Tales from the riverbank

So the last two weekends have been spent afloat and Rusty B is gradually becoming less like a mock Tudor bar ( though the dark brown gloss beams remain) and more like a friendly boat, though there is still a way to go in that department. However, we now have running water, and even more exciting, very hot running water. Finally T’s efforts at painting the inside of the tank and waiting hours for it to dry have paid off,  and we are able to put it to use.  The water tank is huge and took over half an hour to fill at one of the standpipes that are situated along the various canals for boaters to use. There is an array of facilities along the way, diesel pumps, portable loo emptying tanks, hot showers, launderettes and nearer big towns, mobile libraries, veg delivery boats, coal and log suppliers, bakers and even a floating florist. On Saturday we passed a fabulous and intricately decorated Dutch barge offering signwriting and tattoos. I have to say I was a little tempted.

On Monday evening we moored the boat in a village called Cosgrove, the other side of Milton Keynes and drove back to Camberwell. There is a stately home somewhere in the vicinity and all the cottages have matching  Farrow and Ball window frames and tidy front gardens built from beautiful mellow golden stone with wonderfully carved and ornate bridges at each end of the village. We moored up on one bank and realised that the pub was on the other. However there was a long thin horse tunnel that ran underneath the canal so within minutes we were on the other side and ordering our pints. It was hard to imagine how a large cart horse would fit in such a narrow tunnel but  then again it’s hard to imagine the time when narrowbaots were pulled by horses,  though on the corners of each bridge you can still see the marks left by years and years of ropes rubbing  into the brickwork as they hauled their heavy loads through. To avoid having to get on and off each time they went through a lock gate they used to lassoo the gates as they went past in order to close them, a trick we discuss on a regular basis but have yet to perfect ( plus it would probably be most frowned upon by Capt and Mrs rules and regulations in their matching nautical leisurewear). Though in our youth we would have thought nothing of jumping on to the roof of the boat and over the other side while it was sitting in the lock, or scampering up and down the ladders,  unfortunately neither of us are quite the nimble spring chickens we once were,  and our escapades would fit nicely in the next  edition of Saga narrow boat holidays. In the space of half an hour the other day  T managed to fall off a ladder, narrowly avoiding falling into the water between  the wall and the boat, smashing his wrist and already dodgy knee against the railing, and at the next lock I managed to forget to put the safety catch on as I was rotating  the large turning key so that it flew up into the air  and smacked down on my hand resulting in a lump the size of an anthill. It’s just as well we are in the early stages of renovating as it won’t be long before we have to accommodate mobility scooters and ramps into the plans.

Because it was Bank holiday, and a sunny one at that, there was lots of traffic motoring up and down the Grand Union.  It was a bit of a taster as to what it must be like in the height of summer,  and made us all the more determined to stick to the smaller canals where the only sounds you hear are the birds and the peeping of the ducklings, tall grasses shining  golden against the dusky ploughed fields and the hiccup and sway of the boat as it chugs along

Everyone was bustling about , scrubbing, hanging out washing and gossiping over cold bottles of beer. There were the hire boats, full of jack the lads and students, the slightly harassed families  (of the “Joe,  do NOT throw your sisters doll into the canal” variety), the smart Primrose hill set with their gleaming brass portholes and manicured box hedges, and then the live aboard boaters with their knitted jumpers and hats, dreadlocks and lived in faces, the roofs crammed full with bikes, canoes, logs and bags of coal, barbecues and boxes of fresh  herbs and flowers. As we walked down the bank in search of the horse tunnel there was a pair of elderly women in gaudy house coats, fingerless gloves and scarves sitting at a picnic table alongside their narrowboat ( which had garden gnomes and plastic fairies aboard) . They were playing scrabble , each with their own dog eared well thumbed notebooks in which they kept note of the score with  a flask of tea in between them. A fat jack russell snored beneath their wobbly plastic chairs as they bickered and laughed, and there was something truly fabulous about them and their weather beaten cheeks. I will be keeping my eye out for a suitable housecoat for myself.

There is a lot about the boating life that is to be recommended. Being out in the fresh air, exposed to the elements, to the rain and the wind and the golden sunshine is so good for the soul, and it’s easy to see  why people find this way of life so appealing.