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.

The usual load of rubbish .....................

The weather remains glorious, although I suppose if I was being really picky I could say it was a bit too hot, at the end of the day I bear more than a passing resemblance to a beetroot.  More boats about today, they must have hibernated for the weekend thinking that it would be too busy to travel then and all come out on Monday. 


A rare instance of a boat in the lock at the right time instead of just after I'd closed the gates and carried on around the bend

Make steady and uneventful progress through some beautiful countryside I would have liked to stop more often but on a mission to get to London for a party.  Impressed by the swing bridge at Winkwell, just push some buttons then lights flash, barriers come down and the traffic stops.  I am so overcome with the feeling of power at being able to stop cars and lorries that I leave my keys behind in the mechanism.  By the time I realise they are missing it is far too late to go back for them so I have to buy a new BW key (£9!).  Luckily I have a spare boat key and as I haven’t a clue what the rest of the keys on the ring were for they aren’t a great loss.

Stop at the night in a scenic part of what purports to be Watford, although of Watford there is no evidence, just an immaculate golf course and Cassiobury Park on the other side.

Onwards and onwards, many miles, lots of locks.  Overshoot the entrance to The Paddington Arm because the signpost is obscured by a bush. The start of The Paddington Arm is far from immaculate, industrial, litter strewn and unappealing.  Stop for a lunch break failing to notice that it is a waterpoint that we moored against, aahhh that’s why there are nice bollards here.  The boat actually stopping for water points out that this is a waterpoint but they aren't too bothered about the misdemeanour and draw up alongside for a chat about nothing in particular.

A very wide-beamed boat is moving off from the bankside ahead, about twenty multi-hued children in blue sweatshirts lean over the bow and the teacher is giving a talk about the wild-life of the canals.

‘Look to the left and you will see a swarm of white plastic bags, these have the distinctive blue and red lettering, further on we will find another breed of plastic bags that are bright orange. Oh look just ahead we can see the colourful plumage of a KFC carton.  Look at the polystyrene cups, these are a hardy breed of drinking vessel and will live for many years, as will the Carling can that is floating passed to our right. There are many breeds of can floating in the canals, all with their own markings, you will find Special Brew is the most common along here. If you could see into the water you would be able to see that hardy canal animal the supermarket trolley they are often found in the company of the bicycle wheel.  Sadly it is often difficult to spot because the water is so polluted that we can only see the top few inches of anything.   Watch this narrowboat passing by they usually manage to pick up interesting floating objects on their propellers, oh yes it’s stopping.  Please put your fingers in your ears children the language that boater is using isn’t suitable for ten year olds.’

Trying to find a desirable mooring is trying.  Eventually stop for the night opposite Kensal Green Cemetery, hopefully it will be peaceful, the dead shouldn’t be making too much noise and the gasometer on the towpath side looks well behaved.

 

 

To the coots it isn't rubbish it's just building materials for their des res.

 

On The Grand Union

Checked that the Anglers Retreat in Marsworth was still alive (there are so many dead pubs along the canal) and would be showing the FA CUp.  Made the short journey there, disposed of the crew, I was sad to see them go because we’d had fun and I got a lot of help.

When I settled down to watch the football Hull City were two goals ahead, it was the first time I’d watched Hull City play for nearly forty years and they must have been so shocked by my sudden support that they never scored again and managed to concede three goals.  The Arsenal supporters I sat amongst were very happy and as by the end of extra time I’d drunk rather a lot of Thatchers cider I didn’t care anyway.

 

 

Sunday was an early start (well early for me) down the flight of locks and onto the wooded cutting of the Tring summit.  A fishing match was in progress, the first fisherman in line shouted to me ‘Don’t slow down, just drive at them, those poles are expensive they’ll soon lift them.’  I wondered  if he was trying to contrive an unfair advantage by getting me to disturb the fish.

I did slow down and got smiles and nods from 80% of the fishermen and only 20% avoided eye contact.  No shouts or waving of fists. That was a pretty good ratio of smiles to frowns for disturbing a fishing competition. It must have been the weather that did it.  It was a day of glorious sunshine with the light filtering through the trees and dappling the water.  The smell of May blossom in the air, the birds in full throttle, a day like that must have cheered the grumpiest of canal fishermen.

Lots of boats moored along the canal side and in the marinas but very few on the move, the ones I did see were mainly single-handed young men.  Shared Cowroast Lock with one and his Rottweiler dog that leaned over and slobbered against my leg.  He said ‘don’t worry, she’s as gentle as a kitten’.  Most kittens I have known aren’t in the least bit gentle, they’re all teeth and claws and spend their days honing them for a life-time of disembowelling small furry and feathery creatures.

At Bushes Lock we meet our first comer uppers a pair of Fellows and Clayton working boats with putt-putt engines came through.  A man dressed as Charlie Chaplin complete with grey spats and bowler hat was taking a photograph of them.  He probably  wasn’t travelling with the boats because historic boats are usually manned by men with oily rags, not immaculately dressed Charlie Chaplin look-a-likes.

 

Through Berkhamsted where the canal side pubs were heaving and spewing customers across the towpath.  At The Rising Sun lock groups of drinkers peered in the windows. I knew I should have made the beds and washed up. Stopped for the night a bit further on alongside back gardens with the smell of barbeques and sounds of children playing cricket and Virgin trains screeching passed.  Maybe not the prettiest stopping place but further along was Sewer Lock and that didn’t sound very appealing and it was close enough to Berkhamsted for me to manage a wander around.

Man on board ...................................

The problem of having a man onboard is that they hog the driving ..................

 

 

And the women are made to do all the hard work at the locks .........................

 

 

And only allowed on the helm to pretend they can drive the boat...................

 

 

 

Onwards ............

Onto The Grand Union Canal

What a lot of boats.

What a lot of locks.

What a lot of people.

After eight months of living in splendid isolation on a riverbank all this activity comes as a bit of a culture shock.  I'm used to a couple of boats a day passing by on one side and only fellow moorers wandering past on the other.

What a lot of hard work at the locks.  I’m used to the Nene and Great Ouse Locks where at the end of a days travelling you only end up with a stiff thumb from holding down the button on the guillotine gate (I'm deliberately forgetting about the locks with wheels even thinking about the wheels is traumatic).  After a day on The Northampton Arm every muscle aches (except my thumb which was never used).  I’m sure I’ll get used to it. By the time I reach London I’ll be so fit I’ll be able to just effortlessly twizzle the paddles up.

After the Stoke Bruerne flight I get my first bollicking.  I’m trundling along on the helm and my mind is away with the early morning fairies.

The hatch on a shiny boat is flung open and a red faced man shouts ‘Slow Down’. 

‘Sorry’ I say but I’m not really sorry.

Bye Bye Barnwell

First there was the farewell barbeque

Before the beer took effect

 

After the beer took effect

The herbs are on the roof

 

And I'm off................

I just left my solar powered robin (although after two years on the riverbank it's faded and now looks more like a solar powered budgie) in all alone looking after my abandoned plot but Elaine tells me she'll give it a home as her solar powered robin was blown away in the storms and all she has left is a light on the end of a stick.

 

I'm not sure why I'm leaving because I've been hapy here but I've got a boat and it moves so I'm moving it.

 

 

Gone Fishing - The Final Instalment

Every magnet and grappling hook on the moorings, countless Heath Robinson devices and endless lengths of chain and rope and piping has been used to get that damn door out of the river.  Throughout the winter the seekers and searchers have got cold and wet, drank copious of amounts of tea and coffee, exchanged volumes of theories about the whereabouts of the door and the plans for getting it out have ranged from the practical to the bizarre to the downright silly (usually after the imbibing of tea and coffee turned into imbibing something stronger).

There has been so many bottle tops dragged up by the magnets that it has been suggested that in years to come archaeologists dredging this stretch of river may decide they were our currency and that Queen Stella must have reigned here during the Carlsberg dynasty.  It’s all been to no avail, the door has stubbornly remained at the bottom of the river.  

The Professionals

The river has been up and down, the flow has been fast but now it’s levelled off and calmed down, so the professionals have arrived.  Two scuba divers are doing a search, locate and retrieve training exercise.

It's down there somewhere

They duly searched, located and retrieved!

 

Wet and dirty but back on dry land!

So me and my door are now happily re-united. As I type I can hear the melodious sound of metal been drilled and the pins being repaired and re-attached.  Soon the hinges will be welded back into place and the door will be back in its rightful home.

The only thing is I rather like the Perspex which is in place at the moment, it does make the boat a lot lighter. But maybe it’s best that I keep those thoughts to myself considering all the effort people have made to get my door back.