Some time in the seventies when I was a sullen teenager (and my elder brother was at university) someone decided it would be a good idea to “do” the Avon ring. I think it may have been my brother that suggested it as an alternative to the go so far and come back style of holiday that we’d pretty much all become used to. Dad had managed to get a three week break from work at the (then still viable) power station at Kingston on Thames so all looked set to go.

I used to enjoy the out and back style of journeys as it was nice to revisit places we had previously stopped at. This though was a route march and we had to make certain moorings on time. My main memories of this holiday are the noise made by the Yanmar diesel that grossly underpowered the 26 ft Springer narrowboat that was rather spartan in its layout. The family had bought it at bargain base price and Dad had followed Sam Springer’s ideas on layout (which were a little spartan) using floorboards and not a lot else to make bunks.

All was good when we set off and the Yanmar proved to at least be reliable. It sat under the stern deck with no silencer fitted, making the whole of the boat sound like a machine gun being fired continuously inside of a grain silo. How my brother managed to listen to his beloved cricket escapes me!

We were beset with various electrical issues (causing the headlamp to go out in the middle of a tunnel) and a lot of condensation. The Critall windows were also prone to leaking when it rained. On the latter one I can remember Dad buying a large quantity of blue putty to seal all around the window frames, which thankfully did the job.

I got a bit frustrated with the route march format which left very little time to enjoy the places we stopped at. Also it annoyed me because my brother had taken on the duty of keeping things on the move. Part of the journey involved the tidal Severn (which was dangerous, due to us being quite well underpowered) but we plugged our way along it, making even more noise and a fair old bit of black sooty smoke.

I remember putting my foot on the boat at Tewksbury but what I thought was the boat was actually thin air allowing my leg to go between Springer and wharf side, nicely removing most of the skin off my right shin. I was not amused and my Granny was mortified that I’d probably get some kind of blood poisoning from it. I’m happily still here now though about 50 years later so I guess that I just perfected my general bad attitude of the time.

Eventually we knew there was an aqueduct to traverse and that day was a windy one. As we headed on to the trough of Edstone the boat kind of ground to a halt. The crosswind had pinned us to the towpath side. Dad decided to pull us out (with a load of noise) in reverse gear and have another shot at a higher throttle setting. This got us a third of the way across and then stuck us like glue to the towpath side. Whatever we did, including trying to pry ourselves off with boathooks only allowed a few feet more forward progress.

“Ive had an idea,” says me, climbing onto the side deck and jumping off. Sadly my Granny hadn’t been told that the 10 metre drop to the ground would be interrupted by the canal towpath that sat at the same level as the bottom of the canal. She yelled (probably louder than the diesel, though at higher pitch and was not amused to see me standing by the boat on the towpath. I was able then to push the thing off the side of the trough and walk along as it slowly (Nyzark was never a speedboat) towards the end of the aqueduct, at which point I climbed back aboard.

“Wasn’t that a clever bit of quick thinking from Michael,” was something that definitely wasn’t said. Instead I seemed to be somewhat verbally chastised for doing such a stupid thing as to jump off the boat. My argument that it had actually worked cut no ice, so we paused for afternoon tea whilst the dust settled.

I suppose I had got some form, as the previous year I’d managed to get knocked into the Oxford canal in the infamous Fenny Compton “Tunnel” when a hire boat hit us. After 50years it is a rather funny thought that anyone would assume I’d jump off an aqueduct but I had the role of sullen teen back then and, when we eventually paused our journey at Stratford on Avon, I was told to stay out of the way because some teenage girls were trying to attract my brother’s attention. My thought was that at just two years younger, why the hell weren’t they trying to do the same with me!

They didn’t succeed though with him or me, but I did rather object that if anyone’s attention was being sought, it automatically had to be John’s and not mine. Having said that, as a sullen teen I was probably about as attractive to the opposite sex as a rotting cabbage.

Again 52 years later and with nearly 44 years of marriage under my belt, that image has sort of bitten the dust. I just asked my good wife and she said she’s never been tempted to dump me in the compost bin so I guess that things all turned out well in the end!