After Lois had completed what was referred to as her epic voyage to the little wharf that once served the land around Bank Top farm, the celebratory evening went on until the early hours. Eventually Astra who had curled up in the window seat, stirred as Lois, who had been sitting next to her, moved to head back to spend the rest of the night on her boat.

 “I should keep you company,” Astra said sleepily. “It's not fair for you to be all alone.”

“I'm fine,” Lois replied.

“So am I,” Miranda, added. “She’s right, and she'll only fret if she doesn't keep you company. Mind you look after her won't you Astra.”

“I will,” the 10 year old daughter of two of the founders smiled. “I'll get a hurricane lamp and we can go off across the meadow.”

“It's very kind of you,” Lois said as the pair walked across Bank Top land, over a stile and across another meadow to the little wharf area where the 17 ft Glass fibre boat was moored. “But I don't really need looking after.”

“I said you looked sort of sad, but not sad sad though,” Astra replied, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp. “Mum thought you might get lonely all the way down here.”

“Well, we'd better get aboard and sort the cabin out, or you might end up sleeping on my typewriter” Lois smiled. “I keep some of my stuff on the bunk I don't sleep on.”

“It's very tidy,” Astra said as she helped Lois rearrange things. “And really cosy,” she added.

“I always think of your Auntie Linda when I get back here. It was so kind of her to just give me her boat when she headed back to Bank Top.”

Lois smiled.

“You call her your Fairy Godmother,” Astra laughed.

“Everyone has one I think, and if they don't then they should do,” Lois smiled. “Now, how about we get that sleeping bag rolled out and turn in. Mind you brush your teeth though. There's a little washbasin under the cover on the starboard side and the bog is on the other side. It's all fresh and clean so don't worry. There's some spare toothbrushes in the locker above the sink.”

When both had done their ablutions, Lois turned the light off and both got into their sleeping bags, after which Astra was very soon sound asleep as her unofficial Auntie sat and watched the pattern of the moonlight reflected from the canal and onto the curtains. Soon she too was asleep.

Lois was the first to wake the following morning, and sat quietly reading her book as her guest snored lightly in her bunk. The story seemed so real to her in its descriptions that it took her mind into the age when the country was still at war. She imagined herself putting on assemblages of sweaters to keep the cold out as she carried cargo along the waterways as a substitute for the folk that had been called up to be killed and wounded for their country.

“What are you thinking?” Astra said sleepily.

“Not much,” Lois smiled brightly, the kind of brightness that the young girl could see straight through. “I was just having a read.”

“You were, about ten minutes ago,” Astra replied, with a directness that could only come from a child. “Then you closed your eyes. I thought you were going to cry but you didn't.”

“Not much gets past you does it,” Lois smiled, ruffling Astra's hair. “If you want the truth, which you always do don't you. Well I was thinking about all those boater families. The ones that were born to it and would live their lives in that world. Like it was different to anywhere.”

“You're going to say something like then something bad happened,” Astra frowned. “It was the war wasn't it. Mum Dad and Mad Dave talk about it sometimes. Like when they think I'm not listening.”

“I won't lie,” Lois smiled. “There wouldn't be any point. Yes, the book is about three women around my age, younger perhaps. They were doing war work on the canals. I was just thinking of all those people that went off to fight. The ones that came back to work on the boats again. Sorry Astra but they just got shat on. I remember writing something like that in an essay for uni. I used a bit more of an academic term for ‘shat on’ though.”

“You say funny things like Auntie Linda, but I get it,” Astra replied. “They came back from the war and found that someone wanted to close the canals that they relied on for just about everything. There's some people that just like to make a big mess up and it isn't fair.”

“And there's others like you and your lot here that really do care, and make a difference, so that's good. You're like a little beacon yourself, a little Diya in a dark night,” Lois said with a warm smile.

“We do Diwali here,” Astra said as Lois lit the stove. “We have a lot of festivals and stuff, we invent a few more or combine them. There's a lot of people at school think we're weird, you know, the Freak Farm kids. Even the teachers try and get us to tell them how horrible the place really is. Some of the others though, they really get it and think we're really lucky.”

“One light, light that is one though the lamps may be many,” Lois replied.

“Dad's got the record that song's on,” Astra smiled. “Mad Dave and Linda have played it on the banjos. “She's got a really good singing voice.”

“People don't always understand,” Lois said. “Not this, you know, here. Most people understand some good toast and a mug of hot chocolate though,” she added, handing Astra a plate and setting the two drinks on a small pull out table.”

“If they don’t get us some more grease in the stores I reckon I’ll be usin’ old marge from the canteen on them locks,” Lou said as he stepped inside the small brick cottage that sat a few hundred yards from the canal bridge.

“And a very good afternoon to you,” his wife replied with a wry smile. “I’ve had a nice warming stew on most of the day so it’s not all bad. I knows you do what you can even if it’s a losing battle.”

“I’d not be saying all’s lost, not after this afternoon,” Lou replied as he hung his old wide brimmed hat by the front door.

“When you’ve been with the company and then the board for so long Lou, you know what they’re like. You was sayin’ you weren’t retirin’ because they’d not replace you when you do,” his wife frowned. “So something’s raised your spirits… You want to tell me what it is?”

“Tell you what Ruby,” Lou smiled. “That stew of yours has fair got to me. I’ll set the table and we can talk over tea.”

The cottage was small but Ruby was sufficiently house proud to keep it beautiful enough to be homely but not so well kept that her husband of several decades was frightened of making it look untidy as he set about spreading a linen cloth, mats and the relevant cutlery out whilst she filled two brown glazed bowls with a meal that was a firm favourite of both of them.

“Just the job,” Lou smiled as he sampled a spoonful. “The weather’s pickin’ up but it still chills as I make my way back.”

“So what’s this thing that’s made you so happy this afternoon?” Ruby asked.

“I’d heard as them enthusiasts were planning something to make the board think twice before they go shuttin’ canals down like bloomin’ Beeching’s done with the railways,” Lou replied.

“Rail did enough damage to our folk,” Ruby frowned. “And them enthusiasts are always full of talk, with them sayin’ they’re going to do trade and all. How do you get a loaded pair down a pound that ain’t got no water in it, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Right under their noses that’s how,” Lou almost chuckled. “Right under their noses… Shallow draught boat, see.”

“And how do they carry coal or steel on that un?” Ruby frowned again at the teasing.

“I’d just finished greasing the last lock before I came over here,” Lou replied. “Met up wi’ this pair that were acting a bit furtive like. Turns out they weren’t just joyridin’,”

“You can’t be sayin’ this were the cargo boat the board’s doing its best to stop carrying anything along the canal,” Ruby said.

“I am that and all,” Lou laughed. “Easy enough to lower the pound a few inch. Just enough to scupper the chances of a loaded pair making any headway. You can’t hide a pair of seventy footers but you can do with a little boat. I mean specially if they don’t even know it’s there.”

“So, tell me about these two,” Ruby replied. “What makes you so interested.”

“Them’s the next generation alright,” Lou continued, finishing the last spoonful of his stew. “Little boat, not much more than a rowing boat with a cabin, around fifteen or so feet I’d say. Lad and a lass… No funny business mind. They’re too busy learning the ropes and working their cargo to where it has to go.”

“How old?” Ruby asked. “You have to know what you’re at to carry a load. What’s they carrying anyway?”

“Watches made by them communists,” Lou smiled. “Like handmade but the guys making them need to sell a few so they can make more. All organised by the enthusiasts. So it ain’t a big box but it’s worth about as much as fifty tons of coal.”

“Sounds a bit dodgy,” Ruby said as she poured a mug of tea for her husband. “Not smugglin’ is it?”

“All legal and above board but the board as runs the canals have no idea this is the workboat the enthusiasts are backing,” Lou replied. “They was picked by the guy that was going to do the job because he did his hip a mischief.”

“Sounds like they’re playing at it all the same, like a free holiday,” Ruby frowned.

“I was thinking that but they have other reasons to lay low. I thought they were a pair of runaways from school at first, and they were pretty guarded when I spoke to them,” Lou continued. “That’s their business and they’d be on the right side of any battles they have, I’d bet my hat on it.”

“That young,” Ruby said slowly.

“That young indeed and they’re as honest as they are fresh face,” Lou replied. “If I weren’t looking at a pair of proper young boaters there I’d eat my boots. The lad fixed the boat up with his own hands, and the lass… Well she may speak posh but she’s seen any fortune the family had turn to dust. There’s a keenness to that pair that makes me feel that they’ll be doing more than the board can imagine to make the canals live again.”

“So we’re going on their side against the board if we have to?” Ruby asked.

“I will if you will,” Lou replied slowly. “We put the word out to keep what they’re doin’ under wraps and folk’ll help where they can.”

“You old rebel,” Ruby laughed as the couple settled themselves in a pair of old armchairs set in front of the fireplace. “You always was and always will be.”

“I think the little lady needs this old thing,” Lou smiled, picking up an old windlass that had sat for too long as a fireside ornament. “If she be usin’ the ones the board sells, the lass’ll tear her young hands to bits and that’d never do for a young boater now would it.”

Their last full day on the water continued the trend of the previous ones. A clear night sky giving way to a dawn with a hint of that first autumn frost which was ever closer. The smell of curry lingered in both cabins as their occupants slowly woke to the sun piercing any crack in the thin curtains. What could have been a sombre start was boosted by the bright morning though.

After a hearty breakfast Emily re-assembled the precious windlass that Amanda had rescued, carefully bending the split pin round in its groove. It was time to go. The process of starting the engine on the the Willow Wisp III was fairly simple, and Deborah reached under the small back deck to turn the petrol tap on. Having allowed time for the carburettor to fill, Emily turned the starting handle, once slowly, then a couple of times briskly, and the little Stuart was alive.

“Sounds sweet as a nut,” Ruby’s soft rural voice made the pair jump slightly.
As her late husband often did, she’d appeared as if from nowhere.
“I couldn’t let you go without some of me scones,” she added.
“Thanks,” Deborah smiled. “Its nice of you to come and see us.”
“Well, I were heading to get a bus into town so I thought I’d stop by and see this boat of yours,” Ruby replied.
“Why don’t we give you a lift,” Emily offered. “The buses here aren’t good, so it probably won’t take much longer.”

Seeing the sisters enthusiasm, Ruby let them help her aboard, sitting herself on one of the side lockers as they set about casting off. There were three or four locks to negotiate before the town, allowing the girls to show their “new” windlass off in action. Ruby could scarcely believe it had been underwater since it fell into the canal decades before Amanda inadvertently retrieved it along with her own. Shortly before the first lock Deborah steered close to the bank, allowing Emily to hop neatly onto the towpath with the new windlass tucked into the belt of her jeans for safe keeping. On arrival, she pushed the balance beam to open the gate ready for Deborah to pilot the little boat into the chamber, which she managed again without a single rub on either side.

“I can see I’m in good hands here,” Ruby smiled, as she stepped off onto the lock-side to observe the two girls working together.

With Mayfly also in the chamber, Jim assisted by closing the gate with Emily poised at the paddle on the lower gate. Within minutes they were under way again and, after more than forty years of underwater repose, the rescued windlass was again fulfilling the function it was made for. During the next pound Ruby, at the insistence of Deborah and Emily, steered the boat for a short while, telling the pair that this was the first time she had ever done such a thing. As a lengthman’s wife she was never as close to the canal as Lou, who had rarely been the steerer except on the occasional maintenance boat or ice breaker.

“You’re lucky to have her as number ones,” Ruby said, using the term as a compliment, a number one being the owner of a work boat rather than employee of a company, and certainly not anything to do with a pleasure craft, which this clearly was. The two girls looked wide eyed at the woman.

“She cost every penny we saved up, but she’s not really...”
“Anyone who owns a boat with a job of work to do on the cut is a number one,” Ruby said firmly. “Lou said that of your two friends when he met them, and he knew things the company bosses should’ve been learning off him. You said yourselves that you couldn’t see a day that you would be away from the cut and its folk.”
“We did,” Emily replied. “It got both of us when we first met Jim and Amanda. Before then it was just a holiday.”

“And your generation, not mine’ll see it live or die. The fire in your souls, young bodies and your sharp wits. Not some dull politician, that’ll make the future,” Ruby’s eyes sparked with enthusiasm, as she concentrated on steering along the deeper part of the canal. “Cruiseways!” she almost spat the word. “Them that know nothing named them that. You two may be young, but you know what sham is. If I know anything, you aren’t about for any neither. Even if the pair of you were born with silver spoons in your mouths.”

Emily and Deborah knew they were privileged and felt slightly ashamed that they could afford the little boat, however cheap it was. Ruby came to their rescue.
“You can’t help who you were born to,” she continued. “Young Amanda’s the same, only she had the spoon snatched from her. It’s what you do that makes what you become. Never forget that my dears. There’s plenty of your age that waste all they have on nothing, but here you are. And why? Because this is a real little boat.”
“She’s almost alive sometimes. The fibreglass ones are more like cars,” Deborah replied. “Maybe that’s being unkind.”
“It’s the truth,” Ruby was quick to speak. “With everything turned out by machines, what does that leave for skilled people. Keep at it and I can rest tonight knowin’ the cut’s safe.”

It seemed too soon that Ruby disembarked for the shopping trip, and the two boats continued on their way. The sisters were adamant to meet the noon reunion with their parents to the minute at the boatyard in the town. For now though, they were content just to watch the countryside go by.

“Do you think we’ll catch any crap for all this?” Emily laughed slightly less confidently than usual.
“We’ll cross that one when we get to it,” Deborah smiled. “Let’s just enjoy the moment. Remember what Ruby said.”

(This version ©2025 Michael Nye)

“Let’s moor here for the night,” Amanda smiled.
It felt strangely hedonistic to stop because they felt like stopping, but they were simply enjoying their journey.
“We could do with a few provisions.. Butter at the very least,” Amanda said as they wandered round the old stone and brick buildings of the town centre.
“We’re in the right place,” Jim replied, pointing to a shop front.
“The Buttery,” it said. “Fine foods and wines for discerning palettes.”
“We’ve ruined ours with frying everything,” Amanda laughed.
“That such places as these have not caught up with the latest in gourmet cuisine is hardly our fault,” Jim replied, his absurd fake upper middle class accent sending Amanda further into her giggling, setting him off too.
Inside was a wide selection of expensive treats, a lot of which contained various unspeakable parts of rather unfortunate animals. There was also plenty to attract Amanda’s interest, and she browsed for some time as Jim just soaked up the atmosphere of age and money.

“Can I help you?” The proprietor, who looked like she was running the place as a hobby, asked.
Amanda jumped slightly.
“Well, err, yes,” she stammered. “I’d like a jar of Kalamata olives, and, I think, some green as well, and some capers.”
Jim looked a little puzzled.
“Treats Jim. I’m not being all posh, well not really. The corner shop I worked at. I think the owner was born in the Mediterranean. Well, not in it, she’d have been a fish, but you know what I mean, she introduced me to them. Oh, and cakes.” she added, turning her attention back to the shopping. “We’d like a couple of nice cakes for afternoon tea.”
“And, um, butter,” Jim said.
The effect on Amanda was unintentional. She was giggling again, with eyes watering. She’d also set Jim off, but he faced away pretending to look at whatever was on the shelves before him.
“I’m sorry, I can’t sell you or your sister any alcohol,” the woman said as kindly as she could, mistaking Jim’s posture for concentration on the wines in front of him.
“I think we’re daft enough already,” Amanda replied. “Cakes, olives and capers will do fine. Just a few treats. And,” digging nails into the palm of her hand. “Butter.”
“Did your mother give you a list?” the woman asked politely.
“Well. No, um, I don’t, um.. live,” Amanda faltered.
“You’re a bit old to be playing picnics,” the woman said.
“You’re always too old or too young for something don’t you think,” Jim replied quietly.
“That’s true,” the woman smiled.

As Amanda sorted through her purse for the the right money, her engagement ring sparkled in the light. Seeing it, and the gold wedding band nestling by it, made her smile.
“You’re a bit young to,” the woman stopped short, then continued. “He’s very astute, your.”
“Um..” Amanda faltered again
“Last Saturday,” Jim smiled. “I’m sure I’ll like olives and capers, and the other stuff. Amanda’s usually right about me.”
“That closeness takes a long time,” the woman replied.
“Time’s relative,” Jim said patiently. “Some scientist said, before he decided that being a watchmaker was a safer occupation. I’d like some good coffee. I was shown how to make it when some wonderful people looked after me.”
“Oh,” the woman replied. “What sort do you want?”
“They used a small pan. A briki. The milk pan on Mayfly would do.” Jim smiled at the memory. “It was a long time ago but.”
The woman looked surprised by the revelation.
“It sounds like Greek or Turkish coffee. We have some good beans here if you don’t mind waiting while I grind them,” she replied.
Amanda looked curiously at her husband.
“It was a treat for doing my homework well. I think you’d like it Mand. Sorry if I remembered a bit late,” he smiled briefly.
“It does take time to know someone,” Amanda said softly. “But it’s not so bad finding out.”
“I’ve only done a small bag because it goes off quite quickly.” the shopkeeper said. “You should have the proper cups and pot though,” she added placing couple of dusty looking coffee cups and a small briki on the counter. I’ve had these in stock for too long, and they’re a bit shop soiled. Call them a wedding gift.”
“Well, thanks,” Jim replied, his face warmed by a smile. “And sorry for being daft.”
“If you can’t laugh together at things only you find funny it’s going to be a dull marriage,” the woman smiled. “Come here and laugh at any time.”

“That was a pretty odd a shopping trip,” Amanda said as the two relaxed in the pleasant afternoon warmth enjoying the view down river from the back of the Mayfly.
“We can expect that if we behave like Pinky and Perky,” Jim replied as he sipped the coffee that he’d carefully prepared, its bitter-sweet taste complimenting the cakes that Amanda had chosen.
Jim had remembered with unusual accuracy the way to prepare the brew, and replicated it with an attention to detail that the casual observer might have called obsessive.
“How many times are you going to do that?” Amanda asked, lazily stretching her legs out towards the stern.
“I can brew another if you want,” Jim replied.
“Not what I meant,” she continued. “There was me trying to impress you with exotic treats, and then you do this. I mean, just like a professional. Then there was the honeymoon room, I didn’t see that coming either.”
“Well, technically riverside pubs don’t move, but everything’s relative, so it’s possible that Mayfly at that point was actually stationary in the whole of space, and everything else was moving, in which case I guess the place was coming at us,” Jim smiled.
“So, Jimbo. Why did I just marry a lunatic? Tell me?” Amanda said, trying to avoid yet more giggling.
“Because I make good coffee,” Jim smiled contentedly.
“I didn’t know that then!” Amanda mocked protest.

“Last year,” Jim said calmly as he leant over the little outboard motor. “Last year when I did this, it felt like life wouldn’t ever be the same afterwards.”
“I remember when you turned up at the shop, and claimed to live on a boat and I thought you meant some kind of houseboat,” Amanda replied, calling to mind with affection the day that Jim had first come into her life.
“And it was a houseboat!” Jim protested. “Just not the sort you expected.”
“And if you want the truth, it still feels like home,” Amanda smiled. “Even as empty as she is. Let’s head for the island Jimbo.”

With that, they were off, cutting through the water at a good pace on a brisk morning. It was less than a year since Jim had first covered the journey in the newly restored Mayfly, the weather was different, and there was another person aboard, but that day replayed in his mind as he watched the now familiar scenery roll past. Then he had no plans beyond getting to Dave Harris’ home on the island, now he felt there was at last something more solid about life. Not exactly a certainty, but there was a confidence that he felt that things would somehow reveal themselves and resolve. Maybe not the way he expected, but resolve anyway. Standing in front of him, between the cabin doors, and leaning on the top deck was the reason for this.
“You look miles away Jimbo, you been drinking bilgewater again?” she joked, her hair unruly in the breeze.
“There isn’t any,” he smiled, looking to check that the work on the rivets had done the job.
“That, my love, just goes to show that I am right!” Amanda replied with a wink.

The run to the island was over all too soon, but the afternoon’s work was still to be enjoyed. By early evening the rest of the craft was ready for the moveable items to be restored to the correct places ready for any journey they may want to undertake. Most of the deed boxes that they had used as storage for anything from clothes to food were stacked neatly in the bungalow, and would remain there until required, but ropes, anchor and other sundries that turned the little varnished wooden boat into something more usable needed to go back aboard both for convenience and due to lack of storage ashore. A celebratory meal from Killer Ben’s chippy now seemed apt and dusk saw the pair returning to their home sharing from the newspaper insulated parcel...

The dream of drifting on water, like that of falling through clouds, is not uncommon, and is usually terminated by the dreamer waking with a start in completely familiar surroundings to the realisation that it was just a dream. The sun was out, the couple were amiably moving across calm water as if by magic. No motor was running, nor was there any rope to shore, just two people, a boat and...
“JIM! JIM! wake up! NOW!”

With more of a start than the normal finale of such imagination he was bolt awake to see Amanda less than an inch from his face, and darkness instead of sunshine.
“We’ve been cut adrift!” she shouted.

No more information was needed, and Jim was out of the cabin within seconds.

“We need to move… NOW!” he replied as grabbed the fuel tank, and scrabbled to connect the line to the outboard whilst Amanda cleared the canvas covers out of the way, pushing them hastily into the cabin. The order of choke, no choke, then half choke was second nature and the little motor, as if understanding the urgency of the situation, started without trouble. Amanda cast the big torch she had brought aboard around to get some orientation on where they were, which was drifting sideways, and rather too close to quite a large weir.

“Jesus!” Jim exclaimed as he put the motor in gear and swung the craft to point upstream before turning the throttle to full and disengaging the choke, hoping that the spark plug would not foul up due to his ham-fisted treatment of the thing. Although cold, it responded, pushing as much power as it had, first to halt the Mayfly in her journey to oblivion, and then to start putting some distance between her and the weir.

The roughness of sound mellowed slightly as the cylinder block slowly warmed through, and a little more power fed its way to the propeller. Amanda moved the torch around so that Jim could see the piling ahead, on which was mounted a large notice proclaiming the danger that they had come all too close to. Jim took the throttle back to a more sedate speed as they glided past the obstruction, close enough to clear the chain that crossed the channel as a further confirmation of the danger that lurked. From there the island was not too far and in a little over three quarters an hour, Mayfly was again tied up to the jetty, albeit with shorter lines but with an anchor thrown out for good measure.

“Thanks Mand,” Jim said with a distinct tremor in his voice. “You’re a gem.”
“You too. You just went for it,” Amanda smiled nervously, blocking the image of the all too fast approaching weir from her mind.

Almost as though they had both been standing in front of a neon sign that had just been illuminated for the first time the realisation of how close to death they had both been dawned simultaneously on them. For some time they just stood as their minds absorbed the situation, then came the embrace, almost long enough for Rodin to sculpt the two in stone. Silent, as tears rolled down both faces, they took in the fact that, as a result of both their actions, they were still there, as was the Mayfly which had not suffered so much as a single scratch.

If midsummer’s day is kind of important to me, on account of it being my birthday, then so is the winter solstice. I’d have been six months old when I saw my first one. I was held as a baby whilst the sun came up, and again when it went down. I remember absolutely nothing, nor will my little friend Joshie here. I was asked to take him with me for my walk along the towpath. I know I wanted to be alone, but the little lad talks to me in a way that someone that has language can’t. I look at him and his big blue eyes look back. There’s all these expressions he has that let me know that he’s aware exactly how I’m feeling. Like when his mum had the baby blues a bit on the heavy side, he somehow got that I was looking after him so that she could get herself into the right headspace. I guess he managed to get the message to his mum that I wasn’t taking him away too. Right now he seems to be just looking at me as though he wants to know something. Even if I look away, he still gets my attention. I mean who’d want to look away from such a beautiful little face anyway.

What I want to tell him is that things work out, but when I try to actually say anything he just looks right through my eyes and fires the same back at me. He’s telling me that things in my life will work out too. I mean, how can he know so much when he’s only been in the world for around half a year. He has no concept of Christmas, birthday, spring or anything much else. I think he can see what’s happening to nature though. The trees are bare of leaves, there’s been snow which, with today’s milder weather, is melting and dripping on me from the branches. He can’t write anything and, according to the health visitor, he isn’t even that aware that he’s an individual human being. Well Joshie, all of that’s a load of old cobblers isn’t it. Yes, I know I’m from the north and we don’t do rhyming slang but it’s cobblers anyway. You know far more than anybody thinks you do. I’m pretty sure the lad spots what others may well miss. Like the wild animals, he can sense that the trees aren’t dying but instead are preparing for when the victory over cold sees the days lengthen. He knows when he looks that there are buds slowly getting ready to burst into leaf. What I know for sure is that what’s going on in that little head is kind of pretty awesome. He also knows when I’m busy going too deep into thinking stuff out. This time a little arm popped out of my coat and pulled my hat down over my eyes.
“Who put da lights out!” I said, using a funny voice to amuse the godson that I’m technically too young to be godmother to.
It always makes him chuckle in his own special little way when I say daft things, which then makes me laugh and forget whatever was bothering me. I told you the lad was smart didn’t I. Anybody walking past might think I was talking a load of rubbish into mid air as Joshie is tucked up all cosy and warm in a baby sling under my coat. Also I’m mostly not actually speaking in words.

This is all going between him and me as he snuggles up to me. I love moments like this, you know, just wandering along the towpath then standing on top of the bridge looking out along the canal, and also sitting on the damp lock-side bench. I could happily sit here for hours today but I know Joshie is either going to pee himself, do a poo, or start dropping rather heavy hints that he wants a feed. He knows where to look too, and if I could I would but he understands that too. I can usually work out when it’s time to head off back to the farm though so he doesn’t ever get too restless. Right now we’re just happy here as we watch whatever comes into view. I kind of think that when that social worker thought he was my son, he knew that I was annoyed with her assumption of me being some reckless teenager. I felt his little arms pulling himself closer to me and then thought, well, what if? Where else but Bank Top could I do something like that and know I’d get support and not judgement? I’d be proud to be his mum but I’m not, that’s all. He knows that, I know that, and I also know he probably needs a feed, definitely needs a nappy change and I need a fresh sweater. Thanks Joshie. I guess this one needed a wash anyway!

So we’ll head back on the track across the meadow running diagonal to the towpath as the drizzle increases in pace making the canal shimmer in the haze as we move on up the slope. In front of us is the big old farmhouse that has been home to a lot of people since what is referred to as either a hippy commune or the freak farm began a good long time before even my mum was born. Back then the rather beautifully restored canal was no more than a ditch, the house was crumbling and we had no electricity (so I’m told). Over the decades our little community has survived though. So I guess the solstice is a good excuse to party as well as to contemplate. I think Joshie and I are quite ready for a good sing song around the bonfire now. Well we will be once we’ve cleaned up and wrung the weather out of my coat, hat and scarf. Seasons greetings folks.

Fortified with lunch, we set off down the flight, swapping Joshie minders as we went. The locks looked like they’d been there for ever, built of big stone blocks that would probably look as perfect as the day they were made if the green slime was cleaned off. I know they were originally built as a means of getting cargo moved cheaply and weren’t supposed to be the monuments that they are, but we really should treat them with respect for the folk that built them and the boaters that used them. It was annoying when we crossed with a hired boat with a mixed “crew” who all seemed pretty drunk. We said to be careful as we saw them drift towards the top gate which, on this flight, has a paddle in the gate rather than two ground paddles. I did wonder why they built the culverts for the ground paddles but when you see the water rushing out of the gate onto a boat that’s too close, you realise why canal hardware needs to be treated with respect. I guess that’s why being a proper boater required skill. Suggesting a quickie to Ella, Casey, me or all three of us is definitely not part of that skill set, so I’m afraid we grassed them up to the hirers. The worst part for us was that the drunks had managed to drain a pound further down, meaning we had to phone the trust. We didn’t want to try fixing it ourselves and causing more damage. Frances, who answered, was happy to listen and, when Casey gave the name of the boat, she recognised it.
“Doing another award this year?” she asked.
That prompted the story of the three of us heading to the Bank Top gathering along with my status as a sort of political exile.

An hour later the repair team arrived during which time we had a visit from a police officer who asked us about the incident, then headed off to question the crew of the hire boat.
“Right mess they’ve made,” Andy from the repair team, said. “They’ve gone and sunk their boat two locks up and all. Lucky they didn’t drown themselves.”
“It’d sober them up I a bit guess,” Ella laughed.
“We’ll get you down, but we’ll have to temporarily close the flight. We’ll have to use the overspills and just carefully raise the levels over a few hours. If we’re not done by the end of the day we’ll see you down the rest of the locks tomorrow,” Andy smiled.
“Tayo,” Joshie smiled, having sensed that the guys were helping us.
“He’s a cracker of a lad that one,” Andy replied.
Cue another telling of the story, and a few hours waiting for the pound to gradually fill up. Whilst this was all going on, we brewed several coffees for the team, and made them sandwiches. With them being mixed we felt safe inviting everyone aboard. The galley was a little snug with eight plus a toddler but we had a pleasant time chatting to them about waterways and our interest in them. I told them about Uncle Jim and Auntie Amanda’s little boat “Mayfly” and how she’d been rescued by Jim, also Auntie Vera’s narrowboat and, guess what. Frances knew of them.
“So you’re from a legendary group of canal people,” she smiled.

It took the rest of the day for the pound to fill, and we stopped for the night where we were. Pretty much exactly on time, two of the team turned up and helped us through the rest of the locks for what would have been our day's run. They asked us if we needed help through the tunnel but we’d read that it was quite wide, if a bit on the low side, so they headed off again. It’s always good to have a chat with other people, but Ella, Casey and I liked sharing our time with little Joshie too, who had amused the team with being quite vociferous in his charming little way. We were mulling over the idea of canal festivals when we came to the rather odd looking tunnel. In the distance it looked like a bridge, but as you got closer it was definitely a tunnel, wide and with a low roof. In contrast, the next one was going to be pretty narrow. Before we got there we were passing the yard that had hired the boat out when someone on the towpath called and waved for us to stop off. Not being in much of a hurry, we followed her directions to one of the jetties, and were ushered into the office.
“I want to say how sorry we are for the incident yesterday,” the woman (who had hailed us) said. “We will be far more careful vetting the people we hire to in future.”
“We got a bit or rudeness from them, that's all” I said. “You and the repair team got the worst of it.”

We’d seen the bedraggled boat sat on blocks in the yard and it was in a really sorry state.
“Needs a complete refit,” the manager frowned. “We won’t get nearly enough back from the insurance to cover it. Still that’s our problem. I hope you won’t think we’re trying to buy you off, but we’ve got a few bits and pieces as a gift from us. And something for your lovely little boy too. Absolutely no strings attached.”
“Thanks,”Casey smiled. “We weren’t going after you for anything. Not your fault the people were so tanked up when they got to us.”
What the hirers did for us was to top up our diesel tank, emptied the toilet cassette (horrible task), filled our water and gave us a hamper of rather nice treats. For Joshie they had bought a soft toy of a narrowboat made of a good quality cotton. He loved it.
“Tayo,” he smiled, his eyes saying far more than the words could.

The morning was pure summer as depicted on postcards and chocolate boxes. Blue sky, candy-floss clouds and warm sun of the kind that umbrella manufacturers secretly pray will not last long. After feeding the remainder of a hearty breakfast to a group of ducks the couple, just hours away from being a week married, were under way again. Their destination was the limit of navigation on the river to spend some time looking around before returning to the canal system for the first time since the odyssey that brought them together. The locks on this part of the river were manually operated, smaller than before, but still big by canal standards and all were manned. The ones lower down the river were worked by a hydraulic mechanism of some kind, apart from a couple that still had an earlier, and possibly experimental, electric system.

The channel too was much narrower with shoals to be avoided as they rounded the many bends. During the afternoon they came across a rather large hire cruiser, named Clearwater Sky, that was firmly lodged on one of these sandbanks. The initial effort of trying to plough through the obstruction, or reverse out under engine power had proved completely futile as was the use of the more ornamental than useful boat-hook supplied with the vessel. The family, having failed to work out quite how to deal with the situation, had decided to wait for further inspiration.
“Can we help?” Amanda shouted as they approached.
“Thanks, but you won’t have the power to lug this thing off. We’re well aground,” the captain, otherwise known as “Dad” replied rather despondently.
“We can try,” Amanda said as Jim brought the bow of the Mayfly round towards the hopelessly grounded cruiser.
“No harm in that surely,” the first mate, otherwise known as “Mum” answered, gratefully accepting the offer.

Mayfly, being of much shallower draught than the centre cockpit wooden hire boat, was able to edge in alongside to a point where Amanda was able to hop aboard with a length of rope, one end of which was tied around the centre thwart of Mayfly. As Jim gently edged the craft back, and turned to face it down river. Amanda, tied the rope firmly at the stern of the hire cruiser and headed off to the cockpit.
“Right,” she said with such authority that nobody questioned her youthful appearance. “I’ll reverse whilst you rock the boat, I mean really rock it. Once Jim's taken up the slack, we go.”
As the line tightened, Jim heard Amanda’s barked orders. “One, two, three, ROCK!” He gently applied more power until the little outboard was at full throttle. Gradually the hire cruiser started to move, Jim reducing the output of his own motor as it did. Once she had judged they were at last floating free, Amanda instantly put the motor of the hire boat into neutral to stop the line from fouling the propeller. Jim then cast the rope off for Amanda to retrieve.
“Pick me up at the lock, it’s only a short way,” she shouted. “It’ll save us getting stuck all over again.”
Jim waved in recognition and continued as Amanda set to aiming the cumbersome cruiser to avoid any further shallows.
“Pretty niftily executed,” Captain Dad said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Bit of a long story,” Amanda replied.

“Go on, tell us,” the younger of two girls, pleaded. “Is that your mum and dad’s boat? Or did you hire it like this one?”
“Don’t be so nosey Emily,” first mate Mum said to her eight year daughter.
“Actually she belongs to Jim and me,” Amanda smiled. “That’s a long story too.”
“Will you tell us. Please,” Emily insisted.
“You’ll distract her and we’ll be aground again,” her eleven year old elder sister intervened.
“She won’t do that Debs! She's an expert she is!” Emily persisted.
“Enough from both of you little tykes!” Captain Dad said firmly, feeling rather worried about the chance of hitting another shoal. “And thanks, are you heading for the top of the river this evening?”
“Hopefully,” Amanda replied.
“Then we’re buying you two a drink as a thank you, and before you say no, we insist. Our daughters won’t forgive us if they don’t get some of these long stories out of you!” he smiled.
“Then thanks, we’d love to,” Amanda answered for both Jim and herself, noticing a raised eyebrow from the first mate.
“We both like telling our stories so prepare to be bored to death. By the time we’ve finished you’ll wish you were stuck on the mud again,” Amanda smiled.
“Is he your brother?” Emily chirped.
“That’s another long story,” first mate Mum, having seen the rings on Amanda's finger, replied. “Or at least I think it may be?”

At well over twice the length and a good deal wider than Mayfly, Clearwater Sky wasn’t blessed with best of handling characteristics. Where Mayfly answered almost instantly to a small move of the tiller, Amanda found herself waiting for replies to her commands as cables and pulleys moved an undersized rudder. Once in the lock she switched back to her own boat as soon as the water level in the chamber allowed. The family in the hire boat assured them that they would be fine after their short course in avoiding mud and insisted that Jim and Amanda go on ahead. The politeness was partly due to pride on the captain and first mate’s part, but was contested by the two girls who, as minor crew members, were overruled.
“I may have landed us in for some serious interrogation,” Amanda said as they were back under way.
“As long as they don’t use thumbscrews, I really don’t like thumbscrews very much,” Jim replied calmly.
“They asked us, out for a drink. They were pretty insistent, so I accepted. Hope you don't mind,” Amanda smiled.
“We knew we’d have to explain ourselves at some point,” Jim kept the deadpan tone.
(© 2024 Michael Nye)

“You look like you’ve just sat in a pool of duck poo,” Jim broke the silence as the pair sat in the cockpit of what must have been the smallest working boat on the canal system.
“I can’t quite get round what I’m thinking Jim, but well, it’s almost like we’re sort of part of the boat, like she owns us almost. You rescue her, and somehow she drags me aboard, like she has a bit of a hold on us. Does that make any sense?” Amanda said.
“No, but nothing much does. It was there, and I guess I felt a bit like she needed help. I mean, it would be firewood by now if...”
“Oh! Jim! Don’t say that,” Amanda had tears forming as she spoke.
“Sorry, but that may have been the case only it wasn’t,” Jim replied quickly. “So we’re here. That’s where we are so far.”

Again, Amanda’s reply was checked by her thoughts. How could she suddenly have felt such a strong emotion for something that was no more than an assemblage of plywood and copper rivets.

Eventually she answered. “It is, and thanks,” she smiled warmly. “I guess we need to think of practical things too though. I mean we’ll need some shopping, and there’s another package to drop off at the maintenance yard.”
“Yes, that one was a bit strange,” Jim half frowned. “I was told that the guys there are cool about what we’re doing. You know like old Lou was when we first came on the canals.”
“Yes,” Amanda smiled at the memory of the man they’d met within hours of turning off the river only a few weeks previously. “Lou may work for the board but he’s no way a part of it.”

The waterways festival they’d just attended, although part of the project, had been a welcome break, but they were on the canal system to travel and to prove it was possible to run a working boat. Despite her diminutive size, Mayfly, at just fifteen foot six inches long, was that boat. The gesture, however futile it seemed, had to be made and the goods they carried had to be delivered on time. The package, containing a casting of some kind, was pretty heavy. Unlike their original consignment of watches there was no good place to secrete it, so it sat just behind the centre thwart in an ideal place for both Jim and Amanda to repeatedly stub their toes on the thing. They’d teamed up for part of the run north with the theatre company who had also been at the festival. Because of the shared journey, their progress was much quicker and they’d arrived at the the maintenance yard with more than half a day to spare, which was convenient as they needed supplies.

“I was told you two were a pretty slick operation,” Harry, from the yard said as they came alongside the wharf. “Like the old fly boats.”
“Shorter, and no horse, but thanks,” Amanda smiled.
“Same thing though,” Harry continued, handing the lines to her as she disembarked. “Anyone with a brain can see you two ain’t playing at it. You said you’d be here and here you are. And the way you’re tying up shows you know what you’re doing.”
“Something I learned as a Girl Guide,” Amanda smiled. “We’ve got a cast iron thingy for you,” she added, feeling a little embarrassed at not knowing quite what the item was.
“Just when we wanted it too,” Harry smiled through generous stubble. “I’ll get a couple of the lads to lift it for you.”
“We’re fine,” Amanda insisted, feeling that even if she didn’t know its purpose, she, despite her size, was capable of helping to manhandle the thing onto the wharf edge.
Jim looked across at her and, seeing the determination in her expression, decided not to say anything. In a little over five minutes they had got the casting onto a trolley for it to be wheeled off for whatever purpose it was to serve.
“It’s about lunchtime,” Harry said. “We were going over to the pub for a bite and a pint. If you’d like to join us.”

With the agreement made, it was less than ten minutes before Jim and Amanda set off along the road with their new friends.
“Always seems a bit off going to a pub that served the opposition,” Harry said, pointing to the nearby railway station. “But it’s a good place all the same.”

Shortly after arriving, Jim and Amanda were each presented with a Ploughman’s lunch and a pint of bitter.
“Are you sure that’s OK?” Amanda said, feeling that Harry and his friends probably knew hers and Jim’s age via the gossip network of the canal system.
“Boaters drink beer,” Keith, Harry’s workmate, said firmly. “And you don’t mess with tradition. They didn’t crown the Queen with a bobble hat now did they.”

There probably was some logic to the argument but Amanda was too hungry and thirsty for analysis. More than that, she was happy to just be accepted as part of what was going on. She’d arrived with her crew mate on a working boat so she was a boater in Keith and Harry’s eyes.
“I may be a posh kid with a plummy accent,” she thought. “But, well, what.” she couldn’t help smiling.

“Would it be OK for us to look round the yard?” she asked politely as she ate.
“What’s left of it,” Keith replied “They’ll close it down soon enough, best see it whilst its here. It’s odd for a lass to want to see a mess like that though,” he added, wondering if Amanda was simply trying to be polite.
“You’re probably right,” Amanda smiled, thinking of the starchy school uniform she’d been wearing only days before she’d decided to walk away and embark on the odyssey she was now on. “But I can lift lumps of cast iron,” she added with a smile.

(©2024 Michael Nye www.michaelnyewriter.com)

A very long time ago, I was looking out of the cabin window and saw that the canal basin had a sheet of ice on it again but, after the crisis in early autumn that could have wiped everyone out, I was determined, come hell or high water, that Christmas was going to happen!

My new home, a beautiful seventy foot long narrowboat conversion named Crimson Lake was frozen into her mooring again despite my efforts at ice breaking so, lagged with several sweaters and a thick coat, I set about poking at the refreezing water round the hull as the skaters and people walking about on the frozen basin enjoyed the seasonal weather. I’d taken as many precautions as I could, using sump heaters to keep the diesel and water tanks just above freezing, and had run the motor regularly to keep the battery charged. Thankfully the water beneath was still liquid but I had to keep an eye on the cooling water as it formed icicles quite quickly as it plopped on top of the frozen canal.

Inside, Crimson Lake was toasty and warm with the wood burners in the main and boater’s cabins doing a sterling job.

This was pretty much the archetypal “White Christmas” of the song. I have to admit that, having heard it so many times I had to resist the urge to throw a brick at the radio every time I noticed the damn ditty being played, but the radio is one of my most prized possessions. It was the first Christmas present I received after liberating myself from the orphanage that had been my home since I was found, as a baby, neatly tucked into a basket and placed on the steps of the main door.

I’d spent a good deal of time putting decorations up and the main cabin looked just a little over the top on the festive stakes but I was more than happy with the result. The little valve radio was glowing and playing a lot of trite Christmassy nonsense, adding to the atmosphere beautifully, whilst distracting me from the problems associated with living by myself on a boat through a record breakingly bad winter.

As the temperature outside was dropping again that feeling set me to thinking about the people that were not as lucky as I had been, the runaways and the folk without a home to go to. Basically the ones who, but for the grace of any random passing deity, I could well have been. Although I started out my life as a foundling, graduating at the ripe old age of thirteen to a runaway, I felt I had been more than lucky, thanks in a large part to a character I find hard not to see as my father. Also to find my way into employment and what I felt to be a good life. I could have taken a dive at any time, my mentor could have been a dishonourable bum. After my years of institutional existence though, I’d decided that I wasn’t ever going to do things the right or conventional way, so after a enjoying a decade and a half in more conventional accommodation it seemed natural to become a boat dweller.

Then I spotted my new home majestically mouldering on a canal arm that she could no longer sail out of due to rubbish being dumped in the water and lock mechanisms failing. Crimson Lake had not cost a fortune to convert back then, but I had been questioned several times as to why on earth I would want to live on a canal system that seemed in terminal decline. Some would no doubt say that I’d been stupid to run away from a secure home when I did but I landed on a person that was honourable and who did not take advantage. It’s true that Gerald, a local used car dealer didn’t think that a girl would be any good cleaning his vehicles and doing odd jobs. I worked hard though and, when the offer came, from one of his customers, of being a model for a school uniform catalogue, he was more than happy to support my change of direction.

Following a tap on the cabin roof, through the frost on the window, I could just about make out the shape of Gerald.

“I think I’m going into sellin’ flippin’ reindeer and sleighs after this,” he laughed as I offered him a glass of whisky to warm up. “I couldn’t start the Jag this morning so I hoofed it over here, I’ll stick her on a low gas later until she thaws out. I couldn’t have you spending the day on your own.”

As a confirmed bachelor, Gerald had been happy to spend the big day for many years on his own, but more recently, we tended to pool resources. This was a bit different, being my first winter afloat. In so many ways it was just an alternate location but it did and still does seem to be a totally different way of life and one which I would miss if I couldn’t live it. I’d thought that the weather would have put him off, along with the others I’d invited, but further taps on the cabin top ended up with a fairly full cabin which added to the general good feeling.

With dusk falling, it started snowing. Not the pretty little flakes that Bing Crosby sang about, but the sort that foiled John Falcon Scott. It was snowing and if the party went on we’d be digging our way out of it the next day. Do you know… That’s exactly what we did and followed our efforts with a big snowball fight with all comers. Christmas may come just once a year but I think I’ll remember that one as long as I live. I won’t sing “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” though, or I’ll be forced to throw a brick at myself.