Mud glorious mud

If you look up ‘canal boat holidays’ I can guarantee that somewhere there will be a photo of an idyllic boating  scene, as a quaint narrow boat chugs slowly up the canal, alongside ducks and swans,  the golden evening sun casting long shadows over the rolling hills in the distance, a sun kissed and relaxed looking couple at the helm, chatting and waving cheerily at passing boaters, glasses of wine in hand, watched by friendly locals who lean over old brick humpback bridges with dogs frolicking at their heels. 

Let me offer you the reality, the real, no messing, no frills,  mud and rain filled alternative that was us last weekend. If you are looking for some kind of endurance challenge  , and fancy being in ” It’s a knockout” without the costumes then look no further. 

Usually we have the transport logistics of car and boat pretty sorted. We work out where we are going to finish up, I drive the car there, park up ( without any problem unless trying to do this in the middle of a large town). Then I get my bike out of the boot and cycle back down the towpath until I meet the boat. Bike gets slung on roof and we carry on our way. 

I love cycling down the towpath, particularly as Spring approaches as there  are tiny lambs hopping about in the fields and the woods are full of wild garlic. The other day I saw a large mink swimming in a leisurely fashion across the canal. A woman walking her dogs said that they often see them and they aren’t frightened of attacking and killing ducklings and moorhens. Another walker  told me that swans have been known to pick up small dogs and drown them if they were foolish enough to venture too near their nests or cygnets. As someone who was brought up on the Ladybird books I am under no illusion that swans can break your arm, so stay well clear at all times, though those large Canada geese are really scary and sometimes waddle after my bike hissing. Some of the ducks are really tame,  and one even clambered up the gangplank the other morning  in search of scraps and was rewarded with muesli  and bacon rind. Sometimes you see herons, standing like statues until the absolute last minute when they take flight, huge wings creaking as they swoop out of sight. And we often see kingfishers, a flash of shimmering blue, blink and you miss them.

The boat averages a brisk walking pace,  and we usually end up leaving the car around 5 miles or so up the canal each day , which is a respectable and at times invigorating,  bike  ride. We do this every morning we are boating, and gradually meander our way up ( or down) the relevant canals, in this case the Kennet and Avon. It works pretty well mostly. As there are segments of the canal that we have gone up and down several times it can get a bit confusing and there have been times that I have started off cycling  the wrong way,  though usually realise before wasting too much time and energy.

Though Saturday was mostly a steady but inoffensive drizzle, I had underestimated the days and days of rain that had preceded it and it soon became apparat that the towpath was a sea of thick, gloopy and black mud. In some places you cycle right along the edge of the water and it would take a second to skid, slip and end up with an undignified splash in the canal. Having done this once ( one night when I got up to go to the loo, mis judged the gang  plank and went in ) I have no desire ever to do it again, mostly because on pulling myself out I got very stung by stinging nettles but also because the canal is the colour of stew and filthy. Plus I’m not sure I would be able to get the bike out on my own. 

After  a mile or so of stopping,  starting , slithering, wheels clogged up with mud and grass , like pushing a dead horse through slime  I gave up and carried the bike. For about four miles. And obviously it was a four miles with absolutely no sign of a shop, or a pub or indeed a phone signal. And I had left my bike lock in the car even more obviously before one more of you asks” why didnt you just lock your bike up somewhere and walk?” All I can say is that I was not laughing when I was finally reunited with the boat and the bike remained tied to the roof for the rest of the weekend

Sunday didn’t even pretend to be brightening up and because we had to, we set off, first in raincoats and by lunchtime in full waterproof outfits, mud spattered boots , damp sweaty faces as we jumped on and off into the mud, struggling with ropes and locks that hadn’t  been greased  since time began, with broken paddles and huge heavy gates that did their best to swing back against you and knock you flying. 

Somehow we managed it unscathed and with humours intact, with only one incident when one of the plastic glasses got knocked over and when I turned to look for it almost drove into the bank. We rewarded ourselves for all this effort, with a full roast Sunday lunch when we finally moored up, roast beef with all the trimmings cooked in the remarkably small but efficient boat oven. 

And then, because we had go back to where we had started from that morning and get the car,  we walked across the fields to the village pub where we were certain we would be able to call a cab to take us back to it. Wrong. The pub was very firmly closed. There was not a soul around. Even the noticeboard on the village green yielded nothing apart from details of the sewing group and community meal in the village hall,  though we could possibly have caught a bus in the right direction if we felt like waiting till the following Tuesday. We sat on a bench outside the ( closed) post office in the rain and googled various cab companies. It didnt go well. The recipients seemed genuinly astonished that anyone in their right minds would want to be out and about on such a night, let alone might have the audacity to be calling a cab company  for a cab. One ancient sounding gent actually said he was on his way to bed ( at 8.30pm). By this time we were completely soaked through ( again) and laughing hysterically. ” we have come on a narrow boat holiday by mistake” / Withnail and I moment. After an hour or so we managed to find someone who didnt think our request was unusual. I met her in the pitch black car park by the bridge. I put pages of the Observer in the passenger footwell so as not to cover her immaculate car in mud and left the over ripe Brie hanging on the fence to collect on my return. On the way we drove through the forest, it reminded me of other journeys that way in my youth, to collect my dad from the station, and the time when our car hit a deer. Past the beautful house that Pete Doherty rented and trashed, past the place where I used to go riding. She dropped me off at the car and I returned to the bridge to collect T, the bike and the Brie and we drove back to London, to hot baths and cool clean sheets.

And even though it was an outward bound challenge, and I still feel as if my entire body has been put through a mangle, now I am back at my kitchen table with clean hair and dry socks I rather miss it. Perhaps after all I really need to move back to the country.