Normal People

It isn’t the best time to approach a woman about money when she is pulling in a sixteen ton boat against a strong wind but the C&RT chugger on the Grand Union at Kensal Green was undeterred.  She stood next to me, rabbitting on merrily, telling me everything that I, and every boater, already know about C&RT.

‘Would you be prepared to contribute towards the charity?’ she asked

‘I already do.  £900 a year’

‘Oh, that’s generous is it a voluntary contribution?’

‘No it’s my licence fee for having a boat on a canal’

‘I don’t really know anything about how it works with boats on the canal’

‘Doesn’t your training include details of the boats and boaters and the licence fees they pay?’

‘No we’re only taught how to approach normal people’

 

What a way to spend Sunday ..............

I thought maybe I’d stay on my Camden mooring for a few days or maybe I’d move.  It all depended on weather, visitors, appointments and whether I could get around to making a decision.  Then a family crisis meant the moorings proximity to Kings Cross Station was very useful so I’d stay a few more days.  That was until my Saturday lunch guest, leaving at 9.00pm reported that I had a problem with my toilet.  This was surprising as I’d only pumped it out on Monday. The decision was made for me I had to move.

Boaters always say that when they get together the talk reverts to toilets, I’ve lived on my boat for five years and never had a toilet conversation maybe because I have never had a problem with the toilet. It seems I’ve got one now.

The water point and sanitary station at Little Venice is squeezed around the corner

After the torrential rain stopped on Sunday morning we set off for Little Venice and the pump-out facility. As usual it was busy, this must be the busiest sanitary facility and water point in the country on the busiest stretch of canal and it’s a small space at the narrowest point.  You get to know fellow boaters by having complex discussions about the jig-sawing of boats and who wants which of the utilities and how long each was going to stay.  Eventually moored up at the pump-out, I started the machine, the suction started and nothing happened, the gunge in the toilet stayed where it was.  Was it the machine or me?  I poked sticks in various orifices of my system and got about two inches of nasty stuff removed then the machine timed out.  We let a wide beam onto the pump-out and they used two cards and reported that they didn’t think the machine was working properly.  I tried again with a fresh card, there was some movement but very little. Rang C&RT and reported a problem. I didn’t expect an immediate response on a Sunday but they said an engineer would come out and apologised that he would take about two hours to get there.

I tried clearing any blockage on my boat by pushing the toilet brush down the brim and the end dropped off and disappeared into the murk.  Now the system would definitely be blocked.  Without going into too much yucky detail the only way forward was on with the marigolds and getting on down and dirty. Lets just say I found the problem with my toilet, I blame my guests. The engineer arrived in less than two hours and found the problem with the pump out machine, a faulty seal. Problems solved: sewage tank emptied.

The first thing I needed after mooring up was a shower.  I got into the shower soaped up, loaded my hair with shampoo and the water stopped. I’d run out of water this was despite spending four hours next to a water point and waving people onto the water point saying ‘It’s OK, I don’t need any water’. Four bloody hours we were there moving backwards and forwards, annoying the neighbours and just sitting waiting. Four bloody hours when I could have filled the tank three times over. So do I blame guests for my lack of water as well as my blocked toilet, did I have a boat load of flamboyant flushers and extravagant showers or was it just my usual level of vagueness about the state of the utilities of my boat.

The new crew member had decided after all the chatting and button pushing he had been doing on the machine he was in need of a shower as well.  So it was off back to the water point, we cast off, went down the canal, and did an interesting turn against a gale force wind. Somewhere in the midst of this my tablecloth (£3.50 from a charity shop in Hertford) blew away, the way the day had been going I thoroughly expected to get it wrapped around my prop on the way back.  I didn’t.  If another boat picks it up around the prop I sincerely apologise and if it isn’t too shredded can I please have it back because it matched my paintwork.  So then we were back in Little Venice spending an hour and a half in the gathering dusk filling the water tank (slow tap: thin hose: large tank).

In the last week I had spent more money on my sewage system than I had on wine so in an attempt to redress the balance I went to Sainsbury while the water tank was filling.  Sainsbury was closed.  I went on to M & S in Paddington on the way I spotted a free space in Paddington Basin. When the water tank was filled the darkness had descended and in a howling gale we went round to Paddington Basin and did a wind assisted mooring on the one available slot.

Limehouse at last

Onwards to Limehouse.  I’d chickened out about going along the tideway with friends but I still thought I’d like to get there to wave them off. Circumstances and late visitor arrivals meant I only got there to wave from a distance and watch them bobbing along The Thames like a pair of match sticks on a large ruffled pond.

I saw the next batch out of the lock, three narrowboats all Rea look-a-likes from Braunston.  In centre of the boat sandwich is one manned by a single lady of mature years with only a dog for crew.  She puts me to shame, I’m being wimpy about doing the trip with a boat load of people and she’s setting sail alone.  Good on you lady on nb Charlotte you are my new role model.

When everybody has left we have a choice of mooring spaces. We tie up the boat and then leave for a walk along the fascinating back streets of the docklands area, where old converted warehouses loom overhead and new smart and expensive flats and historic pubs mingle amongst them. At St Katherine Docks the tourists and the locals are out in force and we sit amongst them on the dockside sipping cocktails and feeling in holiday mode.

Walking back in evening sunshine the white outline of a large ship looms close to the shore blocking the view through the alleyways.  It is The Silver Cloud a cruise ship heading for a berth above Tower Bridge.  If monsters like that are travelling on the river I don’t want to be out there at the same time.

 

The next morning the intention is to set off early and progress through Central London but first I need a pump-out and so I have to wait for the Marina office to open to buy a card.  Card bought, engine started a narrowboat chugs around from the marina and heads towards the pump out station.  He takes an age getting into position, revving forwards and backwards and not making any progress, clipping a moored boat, almost getting there then drifting out again.  There’s two other boats moored next to me, us seasoned boaters stand and laugh and criticise and wonder why he is making such a meal of mooring on a small landing between two boats, after all it’s not that difficult. We, of course, have never had to learn, have never made mistakes, have never being made to look a fool by the wind. I make rude comments about his lack of ability conveniently forgetting that only two days ago I completely blocked the Lee Navigation and nearly demolished a bar.  While I’m leaning on the boat laughing at his difficulties another narrowboat comes round the corner to take my place in the queue at the pump-out.  Serves me right.

At last we leave through the first lock a man in a narrowboat coming down says he’s pleased to see two women on board, gives Jessica’s arm an affectionate squeeze then leaves her to get on with opening the stiff lock gates by herself.

We had the intention of going until we found somewhere to stop.  We found a space just after The Islington Tunnel so we stopped.  Yesterday morning a young man asked if I was staying for a few days and if so could I water his plants. After telling him I was leaving I then thought I could stay here for a few days so I am and I don’t feel guilty about declining to water his plants because overnight the rain has been very heavy and the herbs on my roof are having to learn to swim.

Being Wicked

Jessica tells me that she thinks the shiny brass mushrooms on the boats coming through the lock are garish.  The dull and tarnished hue of mine is much more interesting, it has the patina of age (or could be the patina of neglect).  If she keeps on making comments like that she can stay a few more days.

The intention on Saturday is to get from Waltham Abbey to Limehouse, stopping at Hackney to have a walk around the Olympic Park.  The start is delayed by rain then progress is slow for no other reason than every lock is against us and we often have to wait for boats approaching. At Enfield Lock C&RT have been called about low water levels and a man in a blue sweatshirt and orange life-jacket is hovering around but not helping.  It takes us a long time to fill the lock mainly because we hadn’t noticed that one of the paddles downstream was open.  With the paddle closed the lock filled more quickly and the river emptied less slowly.  A crawl along a long and very shallow pound with frequent blasts of reverse to remove debris followed by a period of puzzlement about how the automated locks work and which one of the pair is the automated one slowed us down more.  It’s only a few weeks since I passed this way but at my age short term memory loss can be a problem. Another crawl along a very shallow pound with exposed sand banks to the right.

 

Then we are in sight of The Olympic Park and boats are bow to stern with few gaps. I pass one opposite a crowded outside bar and decide belatedly that it is big enough.  As I reverse to get into the space I say to Jessica ‘I have an audience so I bet I make a hash of this’ I think I’m going to make a hash of it so I do.  That’s the power of positive thinking.  She dismounts: I throw the rope: she misses: the rope goes in the canal: I throw the other rope: she catches it and pulls.  I walk down the gunwale to retrieve the centre rope because I don’t want to risk it getting caught in the propeller, by this time the stiff breeze has caught the bow and the bow has made its way determinedly to the other bank and Jessica has sensibly let go of the rope.  I retrieve the second rope and find we are firmly stuck, my stern against a moored boat on one side my button is under the rather shaky wooden structures of the bar on the other.  I go to the bow and some nice young men put their beer down and help me extricate my bow from under the bar.  Free, I beat as hasty retreat as a narrowboat will allow, I don’t attempt a second shot of the mooring or stop to pick up Jessica. I find another space a few hundred yards further on and wait for her to catch up with me.

The next day the bar is still standing and that piece of wood in the canal is not my fault - honest

The towpath in Hackney Wick is heaving, the bars and bridges and streets are heaving.  There is live music from across the canal and lively music coming in from different directions.  We ask one of the crowd why and are told it is The Hackney Wicked Festival. We decide Limehouse can wait and we will stay here and partake of the Festival. 

We roam amongst the young crowd who are drinking and eating at the mix of venues, eat some street food (South American for me in memory of Ecuador, balls for Jessica in memory of who knows what) but the studios and art installations have closed for the day and the bands have packed their bags and gone home so we come back to the boat to sit in the bow, drink wine and people watch.

A young man asks if he can take a photo, but he doesn’t want us in the picture he finds the wine, biscuits and cheese and grapes more photogenic than us.  It’s an emblem of our idyllic life-style he says. Idyllic? He should photograph me down the weed-hatch clearing all the muck from the prop and then see if he still thinks it is idyllic.

Locking and Shopping

Jessica has joined me at Hertford to cruise back to London.

By four o'clock in the afternoon we have manged two locks, three miles and eight charity shops.

By eight in the evening we have managed another four locks and five miles and a pub but that was only because the charity shops were closed.

I think I am going to attempt to get to Limehouse Basin without stopping again because to the best of my knowledge there are no charity shops in Limehouse Basin for her to wander into.

Difference of perceptions: I think she has spent £25, she thinks she has saved £125.

(Jessica says I can write anything I like about her as long as I describe her as 5ft 10in, slim, beautiful and charismatic, widely traveled and cultured. I'm sure anybody meeting us on the canal system will recognise her immediately by this description)

Crayfishing

Moving along the Lee Navigation, the Crew is driving the boat and I’ve been relegated to galley slave.  Two boys on the towpath are keeping apace of the boat.  I hear one of them shout

‘Hey mister will you give us a ride’

‘No’

‘Oh why not go one our legs are killing us’

‘We’ve got a vicious dog on board’

The vicious dog must have stuck his sweet shaggy head around the door because they suddenly burst into fits of laughter and shout ‘That’s not a vicious dog’

‘His mother is a Jack Russell so he’s a Natural Born Killer’

The Natural Born Killer wags his tail and smiles at them.

The vicious dog

A bit further on and they have another request ‘Can we borrow your stick with a hook, we’ve lost one of our nets and we want to fish it out’

This time the driver relents, backs up and gives them the boat hook.  They poke around with it and bring up a crayfish net, crammed with crayfish feeding on a large fish head.  Then untie the pot and leg it behind some bushes. When we look we can see a line of crayfish pots strung along the bank-side.  We retrieve the boat pole and leave quickly.  We don’t want to be implicated in the crime of stealing crayfish and pots if the irate owner suddenly appears from the caravan site behind those bushes.

The American Signal Crayfish are abundant on the River Lea.  I’ve seen fishermen catch them and pots full of them.  A boat moored behind me had a pot out and within an hour had three crayfish in them. I quite fancy the idea of a crayfish pot because I like eating crayfish but I’m not sure if I have the stomach to throw the ugly little beasts in a pot of boiling water and then shell them.

The Barge Inn in Hertford is having a Crayfish Fest sometime in August which should rid the river of a few of this invasive species but I think they need a lot more catchers (who need to be licensed) to make any real impact on them.

Going Swimmingly

My Nicholsons guide tells me that Lee Valley Leisure Pool is a ‘fine facility offering fitness suites, saunas and steam baths’.  Moored in Broxbourne I trot off to get a time-table and find it gone.  In its place is a landscaped area of paths and grassland.  I’m used to Nicholsons singing the praises of pubs which are now empty, boarded up or converted to flats but I would have thought leisure centres would have the decency to hang around a bit longer.  As well as not doing swimming pools Broxbourne doesn’t seem to do food shops so I move back to Cheshunt alongside another part of the lovely Lea Valley Park where wooden sculptures lurk amongst the trees.  Cheshunt has food shops and a leisure centre and a very useful railway station with trains to where I want to go.

At Ware where the charming 18^th Century gazebos line the river there is a 1930’s Lido.  In this weather an open air swimming pool is a delight. I plough up and down the pool as the sun glitters on the water.

Onto Hertford. We are told from Ware onwards that one of the paddles on the lock into Hertford is broken and C&RT are coming to fix it and the lock may be closed for a few days.  As I want to leave the boat for a few days prior to picking up a new crew member I don’t mind. I’m given the information so many times, asked if I have seen the C&RT boat coming up from Enfield, helped at the lock by windlass waving men that I’m beginning to think that a broken lock is the most exciting thing to happen in Hertford for a long time.

The good thing about the lock being liable for closure was that visiting boaters left while they could and we had a choice of moorings alongside the allotments a few minutes walk from the town centre and parks of Hertford.

This morning in Hertford swimming pool resting between lengths I listen to a conversation.

”He said, they said he could speak at the planning meeting but he was only allowed to speak for three minutes.  ‘I’ll be speaking for two minutes’ he said

Well I timed him and I said ‘Do you know Jim that was exactly two minutes’

‘Yes I know’ he said 'I’ve spent days standing in front of the microwave getting the timing right’”

In my survey of the swimming pools along the Lee Navigation I have to, unsurprisingly, give the award for the best to the Olympic Pool. Big and beautiful enhanced by the knowledge of the record breaking sporting feats achieved there and with the added bonus of pausing for breath between lengths and being able to watch the perfectly honed body of Tom Daley twisting and turning as he dived repeatedly from the springboard into the diving pool.

Summer Nights

I love warm and muzzy summer nights but it does get a bit hot on the boat so I've opened all the windows and the side hatch and the back door and the front door. There is a cooling breeze passing through and on the breeze is a battalion of mosquitos.  I can hear that zzzzzzzzzzzzz as they home in on me, they've bitten my toes and they're doing laps in my wine glass. I've spent most of the last hour slapping myself and clapping my hands together to try and squash them and I've just squished one on my computer screen.  It's left a big puddle of blood. I'm the only person here so that means it must be my blood.

Sodding insects.

Summer in The City .... Part Three

 

An evening in Limehouse standing on a pub balcony watching the river while trying to shelter from the rain.  Another Anthony Gormley statue stands on a plinth watching the trip boats, ferries and police launches speed passed. I have seen so many of the naked replicas of Anthony Gormley, in Cambridge, St Ives and Liverpool that I must know his body better than my own. The inhabitants of Liverpool must have got fed-up of looking at his private parts as well because they painted underpants on him.

 

They don't respect art in Liverpool

The tour boats have been converted to Party Boats for the evening.  Sometimes the beat of the music drifts across to us sometimes the dancers just seem to be gyrating to their own silent rhythm.

Wake the following morning to the sound of a church clock striking, count the strikes to see if its time to get up. Six, seven, eight, nine ….. surely not that late…… thirteen, fourteen…….. a pause ….. then it starts again one, two.  There are obviously three unsynchronised church clocks in the vicinity.

We watch a narrowboat and a cruiser go out of Limehouse  Lock along The Thames.  The cruiser zooms off ahead, the narrowboat bobs after him, when he hits the wake left by one of the fast taxi boat he ploughs through the waves with his bow lifting.  He looks very small against the wide expanse of the river. Do I want to do this later in the month?  Of course I do.  Really I do. All experienced crew welcome bring your own lifejackets.

Leave the basin via the Limehouse Cut, need to be near an underground station to get back into Central London for a theatrical experience but don’t fancy paying twenty five pounds for the privilege of an extra night in Limehouse.

Limehouse Cut is packed with boats then interspersed with stretches where nobody moors.  If nobody moors there then there must be a reason so we won’t moor there either.  Three Mills looks interesting and there is a space but I encounter the usual problem that sixty foot won’t fit into a fifty five foot space.

Move on passed an endless variety of boats: smart: Dutch: painted: graffitied: on the point of sinking. Passed the canal entrance to the loop around the Olympic Park which is still closed to navigation.

 

 

 

 

A C&RT weed cutter passes by ‘What’s the mooring situation around here’ asks the crew member ‘Dire’ they reply.

Just as we’re about to accept that we will be travelling all day and getting a train in from somewhere in Hertfordshire a boat ahead leaves and we get a space. It turns out it is a very useful space, near to Hackney Wick station and a stones throw from Stratford so to get to Central London is easy.  To the Rose Theatre a strange small theatre under huge girders that hold up the high rise above and protect the archaeological remains of an Elizabethan theatre underneath. It sells drinks but has no toilets which makes the second half of the performance a bit uncomfortable. A friend of a friend is giving a one woman performance alongside another one woman performance.  The theatre holds fifty but is only half full.  Afterwards we all go to the local pub, cast and audience and spend another evening standing, with drink in hand, watching The Thames float passed.

We are moored alongside the Olympic Park so the following day I take the opportunity to go for a swim in the Olympic Pool.  It’s beautiful. I swim leisurely up and down the lanes were two years ago the swimmers of nations gave their all.  It’s busy in the pool so this time I refrain from diving in from the podium and doing racing turns, I’ll leave that for another time.

The flower beds around the stadiums are stunning, masses of wild flowers, holly hocks, red hot pokers and lots of flowers I should know the names of but don’t. Pity I didn’t bring my camera.  Next time I will.

Summer In The City ..... Part Two

 

Considering I’m in the centre of a very large city, it’s quiet in Little Venice.  In the early morning the first sounds are the thump, thump of joggers on the towpath.

Time to move away, go up the canal to stock the fridge at Sainsburys, turn and then stop to fill with water. A Black Prince hire boat pulls alongside.  It’s crew are seven ladies from Boston on a weeks cruise.  They’re seven nervous ladies because they’ve never done this before and ahead are unknown locks and long tunnels. We impart words of wisdom and encouragement and then leave them to it.  They are heading down to Limehouse Basin where a pilot is meeting them to take them up The Thames

At Camden Locks lots of legs hang over the edge of the lock mooring.  If they were my legs and sixteen ton of steel was about to squash them against a wall I’d move but the lock side drinkers and grazers are made of sterner stuff and it’s me and Rea that have to get out of the way.  I wonder how the ladies from Boston will cope with crowds and heavy locks and nowhere to tie up because of moored boats.

Through St Pancras and Kings Cross were the development is rife.  Sometimes London seems to be one big building site.  Cranes loom, buildings under construction, old commercial warehouses being renovated. There are no signs of recession here London is booming, is the country going to tilting southwards because of all this development. Is The North quiet?

 

Through Islington Tunnel hoping to find a space on the visitor moorings.  Just outside the tunnel there is one space and we double berth against a shiny new boat inhabited by a shiny young man. He tells us we are in a quiet zone (confirmed by notices) where we can’t run engines for more than an hour, must keep noise to a minimum and not burn wood. ‘Boris lives up there’ he says pointing up towards a row of smart white houses, ‘so I suppose he makes the rules’.  I can see Boris’s point, who wants to pay over a million for a house and be constantly reminded of the presence of the riff-raff living on the ditch below you.

Late at night there is the sound of a crowd singing and shouting. It gets louder as the mob approaches, then just as I start to worry about being caught up in crowd violence a narrow boat emerges from the tunnel with three lads on the back singing their hearts out. The tunnel and the deep cut it emerges into amplify the sound .

The next day it’s the sound of bicycle bells that mingle with the rhythmic feet of the joggers that act as the alarm clock. Then it’s onwards towards Limehouse, a fascinating journey passed new build housing, old warehouses, smart offices derelict buildings and graffiti.  Flotillas of children in canoes.  Canary Wharf looms ahead. 

 

Lock gates are stiff and leaky. There seems to be a laissez-faire attitude from the boaters in these parts with boats double moored, sticking out, on lock landings and at water points and the gates on the locks left open. It just wouldn’t do on the Grand Union but then London is another country.

Summer In The City

Hot days, mild nights and London’s population is spilling onto the pavements, music from open windows, a constant stream of people along the towpath.  Fake grass on roofs seems a popular feature of boats around here, after a days work the boat dwellers can relax on the lawn with a chilled glass of wine.

Across the canal on a bench sit three twenty-something blokes wearing shorts, their legs stretched out if front of them discussing who has the hairiest legs. ‘I think Andy’s legs are hairier than mine’

‘Maybe but if Andy stands up you’ll see his calves are bald.’  Andy stands up and does a twizzle. ‘Whereas both yours and mine are hairy all the way round.

I get thrown off my mooring at Paddington Basin because there is going to be dragon boat racing.  When I wander passed later another boat has taken my place and all the inside moorings are full again.  That’s not fair.

Dragon boat racing

I arrange to meet my daughter and her friend at Oxford Circus to visit the Photographer’s Gallery in Ramillies Street.  It is not a good idea to meet anybody at Oxford Circus without specifying which underground exit to meet at.  It is an even worse idea to leave your mobile phone back on the boat.  Eventually we find each other.  The exhibition on the third floor has a parental guidance warning at the entrance.  Clare decides that this means it is not a suitable exhibition to take a parent to, far too embarrassing to look at lewd pictures with her mother alongside, she suggests I wait outside.

The uniforms of sport extend to the spectators. We’re near Lords Cricket Ground, in the evening  men in straw boaters and MCC ties stagger, red faced towards Paddington Station, in the other direction white shirted fans with red stripes on their faces stagger towards the pubs in readiness for the England World Cup Game.

I’m the party boat this weekend.  On Saturday Clare, Marc and five friends come along for a ride, on Sunday it’s four friends a little girl and a baby plus a short visit from Clare to say hello.  I do more sweeps of Regents Park, Maida Vale and Camden Lock than the tour boats, when we’ve passed each other a dozen times they’re starting to scowl at me because they think I must be touting for their customers along this stretch of canal.  It’s a lottery finding a place to moor where I can join the passengers for dinner and let them disembark and return to their transport, but the fight for mooring spaces seems to have abated this weekend and there is plenty of room to tie up when I arrive back from each of the grand tours.

This morning I take the empties to the bottle bank.  There is a lot of them. I have to make a couple of trips, the local drinkers, who spend their days propped up against the refuse disposal area, are now treating me with a lot more respect, they obviously recognise a kindred spirit.  One more trip to the bottle bank and I will be invited to be part of their gang.

Yesterday evening I moored against two boats, this morning a sixty footer a few boats in front of me left so I decided to quickly grab the space before somebody else came along. Put shoes on, started the engine, untied set off and moored up neatly, tied up.  Then went inside and found I’d left the tap in the bath running (was planning on soaking a wine stained table-cloth).  Full bath = empty water tank plus a drain on my newly charged batteries when I have to run the pump for an age to empty the bath. 
Now I’m moored against the towpath I have no excuse for not cleaning the extremely murky windows.

Going Home

I moved from Camden because I was going to leave the boat for a few days and I’d have over-stayed if I remained there.  I was aiming for Paddington Basin because it seems a safe place to leave a boat. I watered at Little Venice then reversed passed the restaurant boat and started to turn where the tour boat is moored, two Japanese tourists frantically waved tickets at me, they must have thought I was the tour boat leaving without them.  Toyed with the idea of picking them up and charging a fortune for taking them on a trip alongside Regents Park but as I could see boats at the other water-point and heading down the canal I thought I might lose any available slots in the basin. A wise move.  I headed a flotilla into the basin, made a pigs ear of turning against a strong wind and snaffled the last available place.  The rest of the flotilla turned and went on their way.

Went to Peterborough and collected my car from yet another garage where it was supposedly being repaired. Hopefully it will work properly this time if it doesn’t I’m going to park it in the canal next to my boat. Then it was back home to Barnwell, except now only my heart remains in Barnwell my home is waiting patiently for me in Paddington.

Home... but I'm not there 

But at least the natives are still friendly

                   

 

 

  

 

 

I was planning on going back to go to the BBQ and Barn Dance which was to be held at the cruising club but in the meantime I got a better offer, a post-nuptial dinner at the Talbot Hotel in Oundle.  I weighed it up carefully, burgers in a bun or choice of the Talbots menu and my stomach decided there was no contest.  I went into the club first and when they were just getting organised and it looked like a good evening was in the offing
 

 

 

Then went to meet the happy couple at the hotel

 





 

 I think I must have just seen the prices on the menu

Then it was back to the club for a night cap.  Too late to join in the dancing but it looked as if they had had a good time.

 

 

 

 



Where am I?

I awake to the mewing of herring gulls, look out of my window to see a life-size sculpture of a cow, nearby I can hear a peacock calling.  In my early morning daze I’m not sure if I’m in Brixham, Milton Keynes or the garden of a stately home.  Then a police siren blasts out and a train passes by and by the time the children are noisily amassing in the school behind the high wall next to me I remember that I am in Camden.

Probably the most photographed cow in the country

I had visitors yesterday, the plan, if there was anything that resembled  a plan, was to set off and go along a bit and stop for lunch and turn round and come back to Little Venice.  Silly idea really, I should have remembered I’m not on a river where turning is simple or a countryside canal where mooring is easy or somewhere quiet where it is possible to get the same mooring space you’d left a few hours ago.  Firstly it took me an age to find somewhere to turn (I wimped out at reversing a quarter of a mile down the canal), then a lovely cruise along Maida Vale and Regents Park followed, but it was impossible to find somewhere to stop for lunch.  My friend seemed to be under the impression that narrowboats either bent or concertinaed up or that it didn’t matter about mooring against ‘No Mooring’ signs or peoples back gardens.

’Look stop there ’  How do I tie up against concrete?

‘Look there’s a ring on that wall there ’ It’s ten foot higher than me how do I get a rope in there?

‘Look can’t you pull up where that waterbus has just left’   No.

‘Can’t you tie up to that tree, we could put the table out on the grass’  I think it’s the American Ambassadors residence, they’d probably shoot us

 

They bought themselves an ice-cream but didn't offer me one

 

Eventually arriving at Camden Lock I decided to turn instead of going through the locks and chance my luck at an odd space amongst the visitor moorings.  I could just about get in but because it was across an inset I let the visitors off with the ropes and asked them to pull me in.  A man from the boat in front came along and took over, shouting instructions to them.  As they were taking more notice of him than me I left him to it.  Tied up, switched the engine off and it wouldn’t switch off.  Tried again and again to switch the engine off but it was determined to keep going.  Called to helpful man to help and he came over.  He was helpful but didn’t know much more about engines than me, but kept going back to his friend ‘the mechanic ‘ for tips, eventually ‘the mechanic’ left his cold beer and came over fiddled a bit and stopped the engine.  At this point I decided this was a lovely mooring and I was going to stay, chances of finding gaps in Little Venice were unlikely anyway and I needed a drink.

 

 

View to the right of me            

    View to the left of me

Later that evening when the riff raff had left I went into the back to lock up and saw my battery warning lights were flashing red.  I realised that although the engine was switched off the ignition key was still turned on, I switched it off, switched it back on and zilch happened.  I called somebody who knows more about these things than me (I could probably have dialled a number at random and still got somebody who knew more than me).   He suggested fiddling with the knob the man had fiddled with when he stopped the boat and then trying to re-start the engine.  I said it was too dark down there and I might disturb the neighbours and it was better if I did that in the morning. In all honesty it was more to do with wanting to get back to my good book than for any of the other reasons.  This morning everything works OK.  My battery indicators are showing green, the engine starts and the engine stops.

So there we are, in times of dire mechanical failure, don’t do anything just go to bed with a good book and by the following morning everything will have sorted itself out.

 

Down among the dead

I’ve been read the blogs about what other boaters get up to in London.  The shows, restaurants, late nights out in Soho, all sounded too much like fun and hard work to me so instead of emulating them I went to a cemetery.  In the rain.

  

I want angels on my headstone. 
I think they would be an appropriate comment on the life I have lived
 

Highgate Cemetery is tranquil and beautiful, an interesting juxtaposition of old and new, spruced up in parts and overgrown in others.  It’s in the centre of the city yet it is an oasis of peace.  It’s an invigorating climb up Highgate Hill, full of Victorian commemorative architecture, flowers and birds and dead people. I was fascinated by it and next time I will go early enough for the conducted tour of the Western Cemetery and spend more time browsing the Eastern Cemetery. http://highgatecemetery.org/

 

I would have loved to have looked closer and longer but the bell rang for closing and as much as I loved the place and have no belief in ghouls and ghosts I didn’t fancy being shut in for the night.

 

The grave of Douglas Adams.  I do hope that the pens admirers have left for him inspire him to write in the after-life because I do love his books and it will give me something to read when I get there.



This grave surprised me, mainly because I didn't know that Jeremy Beadle had died

What more is there to say?

 

 

In Little Venice

Being a good rule-abiding sort of person (sometimes) I moved from my mooring in Paddington Basin when my seven days were up.  I was told that although the boats moored were checked every day, both in Paddington and Little Venice, the mooring limits of seven and fourteen days were rarely enforced.  I was also told by the helpful lady in the C & RT office that there had been a lot of movement in Little Venice so it was a good time to try and find a space so I decided I'd move.

I think I might add an extra level to Rea

I first tried to squeeze Rea’s sixty foot into a fifty five foot space, that didn’t work.  Then I moored alongside two shorter boats, getting into a tangle with ropes and the wood on the roof of one boat.  I had difficulty getting the back platform level with the stern of the other boat.  Sometimes doing simple things like tying up in line when single handed are more difficult than steering round weirs and negotiating into small tight spaces.  Tie up the front tightly and the back is sticking out, loosen the front and tighten the back and the front is in the wrong place.  It’s a bit like sawing bits off the legs off a chair to balance it without measuring anything properly.  In the end I left it secure but wobbly and did a leap of faith from the inside boat to mine, vowing to always come home sober and always to be careful.  Yesterday I noticed the lovely young man next door had re-tied me threading my ropes through his boat so now my access is far less hazardous.

I’m moored opposite expensive house boats and a smart floating restaurant, judging by the smell their signature dish is fish and chips (don’t they know fish and chips should only be eaten on a harbour wall, with a north wind howling around).  I look at them and at the beautiful Georgian terrace behind.  They pay a lot of money to look out at the motley collection of boats opposite, mainly unkempt live-aboards.  Yesterday a Viking ship went passed, all blowing horns and helmets, and made a special effort to blow their horns in the face of the diners.  They were followed by a cruiser full of the local alchis who also drove close to the diners, shouting words of encouragement.  I hope that, even if the neighbours are a bit dodgy, the food is good.

The lovely young man was complaining about the tourists, he was sunning himself on the stern when two Japanese ladies leant across him to take a picture of the interior of his boat, clicked away merrily, then went on their way ignoring him completely.

 

I like it here.

Partying

I made it in time for the party, it only took me ten days to get from Oundle, my sister had flown in from Italy in a matter of hours.

It was my daughter Clare’s party to celebrate her engagement to the lovely Marc. A good time was had by all, in fact it was such good fun that I am really looking forward to the wedding and in addition I get to wear a hat.

We started the celebrations at 1pm and left the wonderfully named Blacksmith and Toffeemakers Arms in the early hours of Monday morning.  The joy of mooring up in London is that it is easy to get home, a couple of crowded buses and we were back to Paddington Basin by 2am.  I think Paddington Basin is wonderful, so convenient, safe and secure and I like the contrast of city dwelling to life on the riverbank.  My sister was less impressed she told my friend at the party that it was surrounded by offices, she couldn’t see out the windows because of closely moored boats and the man in the next boat was continually peeing over the side of his boat.  There were often sounds of water hitting the canal but I presumed it was the water from his sink oulet, he may have been peeing over the side but if the amount of water discharged was anything to go by he should have an entry in The Guinness Book of Records for the worlds largest bladder.

 

As we came into Paddington Basin that night (or the following morning) a fox was walking towards us, as he saw us he turned back.  When I stopped on the bridge and looked over he had resumed his journey and was intermittently and bluely illuminated by the lights along the wall before disappearing from sight in the shadows of St Marys Hospital.

The following morning a cormorant was outside the boat, spread along the pontoon drying its wings and a pair of swans with cygnets was passing by on the other side. Even amidst the high rises and developments the wild-life survives and adapts, I have seen more foxes in London than I have ever seen in the countryside.
 

The Curious Incident of the Keys at Mid-day

I carried the bags of rubbish to the disposal point at Little Venice only to find I needed to have a BW key to get into the area.  Needless to say I hadn’t got mine with me.  I asked a nice young man filling at the water point if I could borrow a key.

‘Yes’ he said ‘I’ll just get one from inside’ He reappeared carrying a set of keys on a tatty old Underground style key ring.  My keys.  The keys I’d left in the swing bridge fifty miles away five days ago. I looked at them in amazement. ‘They’re my keys’ I said

He confirmed he’d found them at the swing bridge.  He’d left a note there and posted on the internet forums saying that he’d found them.  I’d never gone back or read the forums so hadn’t  known that but now with an eerie homing instinct they have found their way back to me.

I don’t think it’s co-incidence or serendipity I think it’s just plain creepy.



Home Again

 

 

In the city

From 7am onwards there is enough noise to waken the dead in the cemetery across the canal: pile-drivers and bulldozers, trains and police sirens, joggers, cyclist, dog walkers and children on their way to school. I wake up and grumble and mumble about all the noise and then come to and think ‘stupid woman, you’re in the middle of a city what do you expect’

Interesting progress through the environs of West London, hope to moor in Little Venice.  No chance. Turn into the Paddington Basin, sail to the end no gaps, turn around and come back again and then spot a place on one of the pontoons but a wide beam is moored alongside and I’m not sure if I will fit.  A man in a yellow jacket shakes his head doubtfully as I turn again, both Rea and I breathe in and we squeeze in with an inch to spare on either side.  The man in the yellow jacket puts two thumbs up.

In Paddington Basin

 After my sister arrives we set out for a walk along Little Venice and into Maida Vale.  I used to live around here, in Warrington Crescent but since I moved away they must have shuffled the streets around a bit and I can’t find Warrington Crescent although I do find The Warwick Castle one of the local pubs so I know it’s around here somewhere.  Eventually find it and stand to look at the flat I used to live in, or approximately the flat I lived in because I can’t remember the number and the houses in a Georgian Crescent all look alike.  Share a few memories of living there, the Italian artist next door who made a huge statue that was too big to go out the door for the exhibition at the ICA and the fire brigade came to lift it out over the balcony (was it an emergency, did he pay them?).  There was scaffolding outside for months very useful for when I forgot my key (and the artist we shared the balcony with was out) that was removed early one Sunday morning and I went out and shouted at them for making so much noise on a Sunday.  The next day when the painters turned up they were surprised to see their scaffolding had been nicked.

 

I used to live here, or maybe next door

When my sister got bored of listening to the reminisces we went to The Warrington Hotel, a pub that was just as I remembered it (and in the right place).  It is a most beautiful Victorian pub with Art Nouveau friezes, opulent lamps and panelling.  It is worth a visit even if it means you have to have a drink as an excuse for being there.