K&A Awayday

I had a lovely day out yesterday on the Kennet and Avon - a waterway I have never boated on before - thanks to my friend Mike and his colleague Mark. Mike has been doing some steering on the Kennet Cruises trip boat Lancing - and knowing that I would like to add another big Northwich to my collection, asked if I would like to come along. Of course I didn't need asking twice!

Mike met me at Reading Station, and we walked down to his own boat, below the gaol, and I had my first introduction to this eclectic and challenging waterway, as we travelled through the Oracle shopping centre - a waterside completely and deliberately bereft of boats; a variety of locks and of landscapes, arriving at the Cunning Man pub at Burghfield Bridge.

From there we made the brief walk back to pick up Lancing, where I met Mark of Kennet Cruises, who made me feel very welcome. When I asked for instructions, I was instructed to go down to the bar and get myself a drink! Yes, they have a licenced bar - not that I took advantage of the licence, you understand. I got to have a little steer on the way back to the Cunning Man, where we were to pick up our passengers, and it was a different experience on the rivery Kennet, with its currents and silt banks, than on the Regents Canal, although I only tried on an easy bit.

Having collected the passengers (eighteen of them! Heady stuff - Lancing is licenced for up to 44, compared with the 12 that Tarporley, as a community boat, is permitted) we continued up through the next lock and on to Garston lock, just below which we turned around. This is where I came into my own, persuading all the passengers to crowd into the front of the boat so that the back end could just clear the mud. Amazingly, this works. We reckoned that they probably weighed at least a ton in total. Then back to the Cunning Man for the passengers to disembark, and all had thoroughly enjoyed it. That is one of the nicest things about running boat trips; you really get the chance to make people happy, even if only for a little while.

Looking at the Kennet Cruises website just now, I was particularly impressed with their potted history of Lancing, which is clear, interesting and engaging.

Wildlife

Photo removed until I can obscure the reg no - reaslising I have rather foolhardily just commented on another blog, with a link to this one, on the subject of how I have not sent off my driving licence to notify my change of address 12 years ago, in order, even back then, to avoid being issued with an ID card by the back door. I have a piece of paper that says I've passed my driving test and that's good enough for me.

For the first time this year, we have seagulls nesting on our roof. Clearly they do not want to stray very far from their two delightful (for about three and a half days) balls of fluff. I have invested in a tarpaulin for my beloved Bluebird.

Londoners who think pigeons are a messy menace should try moving to the coast. We had a gull in the kitchen earlier this afternoon, wondered in as bold as brass. Then when the cat flew at it, it tried to escape through the door that wasn't open, and then crapped on the floor before finally exiting. Round here we have herring gulls, and they are big, vicious bastards. And if you look at them closely, they're always dribbling.

Chim-chimenee...

Len the welder came round this afternoon with our new chimney. I hope the design works, because basically it was my idea. The existing roof flange thingy should stick up through the lower section. helping to keep the upper section in place. It's still pretty heavy, so we don't want it falling down too often, especially as it would land on the engine room roof vent, which is wooden, but it should be a lot easier to lower than it currently is to remove. As well as the tall one, we are having a shorter one for tunnels and stretches with lots of low bridges. This is why the hinge is held together with a removable bolt, so the top half can be substituted.

WRG - East Croydon chapter

Those of you who do not live or work in the heaving metropolis may be blissfully unaware that there is currently a tube strike on. However, as a result (and I will resist the temptation to give you all the details of our revised journey) Baz and I found ourselves on the platform at East Croydon last night with eight minutes to wait for our next train. As we sought to position ourselves so as to be right at the bottom of the steps when exiting the train at Lewes, a guard came up to us. Baz was wearing his IWA Festival Volunter T-shirt (that we acquired for him: he wasn't even there). 'Oh', said the guard, 'Which waterway are you saving then?' And then before either of us could get a word in edgeways, he proceeded to tell us in great detail about his plans for the Somerset Coal Canal. He was still talking when we got on the train. It was rather a surreal experience because, of course, I know absolutely nothing about that part of the country, but it was still nice just to encounter such an enthusiast.

Went the day well?

Indeed it did. Not only were my skills clearly (even if just about) up to the mark, the fates smiled upon me as well.

Thunder, heavy showers and wind had been forecast, and indeed the night before was very wet and windy, as I lay awake contemplating the day ahead. When I arrived at Kings Place about nine it was damp and chilly, and spotting with rain. Having explained to the relief security guard ('what boat?' 'That very big one just outside your door there') my business there, I went on board and started preparing for my first trip in charge. The first slight hitch was finding the log book and all the passenger forms in a pool of water where the window had leaked, but small matter.

Very shortly I was joined by Penny and Kelvin, 'my' crew, and between us we got everything ready and had a cup of tea before our passengers arrived at ten - a party of the cutest children you could possibly imagine, little moppets straight out of central casting, that even almost overcame my serious aversion to other people's children - at least until they started shouting 'Hello ev'rybody' in unison and kept it up for about half an hour.

And here's the thing: five minutes before we set off, the sun came out, and shone on us all the way to the entrance to Maida Hill Tunnel (we were going from Kings Place to Little Venice), when it started to spit with rain. Still, we stopped at Little Venice and the children were sent off to work off some energy, while the crew availed themselves of Westminster Council's most acceptable toilet facilities, and then as we set off again for the return journey, the sun came out again. And stayed out until the minute we arrived back at Kings Place.

I did not hit anything. I did not make a spectacular mess of anything; I even did one or two things quite neatly; I stopped in all the right places and for long enough for the little darlings to get on and off and help with the locks (and never was I so glad to be the one left on the boat, although I did do some lock 'n' child duties on the way back, which was probably the most stressful part, especially as apparently you aren't allowed to tie them together to stop them wandering off. Still, their innocent little questions... 'is it all full of wee and poo?'; 'How can it [lifejacket] help me float when it's additional weight?' (from a six year old)).

And when I got home, I was so exhausted I could barely stay awake for the European election results.

Jim's other boat

Ah, once again it's the time of year for the Newhaven Fish Festival. This event appears to go from strength to strength, being, in this, its third year, now provisioned with the dodgy funfair without which no festival is apparently complete.

Sadly, I was far to busy arguing on Canalworld to go and look at the fish this morning (still, when you've seen one...) but when Jim came back he suggested we take a stroll down the quay to take advantage of the lifeboat open day.

Jim has recently got involved with the lifeboat; not going off rescuing people, nor raising money, but participating in a scheme they run in which they check people's safety equipment. So he now feels quite proprietorial about the lifeboat.

The one based at Newhaven covers quite a stretch of coast apparently. Rather disappointingly, though, the vessel we went to see today is not the regular Newhaven one, but a stand in. It was pretty brand spanking new though, and even though we arrived just after closing time, we got to have a look over it.

They know not what they do...

Look what arrived yesterday.

And on Sunday I am let loose in charge of the boat for the first time. It is quite a nerve wracking prospect, but I think I shall just go very slowly....

Unfortunately I have just heard that rain and - worse by far - wind are forecast. Oh joy.

Duck!

I was at Kings Place yesterday afternoon, meeting a potential Tarporley customer, when there was a sharp bang followed by a thud. Looking round I saw a duck lying on its back on the quayside, frantically waving its legs. It had flown straight into the glass side of Kings Place. Oh no, I thought, it's in its death throes, how can I pretend this isn't happening... But a woman who was doing some sort of photo shoot rushed over, picked the duck up and turned it over, and it sat there looking a little bemused but very definitely alive and upright. I didn't see whether they took it away or if it eventually waddled off though.

One of the nicer features, to the human eye, about Kings Place is the way the wavy glass cladding reflects the sky and so doesn't obtrude as much on the skyline as more solid looking buildings, but it must play havoc with birds' visual navigation systems and small brains.

Outdoor Type

I caught sight of myself this morning, on the train, on the way to Tarporley; in my stout boots and hi-tech walking shorts, with my brown legs and increasingly muscular arms, and I realised that after all these years of sitting palely and flabbily in the corner reading a book, completely against the odds, I have somehow metamorphosed into an Outdoor Type. Wonders will never cease.

Dr Who?

I just noticed that there is a new contributor listed for this blog - hmmm, one 'Dr Duct'. You will be wondering what kind of company I keep. But never fear, it is none other but new crew member Craig. It is not his fault that he makes a living in the somewhat arcane field of duct cleaning. Next time you don't get Legionnaires' Disease, it's someone like Craig you have to thank.

So, the next step is to see whether this actually works.... so Craig, if you're reading this (and if you're not, I want to know why), how about tomorrow you introduce yourself... and a picture would be nice, got to test the upload function...

Well, they've gone and done it now

Thank you to Sarah and Jim, who've offered me, a newbie, the chance to sail the Nene from Peterborough-ish (don't need to know - the hospitable Jim has offered to drive) to Cotton End, Northampton 18-21 June.



What's more: I've been let loose on the Warrior blog! Surely they will rue the day.

Things I have learnt so far:

1. Maps and planning are very important (even though most canals only allow travel in one of two directions, intersections are rare, and most of the water stays put)


2. The Nene is said to be bereft of good toddling-distance pubs (I hope to prove this wrong, and will diligently heed all advice from readers)


3. The ability of crew to make tea is apparently as well valued by freshwater skippers, as it is by their salty cousins

The photograph here was taken on a brilliant day's sail we had with Sarah and Jim from Regent's Park to Limehouse, last September. I'm afraid it's the sort of uninformative, pretentious twaddle you can expect from me.

It's in the post

The boating season must be truly upon us, for we have posted off the licence application this morning. Last year we had a month's worth of BW plus various carefully selected rivers for our meticulously planned journey. This year... six months, for a very vague 'mmmm, think we'll head north... Rochdale... hmm... Leeds Liverpool...' As we get more boating experience under our belts it seems less important to plan every move, more possible to just wait and see; to consider leaving the boat somewhere for a week or two, or going to work from various parts of the country.

First stop though, Braunston, where (or just prior to where) we will hopefully finally meet up with Bill and Michelle from North Carolina, who were thinking of buying Andante, which is how we first 'met', and who went on to buy a lovely sounding little boat called Shilling.

I've relapsed

I'm not quite sure how it happened. A while before Christmas I gave up Canal World Discussion Forums, exasperated by a few trolls and an off-colour joke (no surprise that someone made the joke, but I reported it and the mods did nothing about it). So I just gave it up, cold turkey. For a while it was gloriously liberating. Suddenly there were more hours in the day as I sat at my desk. Suddenly I was no longer deliberately allowing myself to be irritated by total strangers' attitudes to the European Union/earth bonding/bridge hopping.

And yet somehow it has sucked me back in. I can't recall what it was that first made me take that first, fatal, little peek again. And suddenly, over this bank holiday weekend, I'm in it up to my neck again, worse than ever I think. Posting and commenting here there and everywhere; getting cross and exasperated and in turn annoying others all over again.

But there is more to it than that. Over the last few days I have sent a total stranger a Leo McNeir book that I no longer wanted, asked and received advice about licencing (as well as my mental state), been complimented on pictures of the boat, and found as many friends as enemies. The online world and the discussions in the Virtual Pub are a strange world, inhabited by oddly-named characters who may or may not bear any resemblance to actual people (or elephants), but they are none the less real for that. Solid, human friends like Bones, Baldock (I think he's human) and Moominpapa were met for the first time in cyberspace and might not otherwise have been met at all.

And of course if you don't like it, you can walk away. But you'll be back.

Welcome aboard....

Last night we went to Eastbourne to see Vicky and Craig, the latter of whom is accompanying Jim on the first leg of our next trip, from Ramsey to Northampton, so I don't have to. And in order that neither I, nor you, dear reader, should miss out on the fascinating details of the journey, Craig - who has identified at least four previously unknown pubs en route - will be blogging it right here.

After dinner we went for a healthy constitutional along the promenade and I saw for the first time the gorgeous bandstand which is the centrepiece of what is effectively an amphitheatre filled with stripy chairs, where the denizens and citizens of Eastbourne regularly gather in traditional fashion to watch tribute bands. Actually, I really like Eastbourne, and I could hardly tear myself away from here. As a bonus, the sunset had turned the sea a most unearthly glimmering pink, with little turquoise waves.

Tall tales

Back to the boring bits with a bump. As you may recall, Warrior's engine chimney has not been the same since its encounter with Osney Bridge last summer (moral: the time to take the chimney off is when you first think of it*).

In all the time we have had the boat, Warrior has never had a flash engine pipe. Initially it was a standard sort of chimney, but at some point cut in two and joined together with a cocoa tin. That took a few hammerings and I think eventually gave way at the join, so we only had half a chimney. Last summer we were running with the stove chimney over the top to give a bit more height, and as the stove chimney is a pretty solid bit of pipe, this was the source of our problems at Osney; unlike the old one with its cocoa tin fail-safe, or indeed a standard thin one, it acted as a lever and actually dented the roof. This isn't (we hope) visible, but it does leave the what's its name that the chimney fits over at a slight angle which is of course magnified if a pipe is put on it.

So, we need to overcome that, plus we want some sort of arrangement to stop that sort of thing happening again. On his new boat, John Shotbolt has quite a complex arrangement of a hinged chimney with a spring to return it to the upright and a wire so that this can all be done without letting go of the tiller. A bit OTT for us, plus since we fitted the engine room vent, running the wire would be very complex. But we have also seen, on Warbler and on Chiswick a simple hinged arrangement that can be lowered manually (but without the need to wrestle it off and worry about where to put it) and in an emergency will lower itself, albeit with a bit of a bang. I can't remember exactly what Warbler's was like, but Chiswick's was simply an intermediate section onto which a standard chimney fitted. They are produced by Tony Redshaw, and are quite expensive.

With all this in mind, Jim has gone down the quay to see Len the Welder who has some suitable pipe. The idea is to make a short lower section that will fit over, or possibly ultimately replace, the current what-do-you-call-it, and in doing so compensate for the angle. Attached to this will be a hinged tall section, with a lip inside to seal it and keep it stable. But - and this is my little refinement - the hinge will have a removable pin or bolt, so that if required the tall section can be replaced with a short one, rather than sitting a normal pipe on top of the hinged section. We even have some strips of brass we can decorate it with, if I could only remember where they were.

*Adapted from a sailing maxim found in a Libby Purvis novel, to give credit where it's due in case anyone recognises it, but applicable to a whole range of situations.

Gratuitous fore end picture

Ricky

With hindsight it would have been better to go by car, but we didn't, we went by train and sampled the delights of the outer reaches of the Metropolitan Railway - today they were running a vintage train, but not yesterday, when we went, and anyway, it was £20 a ticket, but as Jim says, they have to pay for its upkeep somehow.

I was pleasantly surprised to see what a turnout of old boats there was; we met up with Chiswick again, and Mike on Victoria, and saw many others. Stafford was there, the josher famously restored (if that's the right word for a full length cabin conversion) in Poland and currently up for sale for £150,000, and I have to say it didn't look all that impressive.

James does something fiendish to the engine

We were cheering Chiswick on in the first round of the tug of war, when John and Mary on Lincoln, a Hawkins boat with a RN DM3 running on waste oil, whom we met at the Uxbridge banter, invited us to contribute to their ballast in the next heat. From there we had an excellent view of proceedings. When that heat was over, Jim jumped ship to Victoria but I stayed to have a bottle of beer and enjoy the spectacle.

A couple of rounds later Chiswick was comprehensively overhauled by one of the Bantam tugs present, and followed that immediately by taking on another one - I think the second one was Wigan. Chiswick seemed to hold its own a lot better this time, but a select few were able to observe that it had in fact been tied to Callisto, which was tied to Victoria, which was tied to the bank... I'm pretty sure that the crew of Chiswick remained blissfully unaware of this favour.

After a few more rounds, and once Jim got back to the right side of the cut, it was definitely time for something to eat so we set off for the beer tent and food. The food was a bit of a diasppointment, lots of commercial outlets - where oh where were the KESCRG with their lovely veggy curry? But we had some Indian kebabs and followed them up with a couple of Cornish pasties (yes, well, it was tea time by now). There was also a very commercial funfair, and all this part was much busier and more crowded than the towpath. I was however able to indulge my compulsion to purchase hippy festival clothing, this time adding a pair of silk 'Afghan trousers' to my collection. Very fashionable this year, I'm given to understand. All the stars are lining up with great swathes of fabric hanging between their legs. Very practical though, silk, when boating. Screws up very small without creasing to be brought out for that one occasion when you need to look vaguely smart/clean/festive/female.

Then we strolled back up the towpath and following years of mutual blog-commenting finally met Jo and Keith on Hadar, who were lovely. We chatted for ages and I got shown over the boat, which is a masterpiece of simple design.

By then it was half past six and we decided to make a move for home. The uncharming ticket collector at Rickmansworth station insisted on relieving us of another £3.20 each on top of our All Zones Travelcard (you may wish to note for future reference that 'all zones' does not include zones 7 and 8), despite his charming colleague when we arrived assuring us that we would be 'very unlucky' if this were to occur.

Nonetheless, it was a lovely day, and I'm very glad that we went.

War

Today we went to the Rickmansworth Festival. These sorts of events have always been enjoyable, but it is miles more fun now that there are people we know to meet up with. We got to know some more new people today too, and I'll write more about it all tomorrow. In the meantime, here is Victoria and Lupin in the tug of war - the former being assisted by Jim, but I don't think his weight could make up for all Lupin's human ballast.

Throwing Bones to the dogs

Canal Boat have published a letter criticising one of their contributors - my attention was drawn to it by Granny Buttons this morning. My copy hasn't arrived yet, so this is based entirely on the section Andrew quotes, but it does raise wider issues.

For some reason (envy, it must be, mustn't it?), academics are seen to be fair game by anyone who can't string a sentence together but who comfort themselves with the thought that being able to wield a power tool somehow makes them superior. Actually, the reason might well be that in many cases a reputation for absentmindedness and utter, unbelievable, impracticality is, in some cases - I speak from personal experience - very well deserved. (Exhibit one: the historian who called in an electrician to change a plug. Exhibit two: the philosopher who came to work in odd shoes. Not socks; shoes. Exhibit three: the sociologist whose kitchen table was balanced precariously on its base for twenty years.)

Which is what makes the attack on Bones unfair. She is - and her column clearly shows this - actually very competent. Sure, she writes about what goes wrong along the way, but she always gets there in the end - and the things she attempts are more ambitious than many of her critics would dare try.

The column is primarily intended to be amusing - and there's nothing more amusing than things going wrong, so obviously this is the aspect that gets played up. But it fulfils a second function too - giving encouragement to people who might lack the confidence to try something new, by telling them that if things go wrong it's not the end of the world. It happens to everyone, and can be recovered from and learnt from.

So long live Bones I say. Academics of the world unite - you have nothing to lose but your glasses/coats/pens/bicycle ...

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'