

It's going to be an exciting time at Cropredy, and not only because of going to the Festival for the first time after wanting to for years - no, make that decades. I heard yesterday that Mike is planning to go, and hoping to bring Zulu Warrior, which would be great.

And yesterday evening I learnt that the friends of one of my colleagues, Megan the redoubtable Deputy College Secretary, have just taken over the Brasenose Arms in the village, and she'll be there as well, helping them to get things sorted out.
I asked Graham of Alnwick what the pub was like, and apparently it's less posh than the Red Lion, and traditionally used by the residential boaters there. Sounds fine to me.

Now all we have to do is get there. I told Graham that we're aiming to arrive on the 6th - a week out of Ramsey. With long days and no hitches we should be tied up to Alnwick just about in time for the fun and frolics.

Tres amusant

If there's one expression that's guaranteed to have me reaching for my metaphorical gun, it's 'I like a good laugh.' People who say this mean either 'I drink Bacardi Breezers and think that chocolate willies are funny,' or, alternatively, 'I am a po-faced misery who completely missed the point of your mildly amusing blog post but will never admit it.'

It's one of those things that, if you have to say it, you clearly have a problem in that department. Who, frankly, doesn't enjoy a little mirth from time to time?

Anyway, I make no claims for the amusement potential of this, but it had me weeping over my desk this morning.

That's better

Thanks Baz. We resized it using Microsoft Picture Manager. That's just how I pictured it. Now, if we could just do something about separating the posts....

Work in progress

Aaaagh, I've gone and done it.
Of course I don't like it.
Steve's instructions worked perfectly.

Adam is right, obviously I need to shrink the photo considerably before uploading it. Baz had already cropped it long and thin - it'll be perfect once we get the size sorted out. Any hints Adam as to what size works just to fill the width of the page?

The thing that really bugs me about this layout is the way the end of one post is squished right up against the title of the next one. Any way around that that anyone knows of?

I will keep persevering; I don't want to give up just because I'm an old stick-in-the-mud and resistant to progress, but I hope we can overcome these little glitches. In the meantime, please consider it very much a work in progress.

A new look for nbWarrior?

Now Warrior the boat has its new look, maybe it's time for Warrior the blog to have a makeover after all. Kindly fellow-bloggers responded, as I knew they would, to tell me how it should be possible to have a photo masthead, showing Warrior in all its glory, and I pursued this, up to a point.

Up to the point where I realised that in order to achieve that end, I would have to replace this tried and trusted (and much loved, by me if apparently very few others) 'template' with a whizzy new modern fab and groovy 'layout' which I believe will look more like this. The Caxton blog, by the way, seems to have got off to a really flying start - 32 posts for July alone SO FAR! And it's so interesting and entertainingly written that I even forgive them for having a bowthruster. In fact, I'll go further than that; I may even reconsider my view of bowthruster owners in general... until the next smug Daily Mail-reading git hoves into view on their semi-trad, anyway.

So, bewarned. I shall start fiddling tomorrow. Hopefully I will manage not to totally screw everything up, and I am trusting (perhaps naively) in Blogger's assurance that the old version will be saved indefinitely and I can revert to it any time I like (but I bet only if I can find the right button, which is likely to be the stumbling block for me).

So. Coming soon: your new, improved, user-friendly, greener, fashionable, digital, forged-in-the-white-heat-of-technology, traditional values in a modern setting, accessible, equal-opportunity and all-round highly desirable nbWarrior.

Ha.

Fallen off again?

It has come to my attention that Warrior no longer appears on Granny Buttons' 'boatroll'; neither, if I remember rightly, does Water Spaniel, for one. This happened a while back, and the reason turned out to be that the list was set to accommodate only fifty names, and as new ones were added, those near the end of the alphabet dropped off the bottom. I suspect that that Andrew then expanded the list to a hundred - never thinking there would ever be so many. But I counted just now and made it ninety nine, which probably means that it is a hundred, given that maths isn't my strongest suit. So, will Andrew just expand again, or will he exert some sort of quality (or quantity?) control and weed the list?

While on the subject I recently weeded my links list a bit. I removed PolPhil Pete on the grounds that he hasn't posted since March, and the world is thus still woefully underinformed about What Would Hobbes Do?; and I removed Save Our Waterways - now it's become a membership group it's hard to see its particular raison d'etre. I've added the Photobucket albums alongside the Webshots ones, and will be using Photobucket from now on, I think - if only because it makes it SO easy to embed a photo in a CWF post.

When I say 'I', obviously I mean I got Sebastian to do it. He tried to show me how, again, but I resolutely looked the other way and stuck my fingers in my ears. I also wanted him to put in a masthead, with a nice photo of painted Warrior but that has so far defeated him. Note to self - ask someone who has a photo masthead in blogger how they did it. I also have a slogan, courtesy of Richard Fairhurst. He says that he sees this blog as being characterised by a 'traditional slant on modern boating'. I like that, and will incorporate it at the top of the page just as soon as someone tells me how.

Blimey, that was quick

Rang up BW on Monday afternoon, licence arrived in the post this morning.
Not bad.
Mind you, I rang the EA twenty minutes earlier, so where's theirs?

It is now possible to get short term licences without having a long term one, so we've bought a month off BW (August) and three days from the EA for the Nene - at £10 a day it's a dear way to buy it, but best for us. The Thames requires a separate one again but we can buy that when we get there.

We're leaving on the 30th, so that's a fortnight today. Exciting!

Funny looking road

Here's a rather interesting story from our local paper, the Sussex Express. There was a slight degree of minor consternation a few months back when it was announced that some sort of drink/drive limits were going to be imposed on boaters. Well, if there's anything in this story, then they won't need to bother with new regulations.

In short, the captain of a ship delivering aggregate was suspected by customs officers of being drunk some three hours before his ship was due to leave Newhaven. The customs officers called in the police, who attempted to breathalyse him. So far, so good - being drunk in charge of a ship is presumably a crime under maritime law. But when he refused, he was charged not under any maritime law but under the Road Traffic Act, according to the report 'after prosecutors were unable to find a more relevant charge.' Apparently this has made legal history, his defence lawyer saying that there appeared to be no precedent for it. Well, there is now.

Having been kept in custody for four and a half days, the ship's captain pleaded guilty to refusing to take a breath test, so, sadly, the use of this law was not tested in court.

Whatever the evils of being drunk in charge of a ship, it is nonetheless worrying that someone can be charged, kept in custody, convicted and fined under a law that was never intended for the purpose. Not really surprising, though.

Laden with trinkements

It was a lovely sunny day today, the first in a while, so naturally I spent it at the Queen Elizabeth II conference centre in Westminster. I could see Big Ben and the London Eye out of the window, but could feel only an air conditioned chill on my skin. I did get to ask a question of the Minister for Communities and Local Government though, and to hear Boris Johnson make a (disappointing) speech (Ken Livingstone turned up at an event I was at last week, so now I've got the pair). And I managed to introduce the boat into three conversations, although two of them were with people on the Lee Valley Park stand, which is a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

I have also added to my fine collection of trinkements. Trinkements are the freebies you can shamelessly collect at conferences from people desperate to tell you about their products and services, and to press their shiny leaflets upon you. The word came about when John at Huddersfield was so speechless with envy at the calling card case that I brought back from the Higher Education Academy conference that he didn't know whether what he was coveting was a trinket or an ornament. Trinkement collection can be quite competitive. Today I got my first memory stick (English Heritage) and a shiny new card holder (GLE ... something to do with economic development); some mints from Thames Water (what's that all about then?), and a notebook and badge from Lee Valley Park. Pens hardly count any more; as a seasoned collector I ignored them this time, although we did get a wooden one (!) in our oh-so-eco-friendly cotton bag. This is the latest conference trend. No one wants to be seen to be handing out nylon laptop bags any more, it's cotton shoppers from now on.

Obviously politics and local government conferences are pretty small fry. For the really serious freebies, apparently, it pays to be in medicine. That surely tells us something, although I'm not altogether sure what.

I was going to write about something else entirely tonight, but I've written so much now I think I shall save that for tomorrow.

Harder stuff

Oh dear, things are escalating.

No, actually, I saw sense and after a few minutes decided to pass this straight on to someone else. But if I see any more, of course I shall still have to buy them.

The picture is called 'Steam Revival' so the juxtaposition of modern boat and old train isn't as incongruous as it first looked. Any idea if it's a real place?

At long last (in more ways than one)

Yes, at long last we got Warrior signwritten, and at even longer last, I think I can post some photos, most of which were taken by Jim, but thanks to John for the ones taken from the bank.

I have given up on Webshots this time; it randomly refused to upload about three quarters of the photos (which needless to say were all the same type and size of file), so the signwriting photos are on Photobucket, here. Whoah! Read the story first...

The original plan had been to have the signwriting done by Dave Moore. We talked to him about it, and he did the temporary writing that served us for a year. I still feel rather guilty actually for switching, although he was very nice about it, and I'm sure isn't short of work. It would of course have been the absolute ideal to have Dave do it, with his flair, experience, training and reputation, but a few factors conspired to militate against that in the end: distance, cost, and the arrival at Bill Fen of the piratically named Black Boat John, who historically did all the Shotbolts' painting and signwriting.

He has done a good job. The main difference, I sense, is that we had to tell him exactly what we wanted. He couldn't give us any guidance. Unlike Dave, who chalked it out freehand, John plans it all on paper first. Most of what he has done hasn't been very traditional, whereas we wanted quite a plain, 1930s, sort of appearance. Of course there were lots of disagreements between Jim and me along the way, and every time I thought we'd agreed, it seemed he either changed his mind or it turned out we were actually visualising it differently. Changes continued to be made right up to the last minute, when I wasn't there. The plan had been to have all the writing in that very plain, sans serif, quasi-Grand Union style. Jim then read (or reread) Tony Lewery's book and thought that Warrior should be writting in a slightly more ornate style (or possibly much more ornate; maybe slightly more ornate was the compromise we reached)

It was also from this that he was inspired to have a vertical panel of diamonds under the drainage hole in the handrail. This I must say I like very much.

As you might gather, overall the scheme is a shameless pastiche of various aspects of old boats. It's not a replica of anything in particular, but hopefully it hangs together visually as long as you don't think about it too much. Our starting point was the age of the engine - 1937 - and the thought, what would we do if it was 1937 and we were just setting up in the tug business.

We were going to have both our names on it, but Jim decided either that that wouldn't look right (though actually the spacing would have worked well) or that he preferred to remain anonymous, so that is why only my name appears. Jim can be an honorary son. Feels like that sometimes anyway... The line under '& SONS' was in the initial plan, with both names; my idea was that in the later version the lettering should all be the same. However, John was working off the original sketch, and as I wasn't there... I'm not sure whether I prefer it or not, so I guess that means there's not much in it.

The address is the genuine address of Bill Fen, where we moor of course, and very near where Warrior was built, and it has a lovely ring to it, I think. Factory Bank runs alongside the High Lode going into Ramsey where the lorry breakers etc are, so is suitably gritty. I am slightly bothered by the thought that if one was setting up a tuggage business in the Fens one wouldn't necessarily have a narrow boat, but maybe someone could find me a precedent.

Wisbech was a genuine registration authority (they're listed in the Spring 2007 issue of NarrowBoat mag); and we just liked it better than Peterborough, which was the alternative 'local' one. Clearly if we plied our trade between Wisbech and Northampton and beyond (hence the narrowness, it's all starting to come together...) then we'd have to live on it.... (this may be what Emerson was referring to when he said that 'a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds'. On the other hand, he might not have been thinking of boat painting schemes. Who knows.)

Why this is not about signwriting

I did fully intend to do a big post tonight, with lots of pictures of the signwriting and a blow-by-blow account. But know what? I'm too knackered to do justice to it.

Jim came back yesterday after a week in Ramsey, rubbing down and overseeing final painting and signwriting. I spent yesterday on a selection of trains. Well, most of it. I went to Harrogate (about 280 miles away). For the day. This came about because my former Huddersfield colleague, John, submitted a paper in our joint names to a prestigious but very expensive conference there. Not only was the conference expensive, but you have to pay for your own accomodation on top. I resented this, so resolved to pay the cheapest possible day rate (£195!) and travel up by train (£11 each way). So, six hours there, lunch, half hour paper (my bit = about ten minutes), an hour to kill, then six hours back again, arriving home at eleven. I didn't even get the tea at Betty's with which John had bribed me to attend, as he had to leave even earlier to come south for a validation in Canterbury.

And so it was that just after leaving the office today I got a text from him saying 'are you still at york, I'm on my way through London, do you want to meet up for a drink' York? I thought, that was yesterday, you fool. Then I realised that this was merely overenthusiastic predictive texting, and he meant was I still at work (though whenever I've tried to text 'Yorkshire' I get 'workshy'...). So I rang him up from the train, just about to leave Victoria (I know, just like young people, it's terrible), and he was in Westminster, so we met up for a couple of pints, and then I came home, and now I'm going to bed. Sorry.

Signwriting pictures tomorrow... oh, except perhaps not, because I'm going to a local government seminar at the LSE and there's a wine reception afterwards...

I was right about the cat

But I finally finished the damn thing, despite feline 'assistance' this morning. Anyone want a nice jigsaw puzzle? Hardly used, complete, slightly hairy?