Just looking...

Back in the days when we had Helyn and dreamed of owning a narrow boat we loved going to brokers and looking over boats - this wasn't just idle tyre kicking, but serious research, getting an idea of what was available, what we liked, and what constituted a sensible price (as I said to Jim just now, there are no stupid boats, only stupid prices. Obviously this is not strictly speaking true; there are a great many very stupid boats, but this was said entirely in the context of old boats). The experience stood us in good stead, I think, because both our narrow boat purchases turned out to be a good choice on the basis of a relatively quick examination.

Now, however, this innocent practice has escalated. We have begun window shopping old boats. There is an inexorable sense of inevitability about where this would lead - except for the (perhaps merciful) fact that Jim and I are unlikely to agree on either what sort of boat or what condition... Nonetheless we had a super day out yesterday visiting the Warwickshire Flyboat Company. I'd never been there before and it was lovely, and the owner was very pleasant and helpful even though we obviously weren't immediate buyers. Jim was primarily interested in having a look at Ian, and even got wooden boat guru Carl to come along as well, while I took the opportunity to have a good look at Bicester (what else?)

Where's my gold braid?

Well, well, in something of a turn up for the books, I have today gained the National Community Boats Association Certificate in Community Boat Management. This means that I am considered capable of taking charge of a boat and up to twelve passengers. As well as being somewhat bewildered that anyone would consider me capable of this, I am also rather proud. There is no doubt that my steering has improved, and my manoeuvring over the course of this training weekend did, I have to say, go without a hitch. And my boatman's hitch was the envy of all.

The theoretical element of the course was not too onerous, being based largely around boat knowledge and common sense. The real challenge was the route planning exercise: work out how you would do the Warwickshire Ring in a week, fitting in a visit to some stately home, shopping and getting water every day, and with a pumpout in the middle of the week... using only a 1983 copy of Nicholsons, which for a start doesn't even have a symbol for pumpout in the key. However, once we got the hang of it Richard and I made a fair stab at the task, although we did end up with a day in hand and a pretty tired crew.

The only fly in the ointment is that as far as CCNA are concerned, I am now a qualified 'skipper'. Sebastian has already promised to bring me a hat with gold braid from the shop where he works on Brighton seafront. I can only promise never to refer to myself as such. But a steerer I shall be very proud to be.

Welsh weekend II

Somewhat after the event, I return to my visit to Newport. On Sunday, I really wanted to go looking for the canal, but Ali had decided that first of all a visit to Abergavenny would be in order. I'm not 100% sure why; this may be the 21st century and all, but there still isn't a great deal of entertainment to be found in a small Welsh town on a Sunday.

So we came back, and then I said, we must go and find the canal now. But we had no idea where to start really, and we hadn't taken the map with us. We started off going completely the wrong way, heading for the area that was named in the photo of locks I'd seen in the pub. I knew it didn't feel right though; we were headed up hill and into the posh bit of town. So we turned around, and found ourselves watching a great bigh parade of scouts, sea cadets etc. What was this, we asked one of the marshalling policemen. St George's Day parade, it turned out to be. In Wales? How odd.

Anyway, Ali has a friend who lives in Canal Street. This I thought was an enormous clue, but, unfortunately, she could never remember how to get to her friend's house. Out past Wickes and by the dual carriageway, a guy in the pub had said, so we set off in that direction. And sure enough, there it was.

My first sight (since the school trip to Ironbridge in 1982) of a disused canal. Now, you can either follow the main line towards Cwmbran, or the Crumlin Branch, to a place called Fourteen Locks, which is apparently very pretty. According to this sign
we took the latter route, although it did not entail turning off; the other route forked off to the right under the road, where the canal ran in a concrete trough.

The first couple of locks, although dry, had new gates, which was rather intriguing. I know there are plans to restore the canal from where it is currently navigable to all the way down to Newport, where apparently it will join the Usk (I just read about this in the IWA magazine).
I guess there must be a reason for starting at the furthest end. As we progressed away from Newport the canal got more overgrown, and the locks more derelict.
However, none looked irretrievable. There were also some lovely relics that had somehow survived without being removed to a museum or scrapyard.

We never got as far as Fourteen Locks, as it had been a long day, I had a cold, and we were still carrying our shopping. But it was a lovely walk and I only wish we'd started it sooner and made a day of it.

London boating

Penny, ahem, pours the wine...

Yesterday Jim and I went to the Little Venice Cavalcade. I'd never been before so wasn't sure what to expect. Had we just gone to wander around, it wouldn't really have taken long. There weren't that many stalls, and although there were lots of boats, most of them weren't really for looking at - although they made a lovely show, all dressed in bunting and filling the pool with colour.

However, we had an absolutely splendid day, thanks once again to our friends on Chiswick. We arrived about noon, via Paddington, and decided to stroll up towards the basin first to see who was there - and lo and behold, practically the first boat I did see was Chiswick, in the process of being decorated in the theme of 'waterway wonders'.

I introduced Jim and we had a cup of tea while James dismantled the plumbing to find a piece of pipe from which to fly the bunting, and we were invited to join them for a trip to Camden and back at about two.

So we went off to see what else was around - one highlight was Dane with its Bolinder running way up at the far end of the Little Venice visitor moorings - and we had some lunch, and returned to find tied up next to Chiswick none other than Victoria. Now as you know, I love a big Woolwich... but a Royalty class... phew. Magnificent. Is all I can say. It's almost too much. So we got to have a chat with Mike, its (relatively) new owner and have a little clamber over it, then we set off in convoy between Victoria and Kestrel (the josher, not the Duckies' friends) to Camden where we all tied up right by the lock and went off for a very quick drink as James had to be back by five for the boat handling competition - preferably with the boat.

Bob and Rosie went off to find a coffee while the rest of us plunged into a Lloyds Bar hell hole, took aged to be served and then had five minutes to down our pints before heading back over the bridge to the boats (there could be a sporting event in this, sort of like orienteering but without the healthy stuff). We were just untying when we realised that we hadn't got Bob and Rosie. Gabriel went off to round them up, then they appeared and we had to call Gabriel back, and then we set off, having slipped out from inside Kestrel whose crew looked unlikely to return for some time.

On the way back I had a lovely view...

We now fancied another drink, so Penny opened a bottle of rose and sloshed out a couple of generous tin-mugfuls. The flavour was not greatly diminished by the diesel smuts collected along the way. We made it back to the pool in good time and plotted up ready for the competition. I leapt off to meet Dean from work, who I had suggested come down to experience the joy of boats, but everyone else stayed on board while Dean and I had an ice cream - me still clutching my mug of pink liquid - and watched from various vantage points as James completed the fiendish course.

There is a second round today so I don't know yet whether he won, but he has done in the past, so I would have put money on him had the opportunity presented itself, which it didn't.

After that we all went off and had dinner, and while the others prepared for the illuminated parade, Jim and I reluctantly decided to take ourselves home, the last train departing Victoria at the obscenely early hour of 2147. But what a lovely day out we'd had - thanks once again to everyone on Chiswick.

Adventures on Chiswick part III

Day 3, Abbots Langley to Uxbridge

Yes, I really was awake - albeit not up - at five. Eventually I got up and finished Hold on a Minute, then strolled into the village to a. identify where we were and b. get some Sunday papers. Jim always jokes when we go to some little village that there won't be any Guardians; this works both if the place is painfully trendy (they will have sold out) and if it is clearly Colonel Bufton Tufton country (they won't have ordered any in the first place). I always laughed at this (no harm in that, seeing as it was a joke...) but he'd have had the last laugh this morning in Abbots Langley. Is there an Observer, I asked. Should be, the shopkeeper said, oh, no, we've sold it.

This morning was notable for me being able to mildly upset two dog owners - not that I have anything against dog owners per se (some of my best friends etc) but the first of these was one of that breed of people who seem to think that deftly flicking a pile of shit into the canal constitutes clearing up after your dog - er, no. If we wanted the canal full of shit, we've plenty of our own; think of what we'd save on blue. But there's a reason that's not allowed any more, and you, dog owners, are no exception. If only I had been able to put it so eloquently at the time, but it was a bit early for coherent argument.

The second one was walking two big boisterous dogs along a narrow path towards me. I just stopped and stood still to allow him to steer them around me, and after he passed he said 'You're welcome' in a very sarky tone. I'm still wondering what I was supposed to have been grateful for. 'Oh, thank you so much for not forcing me off the path into the ankle deep mud and dog crap (to which you have no doubt been contributing this morning'; 'I am eternally grateful to you for restraining your slathering beasts from savaging me as an aperitif before breakfast'; 'I am truly honoured to have been permitted to use the footpath when you and your hell hounds clearly needed it more.' But once again, the apposite response arrived five minutes too late. Esprit de gangplank.

On the way back from the shop I met Bob and James on a similar mission, and then we all had breakfast and after a bit set off. It was lovely and sunny today, and seemed to go by very quickly. We all did bits of polishing and locks while James steered, and heading towards Uxbridge texted Baldock to see if they wanted to meet up. By the time we'd had dinner and washed up, primped and changed, and forgotten it was Sunday, there wasn't much time left for drinking, and I for one was pretty worn out anyway - although still exhilarated by the whole experience. So it was back for a relatively early night...

Day 4, Uxbridge to Cowley Lock (me)/Paddington Basin (everyone else)

... And, concomitantly, another early morning. More like six this time maybe, but I got up straight away and started polishing. It was just such a lovely morning already and it felt like the right thing to do. When the time came to leave (after I'd put in a bit of practice negotiating the top plank) James said that I should steer again for my last bit of the trip, which was marvellous. So it came to pass that all too soon we arrived at Cowley lock, and while we were waiting, Penny went and bought everyone ice creams, and I steered Chiswick into the lock, handed the tiller to James, collected my bag and coat (wonderfully redundant on this lovely final day), said my farewells and thanks - which I record here for posterity - and without a backward glance set off on the long trek back to Uxbridge. Yes, I know I could have just gone from there in the morning, but I wanted to do every single lock of the trip, and with the steering, and the sun and the ice cream it was well worth it.

I'll be back.

On the move again

Andante (aka Saxon) is for sale AGAIN! This time smartly painted and with a new engine of all things. Those rose-painted panels on the front doors were rescued from the rubbish in Huddersfield; it's nice to see they're still part of her. I wonder if my abysmal painting still features on the corridor cupboard.

Poor old girl, it seems that since Mike bought her from her first owners, no one has been faithful to her for long. But certainly Mike and I (I don't know about subsequent owners) were so besotted that we went on to buy bigger boats.

The price keeps going up too - now asking over 50% more than I paid in 2004 even though she's now crossed the twenty-year-old mark. Well, good luck to her, she's a lovely little boat.

Thanks to Michelle in Chapel Hill for alerting me to this!

Meanwhile back on the Grand Union

I dunno, you go for weeks without a decent thing to write about and then two (nay, possibly three) come along at once. Back to my weekend on Chiswick...

Day 2: Berkhamsted to Abbots Langley

So, I awoke before the assembled throng on Saturday morning, and volunteered to go to Waitrose. This I did, albeit a little redundantly, as later we all went again, this time with me absent mindedly armed with a windlass. Advised by Penny (for it is her calling) we purchased vast quantities of wine, plus a second consignment of Magnums (posh choc ices on a stick, that is, not of champagne), Esther's previous intrepid experiment having demonstrated that they kept very nicely thank you in the fridge's ice box, and James having missed out on one the previous night on account of it having been Bob's birthday.

At some point in the morning we set off, and at some point later I was invited by James to take the tiller. I cannot really do justice to the way this felt - it really was a dream come true; a perverse desire I've clung to for a few years now. In the meantime I've had goes on Northwiches large (Tarporley) and small (Warbler), and set foot on at least two other big Woolwiches, but this was the first time I'd got to steer one. Just as you chose your football team at an early age and then have to stick with it through thick and thin, even as you discover that there are others that are handsomer, faster, better, I'll always be in some deep corner of my heart a big Woolwich girl.

And it felt fantastic. I'm no natural steerer (I may have mentioned that?) but it felt as natural and instinctive as anything else I've steered; you know how some things just feel right. Its size and heaviness and solidity didn't make it harder; somehow it felt more instinctive rather than less. And I have to give credit to James who seems to be not only a born boatman but a natural teacher too, for his patience and encouragement; and I hope I've remembered the tips he passed on.

Then we stopped for lunch, washed down by some of Penny's wine, and I thought I had better quit while I was ahead, and found other things to do to while away the afternoon, involving scientific trials of different sorts of metal polish. Ah yes, I forgot to mention that we were joined this morning by John and Jane as well as the aforementioned Penny, so had a sizeable crew. We overtook the day's schedule and tied up we knew not where, only that it was somewhere short of Kings Langley - it was only on consulting parish notice board the next morning that I identified it as Abbots Langley.

Well, we enede up in a pub which I have to say is not the sort of establishment I normally frequent, although it didn't look too offputting from the outside. I think it was called the Dog and Partridge, and if not that, then something similar. It had no proper beer (but just about scraped by with bottled Bombardier), large television screens showing a constant succession of what to my untrained eye looked like porn models gyrating to what I presume must be the latest happening sounds (is this the current state of popular music, I ask myself), and, somewhat disturbingly, a golliwog hanging behind the bar. Now, I am not one to take offence on others' behalf at the mere existence of golliwogs, but I think hanging one behind your bar must be intended as some kind of statement, no? And I fear it can't be a particularly savoury one. Add to this a friendly but still rather intimidating young Staffie who begged for crisps with an impressive repertoire of tricks, and a pool table so tatty they didn't care what you did with it, and a liberal attitude to closing time, and you will see we had the ingredients for a fine old night.

So off to bed it was at one, and I awoke at five to the birds singing and the church bells chiming the hour, and I just lay there all cosy watching the sky lighten through the open slide and thinking how incredibly bloody lucky I was.

Welsh weekend

I will continue with my Chiswick adventures when I get home, but this weekend I'm in Newport, Gwent (OK Gwent doesn't officially exist any more, but you know where I mean) visiting my sister. Yesterday we went shopping and today I believe we are going to Abergavenny. When I originally planned the visit I looked into hiring a dayboat on the Mon&Brec, but it proved a combination of too expensive and inaccessible by public transport.
There is canal interest here, but I have yet to suss it out. I was discussing it in the pub last night with some of Ali's friends who said it can be found in the town, sorry, city, and followed for some way. I gather from them that part of it at least is in water and there are still extant locks. Any further information would be greatly appreciated - I have only been able (albeit with a brief search) to find stuff relating to Newport in Shropshire. There was an old photo of one lock in the pub - a sixteenth century establishment called the Olde Murenger. Apparently a murenger is the person who looks after the town walls.
The canal - and railway - are celebrated with a splendid mosaic cum bas relief on an underpass by the river Usk.

Home from home

Day one - Aylesbury to Berkhamsted

I arrived early to meet Chiswick on the towpath opposite Aylsebury Basin, despite having done my usual trick of wandering around for ages having missed the most obvious route. Just as I drew near, with perfect timing, a side hatch flew open. 'Hello', I said, 'I'm Sarah'. Thankfully James, for it was he, seemed to know who I was talking about and I was welcomed on board by Bob and Esther who were making bacon sandwiches for the assembled crew - today, the four of us plus Gabriel, a Tarporley stalwart. Not too soon after this we set off down the Aylsebury Arm, me and Gabriel lockwheeling. Staying ahead of the boat was not too onerous, at it was apparently very shallow. I would just like to put on record now that of the sixty two (or was it sixty three?) locks we went through, approximately three were in our favour, so I have had a good workout.

Anyway, I like doing locks, which is just as well as the weather was not too great on Friday, very damp, and the towpaths were seas of mud. Bob and I both managed to roll about in it a bit (separately) and I was quickly annointed with mud and grease in the proper fashion. So we proceeded throughout the morning, until at lunchtime Gabriel and I were ordered inside to take our sitting for lunch - potatoes baked and pies heated in the Epping stove. Two more locks passed while we ate, and then it was back to the fray.

I wasn't keeping records, but I think it was about half past seven and twenty nine locks later when we arrived at Berkhamsted and tied up outside Waitrose. After a good dinner cooked and served by Esther, we prepared to hit the town; i.e. I put my unmuddy trousers on, and having all changed into our gladrags, we rolled up our trouser legs clear of the mud and set off to find Berko's nightlife. Well, I wanted to go to the Rising Sun, of course, and eventually we did get there, having paused to examine briefly two other pubs on the way (The Boat and one whose name eludes me for the moment) which were heaving with young people - who'd've thought there were so many. The Rising Sun by contrast was just nicely busy and, wonderfully, was pretty much as it ought to be; cream painted T&G and anaglypta ceiling, looking like it hadn't changed in decades, except for the wire pig attached to the ceiling that is.

After a pint it was time to go back to Chiswick and inspect my quarters for the first time. I only subsequently realised the James had given up the back cabin for my convenience, but I'm afraid once I'd tried it I was ready to fight off all comers, I loved being in there so much. The stove was gently burning away in the corner (my wet boots tucked beneath it), the slide was open to regulate the heat, the cross bed was very comfy, the air lightly scented with diesel and, in short, it was absolute heaven.

Coming soon...

For the next few days I'm going to be too busy catching up at work to do justice to the weekend on Chiswick (because I really want to write it up properly). But in the meantime here's a little trailer...

Penny, a Tarporley volunteer who accompanied us for much of the trip, sent me a selection of her photos last night, including this one.

The wanderer returns

I don't know what my student must have thought this afternoon when he turned up to see his normally immaculately turned out supervisor clad in muddy trousers literally embellished with Brasso and black grease, a hippy shirt and black fingernails, and no doubt smelling of smoke at best... but he was far too polite to say anything.

Well, what a splendid weekend I've had; I can scarcely begin to describe how wonderful it was. A new experience, not only in boating on a working boat - which is in itself, in ways both obvious and indefinable, a very different experience - but also crewing with a group of people I didn't know very well (and in some cases had never met before) but with this common interest and commitment, and it was great how we fell into a rhythm of working together without anyone needing to give orders.

I will provide a blow by blow account over the next few days, in order to do justice to the whole thing - hopefully with enough cliffhangers to get my ratings up again - but I must start by saying an enormous thank you to Bob and Esther and James for making it all possible and for making it the fantastic experience that it was.

Extraordinary start

My boating life is dogged by jaw dropping coincidences. This is not the greatest of them (that would be hard to beat) but it's pretty good.

I get up this morning before five, quick shower, breakfast, cup of tea. Just as I'm about to leave I realise that I've nearly finished my detective novel and will have nothing to read on the train. A quick glance over my library books but nothing grabs me. Then I suddenly remember the final two 'Working Waterways' books I bought a couple of months back. I've read Maidens' Trip but that still leaves one. Was it or Anderton for Orders or Hold on a Minute? A quick glance down the contents page in the dark confirms that it's Tim Wilkinson's Hold on a Minute, so I stuff it in my bag and leave the house to catch my train from Newhaven at ten to six.

So I'm on the train to London, finish Careless in Red, and take out the boating book. Savouring every word, I read all the forewords, and it's at this point that my jaw first drops, but I carry on reading to be sure. The author and his wife, in 1948, take on a pair of boats from the DIWE, and the book is an account of their experiences trying to make a go of the life. And their boats are Chiswick and Bawtry. I swear I did not know this.

Tonight, if I am not too exhausted to keep my eyes open, I shall be in Chiswick's back cabin, reading about what that very boat was doing sixty years ago. Extraordinary.

Grand Unioning

Can there be many more exciting emails to receive than this?

Chiswick trip:
Hi Sarah,
Are you still on line to join us on our London trip? ....
....I have earmarked the boatman's cabin for your accommodation...
Day one - depart 10am Friday 17th from Aylesbury Basin to Berkhamsted - 12.23 miles, 29 locks.
Day two Saturday 18th - depart 10 am - Berkhamsted to Hemel Hempstead - 5.66 miles, 19 locks.
Day three Sunday 19th Hemel Hempstead to Uxbridge - depart 10 am - 15.4 miles, 23 locks.
Final day Monday 20th April - depart 10 am - Uxbridge to Paddington Basin - 19.30 miles, 1 lock

I will have to be up at five to get to Aylesbury by ten, adding that touch of authenticity. I don't know whether I'll be able to blog from Chiswick but I'll do my best. I am very excited...

Bank holiday weather

Only to be expected of course. Having toiled for four days under the monochrome skies of East Anglia whilst the rest of the country basked in a heatwave (Sebastian, who now has a job selling candyfloss to the marauding hordes on Brighton seafront, sold £1300 worth of ice creams on Saturday), we drove home this afternoon in stifling heat, and it is now pouring with rain, because of course the first thing I did was do the washing and hang it out, wasn't it.

I just hope that next weekend is better...

Four corners

Yes, OK, it's upside down. I just uploaded it straight off my phone, and no, I'm not going to fiddle about with it now.

We set off last night to find John in the Jolly Sailor and enquire of him what the four points are that one must navigate in order to qualify for the Middle Level plaque - and now having successfully conquered Holme Fen, it appears that we have covered them all, so this morning we we went over to see Lyn and claim our trophy.

The Four points are Nordelph (we don't actually have a photo of ourselves there, but as it is on the way to Salters Lode there's little doubt we've been through, and very pretty it is too), Holme, Ramsey, and Stonea.

There is also a bar for Welches dam lock, but as that is closed at present and for the foreseeable future, it's as well that that's separate.

Meanwhile Jim has changed the impellor in the Jabsco water pump, just as a service thing.

And back again

Today, Peterborough to Floods Ferry and beyond, and back to Bill Fen.
And yes, it was just about as exciting as it sounds. The hint of blue that we saw in the sky this morning quickly resolved itself to grey, and I have to say, the fascination of experiencing this flat textureless landscape in monochrome was starting to pall. We had the bright idea of spending tonight at Floods Ferry, where we used to moor Helyn, so we set off in that direction.

When we got there we were very pleased to see that the willow tree we 'donated' (when it became too big for our tiny garden - another Woolworths purchase) was still going strong, but the caravan and lodges had multiplied considerably and the visitor moorings were packed, and we decided we didn't fancy it after all and that we would go on to March. And the sky got greyer and the air got colder and we thought what are we carrying on for - it's not as if we haven't been to March before - and quite the nicest place to be is Bill Fen anyway, so we turned around, and as we started on our way back, miracle of miracles, the sun actually came out, and what a difference it made. Seeing everything in warm colour again emphasised how dull it had all been before, and the warmth quickly drove away the oppressive chill that had dogged us since Friday. And all was right with the world again.

But we came back anyway, because what we really want to do is get our Middle Level plaque, a special one you can get for going to four obscure points of the waterway, of which Holme Fen is one, but we didn't know or have forgotten what the others are, so we thought we would ask Lyn. I had a look at the Bill Fen website to see if it was on there but couldn't find it - but they have linked to Warrior - what an honour! I had better be sure only to say nice things about the place then - although miserable old curmudgeon that I am, I really do only have nice things to say. And a peacock has just walked past - there.

Dead dog

Yesterday, Whittlesey to Dog in a Doublet, and back to Peterborough.

Jim thought he saw a coconut floating in the water. This might be a common sight in the Midlands or Leicester, but I didn't think Hindu funerals had made it out this far, and sure enough, on closer examination it turned out to be a dead hedgehog, which was a lovely start to the day.

We arrived at Stanground early for our passage at ten, and were locked through by the lovely Tina, third generation of her family to be lock keeper here, then bid farewell to the Moomins who were heading up the Nene out of Peterborough, whereas we planned to go down. First of all we had a splendid EA pumpout (rather guiltily, completely free this time as we are licenceless). This must be one of the best ones going, very efficient, and at the risk of anthropomorphising it, wonderfully enthusiastic. Say what you like about the merits of pumpout vs. cassette, there's something quite satisfying about a good pumpout. Oh, sorry, is that just me? (Also of course, and for me this is the clincher, it's not either/or; if you have a pumpout then you have both and thus are adapted to all emptying opportunities that might present themselves).

Moving on - as we did, under the solid white sky - we headed off down towards Dog in a Doublet. This lock onto the tidal Nene takes its name from the local pub, supposedly named thus when an eighteenth (? I'll look it up in a minute) century landlord's dog's hair fell out and he made it a natty little coat to keep it warm (or possibly to conceal its embarrassing skin complaint). It must have caught on, because I'm pretty sure there's more than one pub by that name in the country. Of course I wanted to visit this legendary inn, but was doomed to disappointment, as like so many, it was boarded up when we arrived.

The five mile stretch was not fatally boring - come on, we've done the Hundred Foot Drain - and wasn't even as straight as it looked on the map. For one mile just out of Peterborough there is no speed limit (moored here in the past we have been entertained by jetskiers, but not today), and for the rest it is 7mph so on the way back (Jim steering of course) we gave the engine a good workout and made the five miles in forty minutes.

Back in Peterborough we went for a wander around the city, and it was much nicer than I remembered it from a previous visit by road. The fact that it was Easter Sunday probably helped; the shops were shut and the place was almost deserted and it was so much easier to notice the many old and handsome buildings that line the streets. All this to a soundtrack of cathedral bells. Only one shop was open - a recruitment agency, advertising for 'English speaking packers and line workers... Register today, work tomorrow' which was not only open, but doing a roaring trade, with people queuing up inside and gathering in knots outside, and not speaking English.

Then we returned for another quiet evening around the fire. I finished reading Stuart Maconie's Adventures on the High Teas (not nearly as good as Pies and Prejudice, I didn't think), and we tested out the new bed, specially made for Craig, that occupies the whole of the back cabin, and pronounced it to be most acceptable, although I still prefer the basis cross bed, but I can afford to, being on the short side.

This morning, the sky might be described as 'white with a hint of blue', which augurs well.

Sky of white

Awoke this morning to s sky that was not grey, nor of course blue; it was not black, or that forbidding yellow that presages snow. It was white, colourless. Every bit of life and character leached from it. A good day then for attempting the trip to Dog in A Doublet, where the tidal River Nene begins, and proceeds north via Wisbech to some bleak outfall on the North Sea. We have never taken this right turn out of Stanground Lock before. Apparently the last two people to try it died of boredom. But on the map it only looks like about five miles, of dead straight cut, so surely we can bear it for that long. I always thought Dog in a Doublet held the promise of exoticism, although now I am prepared for disappointment. But I do remember that once before we came across it by road, at night, the giant guillotine gate looming black out of the mist, and it was quite a stirring sight, on the still black water.

No place like Holme

Day 2? Wherever it was to Holme, and Holme to Whittlesey

Yes, we did make it up Holme Fen this time. And discovered in the process that the point where we had to turn back last time (or rather not turn back but reverse out) was only about 150 yards from the end and the winding hole. Well, they call it a winding hole, but really it's more of a narrow channel round an island, and not at all spacious, but we managed it, and so did Melaleuca. Oh yes, and so did about a dozen stalwarts of Peterborough IWA who were having an Easter cruise up Holme Fen and most of whom were on their way out as we were on our way in and just getting to the narrow bit. In fact I was very pleased with the way I manoeuvred around most of them, until one very small boat appeared without looking from behind one that was waiting for us to pass, and threw it all into chaos.

Tonight we are in Whittlesey, and about to sample its nightlife. The town has an impressive number of pubs with some delightful names - The Hero of Aliwal, The Letter B - as well as a Black Bull, Falcon Hotel, a George (closed), a Boat Inn, and others which I can't remember. I liked the idea of The Hero of Aliwal - a local character called Harry Smith who played a decisive part in the Sikh Wars (according to Imray), but the pub itself was not very inviting (also, a food hygeine certificate granting the holder three stars out of a possible five is hardly a ringing endorsement, is it. If it were mine I don't think I would display it in the window quite so boldly). The Letter B may get a look in though.

Fen thoughts

As I sit here, shivering slightly in the damp grey chill, a football commentator on Radio 5 informs Jim that in Wigan, hundreds of fans are sitting shirtless in the blazing sun. But I wonder whether this isn't the best weather for this landscape. When the sun shines, it is inescapable; and the blue sky heavy and oppressive... No, I'm not convinced either.

But it is the best weather for really appreciating the strangeness of this place, muffled in its blanket of mist, silent and still. There is something very post-apocolyptic about the landscape. Buildings are roofless, wall-less; boarded, bricked up, cracked and collapsing, houses, pumping stations and mysterious shacks. Farmyards are junkyards of old machinery, giant wheels and the skeletons of family homes. Rumps and stumps of bridges and buildings and alien blackened trees emerge from the mist. It is as if everyone just got up and walked away. It has such a sense of being abandoned.

And yet the black fields have been ploughed and sown, and already glimmer with the pale green traces of the vegetables that come summer will be picked by an invisible army of migrant workers. But for human intervention, the land would not even be here. But it is a land living on borrowed time; and, unlike the rest of us, it knows it.

Dry everywhere else

I've just listened to the weather forecast on Radio 4. It said that it was grey and wet in eastern England (yep) but bright and sunny and promising a lovely day in the west. It said it is going to rain all day in the east. And tonight, it will rain in the east and will be dry everywhere else.

Bugger.

Blasted heath

Yes, I know it's the wrong side of the country and no doubt looks entirely different, but that was the first thing that came into my head upon seeing this scene. Where are we? Somewhere on the Nene Old Course, headed not towards Floods Ferry and March, but the other way, on our way to Holme Fen. Yep - intrepid or foolhardy, we have decided that this will be our first holiday adventure. Hopefully at this time of year there will not be so much weed. That's what we thought when we tried it one Christmas, but there was still a lot of dead weed hanging about then, and you may recall, we never made it as far as the winding hole at the end but had rather a long reverse out.

We've stopped here for the night as Moomin says it's the last nice-ish spot, and it was, of course, raining. It started just as we untied to leave Bill Fen, soft wet rain. I just spent three days in Manchester and it didn't rain once!

You ain't going nowhere

Bah! It is as we feared. Salters Lode lock will not be re-opening in time for Easter, so sorry Cambridge, you'll have to manage without us.

This leaves us with two options (well, three if you include staying at home, but I'm dying to get back on the boat, even if this means...) Option 1: Go up the Nene. Jim just suggested that we could spend our week going up the Nene to Northampton and back. Why? I asked... So that we could go to the Malt Shovel. Well, yes, I am very much looking forward to visiting this pub with its massive selection of real ales and continental beers, and I do like a journey to have an objective, but the cost-benefit analysis on that particular proposal is not positive.

My preferred option is to spend the time exploring the bits of the Middle Level that we might otherwise not get round to. A new assault on Holme Fen, for example; a run up to Dog in a Doublet; up Bevills Leam as far as possible from each end (it has a pumping station in the middle); to Upwell to drink in the Globe as planned; and to Welches dam lock, which used to be passable (indeed, Warrior was built to the maximum length with which it was possible to pass it) but is no longer...

All I can say at present is, sorry Cambridge that we won't be visiting after all, and watch this space to find out where we will be.

Found it!

Still, I suppose it wasn't really lost. But it was still nice to come across this on my way from the conference centre last night. As I was watching a small girl came up to me. My expertise must have showed, because she asked me 'Is that gate allowed to be open?' I said perhaps it wouldn't stay shut. Should she go and shut it, she wanted to know. I thought this was probably to be discouraged, as she really was quite small and was accompanied by an even smaller boy. Then they caught sight of three rather menacing looking Canada geese on the lockside, and with a cry of 'Duckies!' they were off in pursuit.

Helyn again

At last! Some free time combined with good weather means that work on Helyn has restarted. Today Jim finished relaying the floor after we'd had it up to inspect and clean underneath it.

And yesterday we got the new steering cable steering fitted.


Just a final scrub now, and some new varnish on the wooden handrails, and she'll be ready to go.

A-bantering, Ubuntu-ing

It can't be often that someone decides on a whim to go to Uxbridge for the evening, especially when it involves a two and a half hour train and tube journey each way, but hey, that's the kind of mad people we boaters are. We had long known that there was going to be a CWF 'banter' (these get togethers seem to be becoming more frequent of late) and that Moomin and the Ducks and various other luminaries were going, but we'd decided to give it a miss and save our pennies for the forthcoming holiday. But then, like all the best decisions, we thought, oh what the hell, let's go after all. So there was a mad dash to catch the train, as we hadn't noticed that the start time had been moved from three to six o'clock.

No matter, we got there at about half past four and strolled up and down the towpath in the sun - yes, the SUN! - for a bit, then sat and had a quiet pint, and then the Cambridge contingent arrived, closely followed by about thirty other people in the end, some of whom we knew - it was particularly splendid to see Bones and Maffi again - and some we met for the first time. Not many had come by boat but there were a few tied up outside, including Derri's rather wonderful Carribean Broads cruiser, and a RN DM3 being run on waste oil of various sorts (we saw him pouring in old chip fat as well as the much blacker stuff) using RN's heating and filtering system.

Moomin was delighted to hear that I, being the last person in the household to hold out, have finally abandoned Windows for Linux. It wasn't that I liked Windows; rather, like I suspect about 99% of users, I was clinging desperately to the familiar no matter how awful it was - and mine, after four years, was pretty dreadful. So the other day, when it absolutely refused to connect to the internet, I finally got round to backing up all the photos to DVD and let Baz wipe the whole thing and install Ubuntu. So far I am very impressed. It's not just that it's quicker and cleaner, but it does - even to someone who's very used to Windows - seem more intuitive and simpler. The installation went without a hitch, and Firefox, for example, was ready to go without any further setting up.

I am still slightly wary of OpenOffice and its compatability with MS Office - I'm currently writing the PowerPoint presentation for my conference paper on Tuesday and having seen the changes it made translating into OpenOffice from my Windows machine at work, I'm a bit worried about what it's going to do when I try to transfer it back again in front of a room full of people. Also I miss the keyboard commands which don't seem to work - but maybe I just need to use different keys?

On the plus side however, it has an excellent version of Tetris, so I never need be gainfully employed again. And - see the photo at the top? I decided that I wanted to crop it a bit, something I would normally summon Baz to do, but I thought, this is all new to all of us, so I'll see what I can do, so I rooted around for a bit, and found something called Gimp, dragged the photo into it, messed around for a bit, and presto, I worked out how to do it. Hours of fun beckon.

Although having said that my desktop computer is once more refusing to communicate with the wider world, whilst all the wireless jobbies seem quite happy to. So perhaps it has its wires crossed.

This time next week

Jim has just pointed out that if things go to plan, this time next week we should be enjoying a few pints of Elgoods (Black Dog in Jim's case; me, I don't know yet) in the Globe in Upwell, en route to Salters Lode (which as of today still hasn't reopened, but we continue to live in hope).

Steering

In order to head off any criticism before it gets to me, I tend to announce up front (in circumstances where it is relevant, and sometimes when it isn't) that I am the world's worst steerer. At least, proportionate to the amount of practice, experience and effort I have put in; there might be small children who have never seen a boat (though they'd probably pick it up and overtake me within minutes) and creatures without opposable thumbs who find it as much of a challenge, but I can't be sure.

This, as you might imagine, is a source of much consternation to me. I love boats so much that it seems there should be a natural affinity between us, but no; it appears that this love is unrequited and its object responding only with a chilly civility. Fantasies of chugging nonchalantly along, coolly tweaking the throttle and adjusting the tiller are replaced in reality with a constant state of near panic and a horrible feeling of inadequacy.

Why this should be, I do not know. It might be partly just the way my brain's set up - learning to drive a car was a similarly dogged war of attrition between me and my inadequacy, marked by one (oh yes, there were many) instructor memorably saying (imagine this in a lazy Yorkshire drawl) 'I'd guess you're not very good at practical things... Academically you're probably quite average, but... not very good at practical things...' Naturally I was most offended at being accused of being academically quite average, but had to accept his verdict on the other front. I won that battle in the end though.

And I intend to get the better of this one as well. The thing is, I am quite good at practical things, provided they don't involve heavy lifting or power tools. What I am not so good at is doing them under pressure, whether that's the pressure of having someone breathing critically down my neck, or the pressure of being about to hit something hard with a big lump of metal. (Boating of course often provides both. Simultaneously.) It's in circumstances like that where I am still (very occasionally) wont to doubt my judgement as to which direction I should be moving the tiller, and, far more frequently, to forget entirely which way the throttle turns, or, in extremis, which way is reverse.

Nonetheless, I am not nearly so bad as I once was, so I am convinced that, even with diminishing returns, if I practise enough I will eventually reach a level of adequacy, even if I never attain the flair of which I once dreamed.

Ornamental

I was out on Tarporley yesterday afternoon, and tied up just below St Pancras lock was an ugly-as-sin widebeam (internal decor in the style of a faux-country pub)... and anyway, as we went past it for the second time a classic irate bloke leapt out and started yelling at us for going too fast... I was a bit slow on the uptake (thought we were having a friendly conversation with a passing cyclist) but apparently his language was none too refined.

We weren't going too fast, of course. He was tied up appallingly for starters, and no matter how slowly we go in a beast like that we're going to move a lot of water. When we were at Cropredy with Warrior last summer many boats passed us, some of them no doubt going quite fast, but the only one that made us move significantly was Chiswick. It might have been speeding of course, I was too busy watching open mouthed and going 'ooh, I haven't seen that one before' (And hopefully the week after next I might be having a ride on it).

Back to yesterday... as we came back (it was a short trip) I became aware that the aggrieved widebeamer was following us on his bicycle, shouting very aggressively all the while. He didn't look the sort that you'd like to cross, really - large, shaven headed, and very very cross. And for the first time I could make out what he was yelling: 'You broke my ornaments'

The wonder of Woolies' woolies

Returning to the Wellingborough wheat topic once more... One of the reasons I find this, the last days of the working boats, so fascinating, is that it falls - just - within my lifetime, and yet is still another world. While Nutfield was being bow-hauled down the Rothersthorpe locks, I was picking forget-me-nots and painting with water on the faded peeling maroon paint of our shed door in Thornton Heath.

And this is brought home to me all the more keenly by the feature in Waterways World. See there on page 66, the little boy sitting on the bollard, and again, in the bottom corner of page 67, trotting down the towpath. He must be about my age; maybe a year older, no more than that. But even more to the point, look at the jumper he's wearing. I know that's a Winfield jumper from Woolworths, because I had one exactly the same (only with the welts in blue not brown). They were made to last in those days; I still have it somewhere, after me and my sister, it was worn by my own children. A strange link with the past, but a link all the same.

Well, well, well...ingborough

When the latest bright shiny wipe-clean NarrowBoat magazine landed on my doormat half an hour ago, the first thing I spotted was 'Last Traffics: Wheat to Wellingborough'. Not quite coincidence, of course, as it's a Waterways World publication, and it was WW's feature last week that put the idea into my head. No more pictures of Tarporley, but lots of other nice ones and historical detail, and it really has whet my appetite.

I wonder of there is any enthusiasm among the historic boating community for setting up a trip (starting from Brentford, it would appear) - or indeed, whether anyone already is (I certainly haven't heard anything, although next month marks the 40th anniversary of the last commercial traffic). Or whether it's been done recently - I'm sure it has been at some point in the past.

Wheat to Wellingborough

The most exciting thing for me in this month's Waterways World (I can't tell you the page number because I've left it on the boat) was an article about the grain traffic in the late sixties, illustrated inter alia with a big photo of Tarporley - a Tarporley that had clearly seen better days, like most of the boats just clinging on at this time - but how facscinating to see the evidence that it had still been carrying so late.

Maybe because this is a bit of route that I'm relatively familiar with, my first thought was how splendid it would be to re-enact this particular run. The Jam 'Ole run is supposedly historically significant as representative of the very last long distance contract, but this is not universally agreed, and the re-enactment, brilliant as it is, is marred somewhat by the complete obliteration of the Jam 'Ole itself.

Whitworth's mill at Wellingborough on the other hand is very much extant, and still in operation. The starting point of the journey could fairly (possibly completely; I haven't researched this at all yet) accurately be Limehouse. Surely someone, at some time, has done this before?

Report from the Eastern Front

Jim is currently on Warrior at Bill Fen, mending oil leaks, fitting gauges and sorting out the bilge pump in preparation for our Easter trip to Cambridge, as well as extending the back cabin bed in readiness for his and Craig's June trip to Northampton. Until a couple of days ago the weather had been fairly good, but today he has had northerly winds, hailstorms, snow and lashing rain - and that was just by the time of the last update. What an adventure. Still, I hear that he is keeping warm by polishing the brass and now he also has the latest Russell Newbery newsletter for entertainment. It will all be worth it when we set off in a couple of weeks, glinting and glittering in the sun (it will be sunny then, won't it?)

A photo of my cat

Well, that's what the web's for, isn't it?

And here's a little something for people with very special interests...

Doing my brass

Whilst feeding Carl and Sean's cats last week I noticed (or so I thought) that Carl had been polishing his brass door furniture, which quite put mine to shame.

So today I set about attacking it with Brasso, scourer, rag and elbow grease, for - I'm ashamed to admit - the first time in years. I had to do a bit at a time and keep coming back to it - to have tried to tackle the whole task at once would have been so daunting I would never have started - and it's not quite finished yet but it looks a whole lot better.


And then Sean tells me that theirs hasn't been polished at all - they'd got a new letter box!

ASBOs for all

Is conversation soon to be considered antisocial behaviour, I found myself wondering yesterday. Is it, perhaps, already? Now, I like peace and quiet as much as the next person - more, in fact, I would hazard a guess. But that preference doesn't extend to thinking I have a right to peace and quiet wherever I go.

Have you noticed the proliferation of signs on trains - and now in the scrolling announcements too - reminding you to be 'considerate'? This includes not having your ipod turned up too loud, not eating smelly food (that one's on the tube, admittedly - and I did always opine, in the days of non-smoking carriages, that there should also be egg sandwich free carriages too) and not holding loud mobile phone conversations.

Now I have never really been able to understand why mobile phone conversations are considered more irritating that face to face ones. OK, it might be because it's frustrating only hearing one side of the conversation, but that's not really a legitimate complaint, is it. I suspect the idea set in in the early days of mobile phones when a. reception was patchy and people tended to have to shout and b. the only people who had mobile phones were the sort of flash gits who would have been extremely annoying anyway. My contention is that our current disgruntlement with people going hello, I'm on the train, is a hangover from that rather than having any basis in current experience.

On occasion in the past when fellow passengers have tried to make me complicit in their eye-rolling and tutting about people making phone calls, I've asked why it's considered worse than having an ordinary conversation, just like the one that we are having now, and often they haven't really been able to give a reason. But that just makes them more annoyed of course.

However, since yesterday I've concluded that this whole issue is having a sinister knock-on effect. I was on the train, and soneone was on the phone which, to be honest, I hadn't even noticed, when another passenger started berating them for having their conversation 'on a public train'. The caller remonstrated, and I joined in, saying, ' yes, what's wrong with having a conversation?' The phone call continued in a whisper and it was then that I realised that everyone else was sitting in silence. A carriage that was pretty much full, and no one dared speak.

Conversation itself has by extension come to be seen as an unacceptable infringement of other people's peaceful journey experience. Being sociable is now antisocial.

Sodden and unkind

Hmm. Hilaire Belloc. I was planning to follow up yesterday's post with a bit about how I rather liked Belloc because he had written a paeon to my local landscape, The South Country.

The Downs aren't butch and rugged and attention grabbing, but they were always nice to come home to, soft and billowy, with a bosomy hug and a scone out of the Aga. After a while the comforts of home pall and one longs for adventure again, but it's nice to think that the green grass and the white chalk and the bright blue sea will be there to come home to.

But then I went and looked the poem up and read it properly, and I must say I think it is the most dreadful, pass-the-bucket, sentimental doggerel after all, and I fear that it was Belloc himself, no doubt ensconced in a cosy corner of some Sussex hostelry coming up with this drivel (he never even gets as far as the East before he starts rambling), who best deserves the epithet 'sodden and unkind' for being so dismissive of the delights of the rest of England.

Still, he was French.

The last of England

When we went to Braunston last Saturday, we ended up in a pub in the high street called, I think, the plough. It was a perfectly nice pub (Adnams Explorer and Black Sheep), but I wonder whether, if it hadn't closed last month, we might have gone to the Admiral Nelson instead. I always thought I would, one day, visit this legendary canal pub where generations of boatmen had drunk; where Leslie Morton held court in the sixties. And now perhaps I never shall. Which goes to show that you should always carpe diem, for one thing.

The loss of one pub is only the tip of the iceberg though. According to CAMRA, pubs in Britain are closing at the rate of thirty nine a week. Once closed, most won't reopen. Some of the big 'pubcos' are even selling former pubs with restrictive covenants preventing them being reopened as pubs. Some of these might represent no great loss - but others are of historic or architectural significance, or are the heart of a community which has already lost its shops and Post Office. The reasons and the chain of blame for this sorry state of affairs is long and complex, and while this is probably the direst things have ever been, the issue is not entirely new. Hillaire Belloc wrote in 1912 (in a Sussex pub)

From the towns all Inns have been driven: from the villages most... Change your hearts or you will lose your Inns and you will deserve to have lost them. But when you have lost your Inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England.

Bearded. Did beer.

I am a great fan of real ale. It is refreshing and nutritious, environmentally friendly and socially responsible. I love beer. So it pains me greatly to have to report that I have never in all my born days seen such an unappetising bunch of individuals (male, to a man) as were congregated at the London Drinker Beer Festival this lunchtime. It wasn't just the fact that well over half of them had beards; I have nothing against beards. Many boaters have beards, albeit luxuriant, freshly washed and lovingly combed ones. It wasn't just the clothes, the decades old Scruttock's Old Dirigible* T-shirts that hadn't been removed for... well... decades. It might have been the smeared spectacles; it might have been the wobbling stomachs, and the shuffling trainers, the dandruff. This was not masculinity at its alpha male best, it has to be said.

But hell, I wasn't there to size up the talent. I was only there for the beer (and the commemorative glass and the T-shirt. Cos it's got a boat on it). In fact I wouldn't have gone at all but for the fact my lunch date cancelled and I got an email reminding me to support the event because CCNA (aka Tarporley) is the festival's chosen charity this year (although worryingly I failed to spot any collecting tins).

And what an amazing event it is. Turning up at the first session, a Wednesday lunchtime, I expected it to be fairly quiet, but the former St Pancras Town Hall was absolutely heaving; there was barely space to weave through to the bars that took up two entire walls of the hall - and that's without the cider (14) and perry (6) and the foreign beers, which had their own spots. It was - as these events usually are, for who would invite the inevitable opprobrium of doing otherwise - very well organised. There was food too - I had a very nice sausage; apparently they have a different one every day, which made up for not going to Carluccio's. I couldn't stay long (well, to be perfectly honest, I was running out of places to put myself) but I sampled two of the beers on offer; they weren't chosen entirely on the basis of their names, but one was called Navvy, and the other, brewed especially for the festival by Brighton brewer Dark Star, was Battlebridge (as that was 5.6% I thought I had better make it my last).

So if you can stand the clientele, it's well worth dropping in.

*With apologies and/or grateful acknowledgement to Alexei Sayle circa 1982 - it has stayed with me ever since. You may recall the distinguishing features to be found in the bottom of the glass; if not, I don't think I'll repeat it.

Wiggly lines

Whenever we go to Ramsey I'm struck by the similarity between the logo of Cambridgeshire County Council and that of our own dear East Sussex County Council. Given that ours - redesigned imperceptibly but at great expense many years ago when I was interested in such things - is meant to represent the chalk downs and the sea, shouldn't Cambridgeshire's be two straight lines?

The age of the train

It's probably just as well I don't do air travel, given how amazed I am by the potential even of the railway to whisk one into another world before you even know it. At seven o'clock this morning I was on the boat at Bill Fen, which feels like the quietest, remotest place in England (quiet apart from the peacocks that is, which I think could quite easily drive you mad if you were that way inclined); at seven thirty I was at Huntingdon station and even allowing for the train being delayed by overrunning engineering works at Stevenage, at half past eight I was part of the stream of humanity flowing up the Euston Road. At my desk by nine - unheard of.

It has been an interesting weekend, which I started writing about last night, but was just too exhausted, so I gave up and went to bed at half past eight. Must have been either the fresh air or the excitement. Yesterday I was laying on the grass next to the river, in the spring sunshine, working (!) on my conference paper, and on Saturday we went to Braunston for the HNBOC AGM and slideshow of photos of the BCN in the 50s and 60s. Must be that that wore me out I guess.

Apologies for absence

In fact, I'm only doing this now as a displacement activity because I should be knocking a conference paper into shape before we go away for the weekend... But though I have been busy, that doesn't usually stop me posting; no, this time it's been compounded by an ongoing... ahem... disagreement with Pipex, who without a by-your-leave took over the previously trouble free and really rather good Toucan a couple of months ago, lost any trace of our having paid them, and cut us off, leaving us in the position of being put on hold on a mobile for half an hour at a time to try to sort it out. Grrr. So as soon as that is sorted out it's bye bye Pipex, hello... Post Office? Virgin? Anyone got any recommendations? Also, soon I shall be in the market for recommendations for USB broadband, if anyone has any. I'd be particularly interested in hearing about genuine PAYG deals, as there will be some months I probably won't use it at all.

Ah well, back to work. Perhaps I'll just have another cup of tea first. And do the shopping.

Radio star

Jim has been off today getting his VHF licence (I meanwhile wrote 2,833 words not counting these). I am not sure precisely what he is planning to do with it, although the fact that he has been going around the house for the last few days muttering 'Trent Lock, Trent Lock, Trent Lock' under his breath is not necessarily reassuring.

(Isn't that an American senator, I wondered, delighted at the coincidence, until I realised a bit later that the senator's surname was actually Lott. I was at school with a girl called Susan Lott who was rather uncharitably known as 'Gibbon' because whenever she knew the answer (which was frequent) she wouldn't just put her hand up, but would stretch wildly towards the ceiling, bounce up and down on her chair, and go 'ooh, ooh, ooh'. Gosh. I hope neither she nor anyone who knows her is reading this.)

What it means in the short term is that Jim and Moomin will have new toys to play with at Bill Fen next week.

Three short years

To fill up the space when I can't think of anything to say during the month of March, I shall be reminiscing about our first voyage with Warrior, when we brought the boat from its mooring at Hargrave, on the Shroppie just south of Chester, to Stretton Wharf where it was to remain for the next year. This was just before I started the blog - at least in earnest - and I have raided my drawer full of shiny prints to bring you.... some pretty smoke rings, just before we set off. We began our journey - me, Jim and Baz - on April 9th 2006, after first having visited Huddersfield to replace Andante's window and clear up the broken glass following what must have been one of West Yorkshire's least productive burglaries.

I know what we did and when because it is all in The Red Book, a hardback notebook that I bought in Wilko's in Huddersfield to be our log for our new boat. So far we have kept it up fairly assiduously. It is interesting to note that on this day Warrior's engine was difficult to start and running very hot... which was solved by removing the thermostat. I suppose we should have known then not to put it back.

T-shirts and anoraks

Much excitement this morning as the latest HNBOC Newsletter dropped onto the doormat, in time for me to take it to read on the train, in the hope that someone will lean over and ask, do you like old boats too... Two copies, in fact, as the CCNA one comes to me as well, as I was the one who signed them up.

And the AGM is the weekend after next, complete with slideshow. I've never liked to go before, feeling a bit of an interloper as a mere associate member. But now, as the representative of a genuine bona fide qualifying craft I can hold my head up. Perhaps. It's all still a bit vicarious but I think I can cope. It was announced at the committee meeting on Tuesday that the Tarporley T-shirt order has finally been sent off, and the garments should arrive within a couple of weeks. I really really want one to wear to the AGM...

Anyway, I had tea this afternoon with a colleague, and asked him if he could possibly cover for me at a Saturday School on June 27th, and then explained why... and told him about Tarporley as well (marketing officers are never off duty) and I think he might have been foolish enough to look interested so the next thing was I had whipped out the Newsletter and was going ooh look, well that's a Royalty Class and...

... and he started rather pointedly looking to see where I had left my anorak, before giving me a copy of an article he'd written about the Labour Party's attitude to retailing between 1931 and 1951. It was very interesting actually.

Beer!

Much as I love beer, I don't go to beer festivals very often - in fact the last one was at the Star in Huddersfield, that's how long ago it was.

This is largely because , in the words of my most apposite, if not my favourite, Shakespeare line, 'I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.' I've been working on it, over the years, putting in lots of practice, and I think I'm improving, but I don't really have the capacity for alcohol that full appreciation of a beer festival demands. Wimp.

But even if I don't go myself - and I might pop by one lunchtime. Or two - I thought I would put in a plug for the North London branch of CAMRA's festival, very conveniently located round the back of Camden Town Hall just off the Euston Road. During the course of the event they are going to be collecting money for charity - and that charity is the Camden Canals and Narrowboat Association, aka Tarporley.

If you're thinking of going, do let me know.

Spring in my step

Everyone, it seems, is full of the joys of spring, and I shall be no exception. The days are growing longer, the mornings lighter (harrumph, go the government, we shall soon do something about that) and I have broken out my spring footwear.

I don't have summer and winter wardrobes - that would require far too much planning and storage - but I do have a strict footwear rota. November, December, January, February - boots; May, June, July and August - sandals, and March and April, September and October, Sensible Shoes.

Which reminds me tangentially that when I was at primary school, the arbiter of whether or not there would be swimming that day was whether Mr Fletcher was wearing shorts in assembly. Those were the days, when teachers could come to work in shorts. I am not sure though why swimming was such a cause for excitement, given that the 'swimming pool' was something like a very large wooden packing crate lined with wrinkled slimey polythene, and full of cold green bitter tasting water, garnished with dead greenfly.

Ghost ship

Yesterday I was due to go out as crew on Tarporley for the first time proper, so I was very excited at the prospect of getting some boxes ticked off on my training sheet and starting the process towards becoming a Community Boating Association qualified steerer. So I left home bright and early to catch the rail replacement bus (oh yes), thinking I would be there in plenty of time for a ten thirty briefing and eleven o'clock departure.

Only the bus driver couldn't make the turn into the station car park and we had to go round again, and by the time we had disembarked the train had gone, and we had to get another, much slower one (I've lived round here for nigh on forty years and I still had no idea there were so many stations between Brighton and Victoria). So, having left the house at half past seven, it was twenty to eleven when I finally arrived at Kings Place full of apologies to David the day's steerer (I cannot bring myself to say skipper - I'd be going aye aye cap'n next) and fellow crew member Graham... but no passengers.

After an hour and numerous attempts to contact the customer, we decided that as it was such a nice day we would go anyway, to Little Venice and back (a stoppage in the other direction made this our only option, but I wasn't about to complain - I'm just about becoming familiar with the route). Shortly after we left we learned that the booking had been cancelled, but was going to be re-booked... and by this time we were well on our way.

The weather was perfect - the sun even struggled through a bit, my fellow crew members were excellent company, and standing at Hampstead Road with the sun on my back, waiting for the lock to fill, smelling the food (etc.), listening to some rather nice Peruvian nose flute music, and watching the people watching us, it occured to me that if there's anything better than taking a Grand Union motor boat through Camden Lock on a sunny afternoon, then it must be pretty damned good.

Once we got to Little Venice and spun round the island I took over the tiller and brought us all the way back to Kings Place without hitting anything (lock gates not included but I didn't hit any very hard, even when I did momentarily forget which way the throttle turned. (Tarporley = volume control (thanks Moomin); Warrior = tap). I even managed to put the boat in various correct positions to pick people up and made a reasonable fist of parking when we got back. In many ways the big boat is easier to handle; the steering is more intuitive (if physically more demanding) and it is more likely to stay put, at least as long as it's not windy. I love the Grand Union gear wheel, and suspect that I'm more ready to use it, and thus make better use of the gears, than Warrior's push/pull control - now I've thought of that I shall try harder. So all in all a most enjoyable outing and a great confidence booster.

Just wish I'd remembered to take the bloody training sheet with me.

Cry freedom (and buy the T-shirt)

If you are an avid reader of the Guardian or the Observer, you might have read about the Convention on Modern Liberty that took place yesterday in London. Well, I think the convention bit refers to the event, but there is also a sort of organisation; at least it has a website.

As soon as I heard about this event, I signed up, although it cost £35. I did this for a number of reasons. Firstly, the issues on which they are campaigning are those that have always been dear to my heart: civil liberties, human rights and the gradual, quiet erosions of our freedoms and privacies over recent decades which has escalated in the last few years to a quite frightening degree - the same reasons that cause me to be a member of Liberty and to support NO2ID.

Secondly, I'm about to start work on a book about freedom; more specifically about how the idea of freedom has been shaped and used by politicians through the ages. So this also seemed a good reason for going. Thirdly, there was quite a star-studded cast. I went to sessions on press freedom, with Alan Rusbridger, Nick Cohen and Andrew Gilligan, and on liberty and republicanism - where there was a really interesting discussion, and I finally got the chance to see Quentin Skinner, an academic whose work I've long enjoyed, speak live. Whilst watching David Davies give his plenary oration on the big screen in the foyer, a strange man caught my eye and half smiled as if he thought he knew me... but he didn't, because he was Billy Bragg.

And finally, I met someone who I have long admired for not just talking about it but really doing it - Peter Tatchell. Whatever you think of the causes he stands up for you would be hard pushed not to be awestruck by his dedication and the sacrifices he has made, over decades now, to defend human rights. Although in the media he can come across as a bit 'worthy', in person he was absolutely charming - and a brilliant soap box orator to boot.

Will the Convention on Modern Liberty make any difference? Will the fact that the Shadow Home Secretary clearly and unequivocally promised to scrap the ID cards scheme, and to repeal a good deal more of the 50 or so recent peices of legislation that chip away at our freedoms really be remembered after the next election? Will the government take a blind bit of notice of a gathering of the Guardianistas they already so despise? Or were we just talking to each other, articulating our unease and our fears, and making ourselves feel good by buying T-shirts? Well, even if we were, that's no bad thing. Yesterday's convention may have been preaching to the converted, but the converted will have had their confidence and their arguments bolstered, and the coverage of the event will hopefully bring these issues to a wider audience.

Hopefully.