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.