Ok first things first ! I’ve sold Dawn Treader – though I sometimes forget I have, because it’s been such a long time -2008 !

More importantly I’ve sold her to people who would enjoy her and are very much like myself at their age – and I think that’s important. The world cannot be just about money: Ask two prominent members of society who fell from grace, if they thought it was worth it!

I think it’s like so many things in life; you gradually grow apart and familiarity keeps you together. Deep down I am a sailor, Atlantic winner, Royal ocean racing club kind of thing and I miss sailing – I miss the sense of power of wind and tide. And I still have a sailing Dinghy which seldom gets used.

Then there are the costs which are turning a hobby into an expensive past time – ok you can’t just divide the hours you spend on a boat with the annual cost of running it, but neither can you ignore rising mooring fees, licence, fuel, gas, - you name it. It all just keeps rising.

Whereas the Dinghy goes on a car roof and can be kept in the shed.

I’ve enjoyed every minute of canals and will (do) miss my adventures in an old Dawncraft my children grew up with – which was "home", escape pod - you name it, and kept me amused and doing something for years. But it’s time, as it seems it is from the adverts for so many other hobby-boaters.

All I can say is thank you for reading my articles. I hope they inspired some of you.

All the best,

Simon Woollen

Spring has arrived and it’s the season of foraging as all those bulbs and roots produce their young green shoots after the sleepy winter months. Wild garlic is the most popular and my absolute favourite!

The boat roof garden herbs are showing new growth, probably the earliest being the chives and mint which pair perfectly with Spring recipes. Leafy greens, cauliflower, broccoli and forced rhubarb are also in season, my favourite ways of cooking tender stem broccoli and Spring cabbage are to steam, pan fry or roast and then add some lemon butter or tahini dressing.

It’s also Spring onion and radish season!

This year, in addition to the usual herb roof garden I’m growing some sprouting seeds for micro greens. They can be grown pretty much all year round and include alfalfa, pea shoots, radish and fenugreek, to name a few. Mustard and cress are of course nice and easy to grow without compost or maintenance, just over a few damp pieces of kitchen roll, and just as delicious to add to any light meal.

Sometimes less is more with ingredients and simple pasta dishes can often be thrown together and made delicious by adding combinations using fresh herbs or foraged greens. Tagliatelle tossed in wild garlic, lemon juice, black pepper and good quality oil or a knob of butter is one of these. Add a few chopped walnuts or chilli for an extra twist.

Roasted veg to include cauliflower and beetroot are delicious when made with a spice rub using cumin seeds or ground cumin, paprika, salt, pepper, lemon and oil; or a harissa spice blend such as rose harissa, distinctive for it’s hot and smoky flavours with a floral sweetness. Serve with hummus, greens or a flatbread for a delicious feast.

Both Tahini and Miso make amazing additions to any dressing to complete any crunchy salad or roasted vegetables. These for me are such useful store cupboard ingredients, just a little jar of paste, bursting with flavour. Tahini, made from ground sesame seeds, gives that nutty and earthy flavour. Miso is made from slow fermented soya beans and grains and gives that intense level of umami to savoury dishes, like a sweet and creamy savoury hit.

PAN FRIED PEPPERS WITH CHICK PEAS AND TAHINI DRESSING
Simply chop red onion and peppers, add 2 tsp rose harissa paste and pan fry, add the chick peas towards the end. Serve over a bed of salad greens and finish with the dressing made from 1 tbsp tahini, 2 tbsp cider vinegar, 1 tbsp olive or avocado oil, pinch sea salt flakes and black pepper, loosen with water.

MISO ROASTED CAULIFLOWER
For the paste:
2 tbsp each of miso, soy sauce, honey or agave syrup,
1 tsp garlic crushed,
splash olive oil,
pinch salt and pepper.
Combine all the ingredients together.

The cauliflower can be left whole, cut into steaks or florets. Cooking time depends on the size.
Coat with the paste and roast in the oven, or pan fry, turning to ensure all sides are equally browned.
Serve with a simple dressing of natural yoghurt, squeeze lemon or cider vinegar, olive oil and
black pepper.

Here’s a twist on a fish pie with a miso twist.

MISO MUSTARD FISH PIE

250g white fish such as Hake, Cod or Haddock
100g greens such as French beans or sprouting broccoli
175g crème fraiche
2 tbsp miso paste
1 tbsp English mustard
2 tsp capers, chopped or 30g gherkins from a jar, finely chopped
small handful fresh chives, chopped, plus extra to garnish
2 garlic cloves, crushed to a paste
juice of ½ lemon
1 tbsp light brown sugar
1 tsp coarse ground black pepper
generous pinch sea salt flakes
Finely sliced and boiled new potatoes (about 500g) with butter to top
Pre-heat the oven to 180 fan.
Par boil the potatoes to just cooked and set aside, using the same water blanch the beans or
broccoli for just a couple of minutes. Make sure they drain well to reduce moisture in the
bottom of the dish when baking.
Line the base of an ovenproof dish with a few potatoes (save the rest for the top) and the drained
cooked greens, lay the uncooked fish on top.
In a separate bowl whisk together all the remaining ingredients and spoon over the fish, covering
completely in a thick layer.
Place the rest of the cooked potatoes over the top, dot with butter and bake in the oven for
about 20 minutes until golden on top.
Perfectly pairs with charred cabbage. Simply cut the cabbage into wedges and char in hot pan
with a little butter, if you prefer a less crunchy version, drop in a pan of hot water first, drain well
and pan fry to char.

Scones are quick and easy to make and most basic scone recipes can be adapted to create different versions. The best one by far has to be the cheese and wild garlic one! Another favourite is a lemon and blueberry, but instead I’m sharing a gluten-free and fat free lemon and blueberry muffin recipe.

CHEESE AND WILD GARLIC SCONES

225g self-raising flour
1 tsp baking powder
50g butter, finely cubed
100g finely grated cheese, mature or smoked Cheddar, Shropshire red works really well
Small handful wild garlic leaves, about 30g, finely chopped
1 tsp cayenne pepper Generous pinch of black pepper
1 egg, beaten
Milk
Extra cheese to top, about 20g
Rub the butter into the flour and baking powder for a crumb consistency, stir in the cheese, cayenne and pepper along with the finely chopped wild garlic leaves. Then add the beaten egg and just enough milk to bring the mixture together.
Turn onto a floured worktop and firm into a round about 2cm thick, then cut into scones.
Dust the cutter in flour to help make a clean cut and work straight down instead of twisting, this keeps a better shape when baking.
Place the scones onto a greased, lined tray and scatter the extra cheese on top.
Bake in a preheated 220 fan oven for about 12 to 15 minutes.
Best eaten warm, sliced and buttered.

BLUEBERRY LEMON MUFFINS

Dry ingredients:
1 cup almond flour
1 cup oat flour or rolled oats, I use rolled oats blitzed to a coarse flour in the mini chopper
½ tsp bicarb of soda
¼ tsp salt
½ tsp cinnamon

Wet ingredients:
1 large egg (substitute with flax egg for vegan version)
1 banana mashed (about ½ cup measure)
1/3 cup maple or agave syrup
¼ cup melted coconut oil or olive oil
finely grated zest of ½ lemon and 2 tsp juice
2 tbsp milk or oat milk
1 cup blueberries, if using frozen dust them in flour first.

Mix together the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet in another. Then combine the two. Gently fold in the blueberries. Spoon into the muffin cases and bake at 175 fan for 20 to 25 mins. Can also be made as a tray bake and cut into squares.

It’s a little early for dandelion season but it won’t be long. So here’s my dandelion honey recipe. It’s perfect for adding to hot drinks, morning porridge, muesli, smoothies, baking recipes such as flapjacks, salad dressings, roasted veg, sticky bbq glaze, salad dressings, the list is endless!

DANDELION HONEY

Pick the dandelion heads when fully open, give each one a gentle shake to let any insects escape and patiently pull the petals from each head for optimum sweetness, the base of the f lower head can have a bitter taste.
Place in a large bowl along with a couple of slices of lemon and just cover with cold water. Leave to steep overnight.
The next day strain all the liquid into a saucepan, it’s best to use a sieve lined with kitchen roll. You’ll be amazed how it already smells like honey.
Measure your liquid and weigh out an equal ratio of sugar, for every ml of liquid use 1g sugar. Bring the liquid to the boil, add the sugar and boil rapidly for a few minutes.
Test for setting point on a cold plate by dropping a little syrup off the end of a teaspoon, tip the plate and if it doesn’t run off it’s ready to jar.
Pour into sterilised jars.
Don’t worry if for any reason your honey doesn’t reach setting point, dandelion syrup is just as good.

Lots more seasonal recipes can be discovered by looking back at previous editions of CanalsOnline magazine, just click on previous articles and four whole years’ worth can be found. More can be found on my Canal Cuisine Facebook page. Have a great Spring and I’ll have more for you in the Summer.

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.”

There was one problem that we needed to overcome before we could cruise the Thames: we needed a licence from the Environment Agency, the government department responsible for policing the non-tidal Thames. The problem was that once we had submitted the application on line, the licence would be posted out to us, but our postal address was back in Sheffield, one hundred and fifty miles away. I called them and explained our dilemma and surprisingly, for a government department, they were extremely helpful and said they would send the licence to the lock keeper at Teddington, marked for the attention of Art Deco and we could pick it up as we passed through.

With that little problem sorted we headed down the Lea navigation, re-tracing the journey we had made over a year ago on our way to Roydon and on towards the Olympic park, an area we were fond of and had come to know well. Around Hackney Wick, just before Old Ford lock, a turn to the right would take us on to the Hertford Union Canal, (known as Ducketts) and past Victoria park to its end at the junction with the Regents canal. There is a cast iron foot bridge over the canal at the junction and the canal narrows considerably, making the turn to the right extremely difficult. For a craft the size of Art Deco it’s impossible to make it in one go and requires a lot of forward and reverse to get her round. The Regents Canal has its challenges, as we know from our previous journey, but fore warned is fore armed and this time we were prepared for the Islington and Maida tunnels.

Safely through the two obstacles, we arrive in the wonderful Little Venice, where surprise, surprise, we find a mooring spot, so we take advantage of our good luck and spend a couple of nights there as previously we’ve never been able to get a mooring. We can’t linger too long though as our CRT licence expires at the end of the month so it’s onwards and upwards, as they say. We have a long stretch now before we meet the Grand Union canal around Hayes where we turn to the left and head towards Brentford, our entry point on to the river Thames. We are entering into unchartered territory now as we have not cruised this stretch of canal before, so it should make the journey more interesting.

According to the Nicolson Guide we have the Hanwell flight of six locks to negotiate and as we approach the first one someone begins to open the gates for us. It’s getting late in the day and we had planned to wait until the morning before we tackled them so I shout to him and he ceases his task and walks over and helps us moor up. He’s a CRT volunteer and we offer him a coffee, which he gladly accepts, but I have an ulterior motive, a little local knowledge I think is always handy. His advice is invaluable and he explains that due to repeated vandalism the lock is usually manned all the time and is locked when they leave at 4pm. He advises us to get into Brentford as early as possible because although there are good visitor moorings near the town centre they do fill up quickly. He tells us that the volunteers will be back at 10am in the morning which seems a good time to start as there are still three more locks after these six before we reach Brentford.

We are ready for the off when two CRT volunteers arrive at the lock around 10am and one of them asks if we are going down the whole flight. When I tell him that’s our plan he replies, oh good, we like an early workout first thing in the morning and we don’t know if he’s telling the truth or simply being ironic. Due credit to them though, they get on their bikes and proceed to work the locks as we travel down the flight and what we thought would be a very tough morning turns out to be very pleasant one.

We pass a place called Three Bridges, a rare intersection of canal, road and railway with the three bridges stacked on top of one another like children’s building blocks. At lock 94 the volunteer explains that the large building on the canal side used to be a lunatic asylum. Back in the day that was the name given to what we now call a secure hospital. He points out an unusual feature, a series of purpose built holes in the wall where the firemen put their hose, included because the inmates were constantly setting fire to the building! There’s even a bricked up portico leading from the canal for goods and inmates to be delivered directly into the facility. Ealing hospital has taken over the site but the section near the canal is still a secure unit and boasts it’s own farm, brewery and bakery.

The volunteers leave us at the bottom of the flight and we thank them for helping us negotiate the flight, leaving us with just three more locks to go before we reach Brentford. The next lock, Osterley, needs a BW key to open two of the four paddles and I didn’t realise so I had to go and find it and after we are through I keep hold of it, needless to say at the next lock Clitheroe’s, it’s not required. Never mind. We finally make it into Brentford dock and on first sight, it doesn’t look as though there are any free moorings, but a guy on a moored boat shouts over to us and directs us to a fourteen day leisure mooring, complete with a water point near by. What a day it turned out too be! The gods must have been smiling down on us, not only did we have help with the Hanwell locks but we’ve filled up with water and managed to get a fourteen day mooring in Brentford marina. It’s the little things in life that count!

Once we are moored we take a walk around the marina and agree that it’s very similar to Limehouse Basin, both are small tranquil havens amongst the hustle and bustle of a modern city. We come upon the marina office and chat to the lock keeper about the Thames and our passage on to it. We only need to book a time slot twenty four hours in advance, he tells us and as we still have two weeks left on our CRT licence we can relax and spend a few days here. Kew Gardens are just a short walk away, across the river so we will certainly spend a day there and from Brentford rail station we can get a train direct to Waterloo and spend some time in central London.

We meet the guy who pointed out the mooring as we are returning to Art Deco and he invites us on to his boat for a coffee, he has something unusual to show us he says, how can we refuse an invitation like that? We descend the rear steps into the main cabin and immediately see why he was so keen for us to come aboard, for dominating the space is a piano, now that’s something you don’t see every day on a canal boat! Ok his boat is a ‘mini wide beam craft at ten foot wide and the piano is an upright one, but even so it’s still surprising. He’s a northern lad from Manchester and has lived on his boat for the last ten years and moves every fourteen days to keep within the CRT regulations. He knows the area like the back of his hand and we spend a pleasant few hours with him as he passes on his knowledge. He knows the best local pubs too and we agree to meet him tomorrow lunch time for a few pints. Back on Art Deco, enjoying a glass of wine in the evening, we reflect on the day and how lucky we’ve been and hope that it’s a portent of what’s to come in the future.

We did take advantage of the full fourteen day mooring and enjoyed exploring the local area and discovered two museums in Brentford, the Musical Museum and the London Museum of Water and Steam. Guess which one we visited? It’s no contest, steam wins every time for me. We visited central London a couple of times and enjoyed a day exploring Kew Gardens too, so we certainly got our money's worth out of the mooring. We thoroughly enjoyed our time in the marina but it was time to move on, the river Thames was calling!

It was a bright and sunny spring day when we left the comfort of the marina and made the short cruise down to the Thames lock reaching it at 10.20, over an hour early but there was already a narrow boat waiting. Chatting, as we waited, we learn that the couple live in Berkhamsted and are planning to cruise up to Oxford. They have two boats but they haven’t taken this one on the Thames before and are a little apprehensive because it’s so low in the water. Looking at it, I think that I’d be uneasy too. They tell us they have seen our boat in Berkhamsted. We seem to be very memorable: everyone it seems remembers Art Deco, a case of once seen, never forgotten. They tell us that getting diesel on the Thames can be a problem because many of the marinas are gated and not open to the general public. There is a small marina at Reading which they use, just below Caversham lock with easy access from the river and I make a mental note. We were due to leave the lock at 11.30 but we don’t leave until 11.45am, apparently due to the tide, which seems like a lame excuse to me as tides can be predicted years in advance. Another narrowboat has joined us and they go into the lock before us and sit alongside our new friends and we follow them in. The lock is massive and our little convoy looks lost in the vast space but all goes well and we are cruising the Thames by midday.

The wide expanse of the river spreads out before us and looks quite daunting after the confined waters of the canal, but the going is easy and we are helped along by the incoming tide. We have cruised on rivers before, the Lea and Stort but they are little more than drains compared with the tidal Thames. When you think about the tide you associate it with the sea but the coast is miles away, yet the tide still has an effect on the river at this point. We are actually travelling up river, going against the natural flow but it doesn’t feel like that because the incoming tide is more powerful than the natural flow and in fact overcomes it and pushes us along. It’s also the sheer width of the river that’s the problem for me, I’m not use to being so far from dry land! But it’s strange how quickly you adjust to the different conditions and surroundings and soon our anxiety turns to enjoyment as we settle in.

We pass Kew Gardens and Syon House, the seat of the Duke of Northumberland and I have read that this stretch of river, between Kew and Hampton Court is called The Arcadian Thames because of its unique landscape, richly ornamented buildings and designed parkland. We cruise under Twickenham bridge and we are looking out for Richmond lock but we don’t need to use it because it’s only used at low water. Richmond lives up to its name, definitely top end real estate here and this is the theme of our cruise and you would expect no more from the most important river in the country. We have been cruising the river for a little over an hour when we see Teddington lock in the distance, the tidal lock. Once through the lock we are on the non-tidal section, the lock acting as a barrier to the ebb and flow of the tide. We have been following the two narrow boats that we shared Brentford lock with and enter Teddington lock in the same formation, the two narrow boats side by side and Art Deco behind them. They take off up river when the lock gates open but the keeper calls out, I’ve been expecting you, but your licence hasn’t turned up yet. Moor up at the end of the pontoon on the visitor moorings, he tells me and when you're ready come and see me and we’ll sort you out.

When we’re securely tied up I walk down to the lock and find the keeper in the hut, filling out paper work. He tells me it normally costs £8.50 a night to moor at the lock and it’s limited to no more than three nights but because we are waiting on the Environment Agency he will waver the fee until our licence arrives, which is a great deal for us, as we are in no rush to move on.

The mooring is across from the long and dramatic weir that stretches down to the bridge leading to Teddington town centre, and it is here that the flow of the River Thames is monitored and that can be up to 15,000 million gallons per day in times of flood. Teddington lock is the lowest and largest on the non-tidal Thames and is well known as the place where the river changes colour, signifying it’s the highest point to which the tide flows. Before the lock was built in 1810 the tide flowed eleven miles further upstream, as far as Staines before its effect was lost. The spring sunshine, it seems, had woken the good people of Teddington from their winter hibernation and the towpath is quite busy, it’s amazing how a little bit of sun cheers everyone up.

Quite a few people stop and talk, interested in the pros and cons of life aboard a boat, so I am intrigued when one gentleman doesn’t ask the usual questions but says; I like what you’ve done with the graphics, nodding to the logo on the side of the boat; it’s a modern take on the roses and castles that adorn traditional canal boats, he says. I’m shocked, he’s the first person to mention the graphics, so I ask him to explain his thinking, wondering if he really understands. Well, he says the stylised Mackintosh rose represents the roses and the squares represent the battlements of a castle… roses and castles. He’s right and I’m so pleased that someone has finally noticed it, but my euphoria is short lived when he says; The design's not Art Deco though, it’s more in the style of the Arts and Crafts movement, and walks away without further comment.

We take a stroll into Teddington and are pleased to see that the high street is similar to the ones in the towns and villages we visited on our trip up the Grand Union, holding the corporates at bay and keeping their independent shops, something that cannot be said for our Northern towns. After a pleasant stroll we return to the boat and spend a lazy afternoon on board because tomorrow we start phase two of TLC on Art Deco, we are going to polish the roof. We cleaned and polished most of the boat while we were in Brentford but didn’t get round to the roof. This short statement doesn’t convey the hard work that it entails and after three and a half hours on our hands and knees we are both knackered! We are now waiting for it to rain, the satisfaction of a job well done is to see the rain drops standing proud of the paintwork.

While we are working the lock keeper comes by and says our licence has arrived so I walk back with him and pick up the paperwork. He says that we can stay for three more nights if we like but we would have to pay £8.50 per night. We want to visit Strawberry Hill House which is nearby so I pay him for two more nights and we will make the visit tomorrow.

Strawberry Hill House was built in the early 18th century by Horatio Walpole, 4th Earl of Orford who was an English Whig politician, writer, historian and antiquarian. The house itself is a large and quirky Gothic mansion and is filled with Walpole’s eccentric collection of gothic items and a décor that can best be described as gloomy. It’s set in 46 acres of land and when we visited there was an exhibition of strange human/animal shaped sculptures and they looked perfectly at home in the landscape of this eccentric place. We enjoyed the visit and spent a full day there looking round the house and exploring the vast gardens.

It was time to move on though, we had been moored at Teddington for five days and the power in batteries was down to 55%. I had been advised not to let the charge fall below 50% so we were in need of a long cruise to get them back up to scratch and we were desperate to start our adventure on the Thames. We had a website designed and ready to go live but we thought we should hold fire and familiarise ourselves with our new surroundings and get to know the river a little better before we started taking on any guests.

“We’ll go on the Canal Cruise – it sounds a bit different” came Mel’s monotone voice.

Still, I’m pleased that she and Alec, the Church’s youth leaders, have made a positive choice for a summer holiday with CYFA (the Church Youth Fellowship Association) – the main Church of England Youth organisation. I had already been a leader on a couple of CYFA holidays based at Independent school campuses, but I’d never really noticed the Canal Cruise before as a potential holiday option.

My next move is to contact Roger, the cruise leader - who is a vicar in a northern parish. I learn that the cruise consists of four seventy foot narrowboats, with room for 35 youngsters plus ten leaders – and he suggests that the two of us should meet up and take one of the boats out on the Oxford canal for an afternoon’s training.

I’m intrigued.

casting off

It’s a fresh and misty February afternoon when Roger and I step aboard ‘Crane’ for my two hours of training in narrowboat handling. Rays of weak winter sunshine filter through the chilly mist as Roger casts off the ropes, then jumps on the back and, with a chug, chug, chug from the diesel engine – the boat slowly slides forward through the water, under Roger’s careful supervision. He will take the boat along the short canal arm until it meets the main Oxford Canal. Turn left and you get to Coventry and the north, turn right and you get to Oxford and London. But not today.

After checking for other unsuspecting boats, we turn right onto the Oxford Canal, and head off for Hillmorton locks, a gentle hour’s cruising away – where we will turn the boat around and return to the boatyard. Once in mid-stream, Roger steps aside and hands me the tiller, my aim being to keep the boat in the middle of the canal where there is (normally) the deepest water. It actually seems pretty easy, until the bow (front) seems to be drifting towards the left bank. So to correct, I naturally push the tiller to the right – but that only makes the drift worse, and we end up close to the bank! So Roger takes over to deal with the immediate situation, and he soon gets us back into the middle:

“You see James, it’s the opposite of driving a car. In a car, if you want to go right, you steer to the right. But on narrowboat, if you want to move the boat to the right, you take the tiller to the left! And vice-versa. It’s completely counter-intuitive.”

So I work on this basic principle as I need to correct the boat’s natural drift almost all the time and full-time concentration is required. Not as easy as I thought! So I find myself always

checking the line of the bow which is 70 feet in front of me. The next problem is when I realise that the bow takes quite a few seconds to respond to the tiller’s movements. And it’s easy to think that it’s not moving and so you correct with the tiller – too early – and then get confused as to whether you are going left or right. Then panic sets in! So basically, you need to shift the tiller – and then wait 10 seconds for the boat to respond. The longer the boat, the longer it takes to respond – and we’ve got 70 foot of it, pivoting in the middle! It’s another steep learning curve, but I’m enjoying it, as eventually we arrive at Hillmorton locks where Roger offers to turn the boat around in the ‘winding hole’. The way to do it, it seems, is to steer the front of the boat into the apex of the winding hole and keep the throttle going gently forward, with the tiller hard over, as the back turns in the opposite direction to the front. Then, with a few bursts on the reverse throttle, the boat drifts back to mid-canal and pointing in the opposite direction from where we came. Simples!

On the return journey, I now face the horror of seeing another boat coming towards us in mid-canal, so I need not to panic, but to get the steering steady and spot on, as I nudge Crane slightly to the right without hitting the bank. This I manage to do and the boats pass easily with several feet of water between us - relief! Roger now lets me steer the boat all the way back to the boatyard, where he assists with the throttle, in order let the boat gently slide to a stop right next to the Willow Wren wharf. Easy if you know how.

“Well done James - you picked that up really well. I’ll put you down as one of our eight skippers on the CYFA cruise. There will always be two of you on board to help each other.”

For me, a new world has just opened up, and I’m excited at the prospect of the forthcoming CYFA cruise, meeting up with Roger again, and with many new leaders and members to get to know - hopefully more affable than my own church’s youth leaders. Still, at least they are giving it a try - they might even enjoy it! But doubtless they are, like me, a bit apprehensive at starting out on new adventure - not knowing what lies ahead and what the outcome of their choice might be.

spanish inquisition

Amid the excitement of learning how to handle a 70’ narrowboat, I had conveniently forgotten about another aspect of the CYFA Canal Cruise, that Roger had asked me to take over from him: chaplaincy duties. Among other things, this included my ”getting alongside” the church-based youngsters on an individual basis, to help and guide them with their faith. I was rather taken aback by this because, for whatever reason - perhaps my own introversion - this did not sit comfortably with me.

I did not want to become, or be seen as, a sort of evangelical Spanish Inquisition!

Therefore in some reflective moments before the holiday itself, I found myself asking some pertinent questions:

In my new adventure, how would I fare?

How would my church’s youth group take to it?

Would the holiday be a one-off experience, never to be repeated?

Would my boat-handling skills be good enough?

But, more to the point, how would I cope - as the Spanish Inquisition? It felt more like a difficult place to be, rather than a soft cushion or a comfy chair! [1].

“Ha! Ha!” I think to myself. “But no-one expects the Spanish Inquisition” - least of all, me!

1. This refers to the well known sketch in Monty Python’s Flying Circus. First shown on TV in 1970, now available on You Tube. It’s worth a watch! In point of fact, the phrase “No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition” was also a joke, as the Spanish Inquisition actually wrote ahead to its victims, to advise them of their impending arrival, and their need to be upholding orthodox morals and beliefs.

The canal had its own way of waking a man. Theo was still learning it. He sat cross-legged on the roof of his narrowboat, feeling the cool damp seep through the denim of his jeans, the violin balanced against his knee. Around him, the world was undecided, half caught in the tatters of mist, half revealed by the sun’s gold intrusion. Every sound felt close here: the plink of water against steel, the caw of a crow staking territory, even the faint tick of his instrument’s peg as the morning chill shifted the wood.

He drew a slow breath. Mornings on the cut were too honest. No crowds, no distortion, no lights or amplifiers to dress up the truth. Out here, every note landed bare, stripped of decoration. If you played carelessly, the canal threw the carelessness back at you. If you played fiercely, the water remembered.

He lifted the violin into place, the chin rest cool against his jaw. The first stroke of the bow rasped a complaint rather than a greeting. He grimaced and tried again, dragging the tune forward, willing his fingers to find the shape. What came out was neither polished nor broken, but something in between, like a voice cracking on a confession. It was the kind of sound he had fled the city to uncover again, the one that lay beneath noise and applause. Yet hearing it made him restless.

Theo told himself he had wanted this: an escape from the band’s suffocating rehearsals, the dressing-room arguments that never quite erupted but never quite settled. But quiet was its own tyrant. It left him alone with the ache of wondering whether the fire inside him was dwindling. The last gig’s applause had sounded obligatory. Even his bandmates had stopped meeting his eyes.

The bow slipped, screeching against the string. Theo swore softly and lowered the instrument. He rubbed his face with the heel of his hand, hair falling into his eyes. You asked for space, he reminded himself. You begged for silence. Now here it is. So, what’s your excuse?

A crunch of footsteps on the towpath pulled him back. He turned his head, and there she was, the woman from the boat down the line. Yesterday, he had seen her fumbling with her mooring lines, tying and retying with the anxious energy of someone who wanted mastery but had only muscle memory to show for it. He had noticed the raw line burns on her palms, the way she stared at the water as though waiting for permission. Today, in the clear light, he noticed more.

Chestnut hair pulled hastily back, a jacket that seemed chosen for memory rather than warmth, boots that were still learning the towpath. She carried herself like someone who had inherited both a vessel and a burden.

Theo felt a flick of recognition, as unwelcome as it was undeniable. She carried weight in her shoulders the way he carried it in his chest. Different stories, same gravity.

“You always sneak up on people like that?” he asked, because humour was easier than truth.

Her apology came quickly, cheeks colouring. And when she said she had grown up on the boat, her chin lifted in that way people do when they’re daring you to contradict them. Theo studied her, letting the silence lengthen. The line marks. The stubborn glint. The grief she tried to swallow.

“Doesn’t mean you belong to it yet,” he said. The words had sharper edges than he intended, but the truth was like that. Boats didn’t reward sentiment. They respected patience, rhythm, and respect. Bloodlines didn’t make the knots hold.

Her eyes flashed, defensive, then shuttered. He almost regretted it. Almost. He had lived too long with false applause; better to give her honesty, even if it stung. When she asked if he belonged, he laughed quietly. Did he belong anywhere? Not really. Only to the violin, and even that relationship felt precarious these days.

“For now,” he said, and played again, letting the notes dismiss her and protect him both. Yet when she walked away, the sound of her footsteps lingered, a rhythm his bow tried to echo without meaning to. He watched her disappear into the mist and, against his better judgment, felt that he would notice her absence more than he should.

By midmorning, he was restless. The boat’s cabin was too small, the silence too loud. He slung the violin into its case and set out toward the village. The towpath underfoot had its own percussion: the crunch of gravel, the soft give of damp earth at the edges. Crows stalked the furrows of nearby fields, and the smell of tilled soil carried on the breeze.

Theo’s reflection in a window caught him as he passed. Tall and lean from a life of touring, shoulders slightly stooped from too many nights carrying gear and too many mornings waking up in borrowed beds. His hair dark, unkempt, brushing the collar of his jacket—framed a face that wore its fatigue honestly. Eyes a shade between green and grey, depending on the light, always seemed older than the grin he could still summon when he wanted to charm. He had the hands of a musician: long-fingered, calloused, restless even when idle.

The bridge appeared around a bend, stone arched and moss-flecked. Just beyond, the day widened into a market square. Theo paused at the edge, taking it in. Stalls spilled colour against the grey stone: oranges stacked in pyramids, jars of honey glowing like captured sunlight, loaves dusted white with flour. Voices tangled in the air, vendors calling prices, children laughing, the occasional bark of a dog tied to a post.

It should have been ordinary. To Theo, it felt theatrical, like a stage set designed to remind him what community looked like. He drifted among the stalls, hands in pockets, the violin case bumping against his leg. A baker offered him a heel of bread, warm from the oven; he bit into it and tasted both kindness and salt. At another stall, a woman sold coal by the sack, her arms corded with strength from lifting more than her share. Theo bought a small bag, the weight digging into his shoulder, grounding him.

At the far end of the square, music rose: another fiddle, but not his. Rough, rustic, joined by a squeezebox and a whistle. A group of locals had gathered, tapping feet, laughing when the rhythm wobbled and then righted itself.

Theo felt his chest tighten with recognition. The fiddler was an older man, late sixties, hair silver but still thick, posture steady despite the years. His violin bore the marks of long service: varnish worn pale where fingers had pressed thousands of tunes into it. He played with a simplicity that carried weight. No flash, no showmanship, just melody drawn clean, like a well-cut stone.

Theo lingered at the edge, listening. The old man’s bowing was economical, each stroke purposeful. It was music shaped by tradition, by nights in pubs and mornings at fairs, by repetition until the tunes lived in muscle and marrow. Theo’s own style had always been fire and edge, leaning on speed, bending notes until they broke. This man’s style was river water: steady, patient, inevitable.

Their eyes met briefly across the crowd. The old fiddler’s gaze was sharp but not unkind, as if measuring Theo without judgment. Theo inclined his head in acknowledgment, and the man answered with the barest nod before slipping back into the tune.

Theo’s fingers twitched at his side, itching for the bow. Yet he stayed still. This wasn’t his stage. Not yet. He let the melody wash over him, feeling both humbled and provoked, aware of how much he had to learn and how different their paths had been.

As the crowd clapped and coins rattled into a cap, Theo turned away. He had come here to disappear, not to measure himself against tradition. Yet he carried the sound with him down the row of stalls, a counterpoint to his own restless fire.

And through it all, he found his thoughts circling back to Ivy, the raw hands, the stubborn lift of her chin. Belonging was something they were both wrestling with, though in very different arenas. He adjusted the coal sack on his shoulder and walked back toward the canal, violin case knocking against his hip, the echo of two very different fiddles playing in his mind.

Between September and December 2025, I raised crucial funds for Bahar Women’s Association, a community project based in Leeds, walking 92.5 miles over 20 walks. More than enough funds were raised for the project to continue, in the interim, to provide essential support to women in need and their families. It has been a life changing and rewarding experience and I plan to do more fund raising for the project in the spring. Canal walks were included on this walk and I covered 4 canals over 8 of my favourite walks as follows.

Calder and Hebble Navigation

Brighouse to Sowerby Bridge (Calder and Hebble Navigation)- 8.11.25

I began my 9th walk of 8 miles on the Calder and Hebble Navigation from Brighouse to Sowerby Bridge in West Yorkshire. The 21-mile waterway starts at Wakefield with its eventual finish at Sowerby Bridge or vice versa. At the beginning of the walk, I was enamoured with the weeping willow trees between the water and towpath. 

Autumn Wonderland played its part on the walk. It was stunning to see the change of colours and the variety of trees particularly beech, oak and sycamore. It is agreed that autumn is a most wonderful time of the year. As an artist I felt thoroughly inspired and I was mentally planning my mono printing and cyanotyping schedule! 

Almost at the half way point, I stopped for lunch and afterwards continued towards Salterhebble (Saw the River Hebble), the Halifax Arm, Copley and on towards Sowerby Bridge.  I stopped by at the Moonbean Coffee Boat for refreshments just before I reached Sowerby Bridge. Their hot chocolate and bakes are amazing and are highly recommended! 

I eventually arrived in Sowerby Bridge, where the Calder and Hebble Navigation finishes and the Rochdale Canal begins.

Huddersfield Narrow Canal

Diggle Circular (Huddersfield Narrow Canal) - 25.10.25

My 7th walk of 5.5 miles was going to be on another canal and to one of my all-time favourite canal walking stretches, the Huddersfield Narrow Canal in Saddleworth. On arrival at Greenfield Station, in Greater Manchester, I recommend Platform 13 Café, a lovely brunch, and is opposite the station. Afterwards I descended the road towards the canal and started the walk. Walking on the canal in Saddleworth during autumn is a personal highlight of mine particularly through Uppermill. Trees, particularly beech and oak trees, line the canal and the coloured leaves cloak the towpaths. I then ascended towards Diggle via Dobcross. There are plenty of interesting engineering feats and industrial heritage to observe on the canal such as the many locks lining up, the Saddleworth Viaduct and Transport Shipment Warehouse in Dobcross, and the Standedge Tunnel. The three and a quarter mile Standedge Tunnel is known as the longest, the deepest and highest in the country and it traverses to the other side of the Pennines, to Marsden and eventually Huddersfield in West Yorkshire.

Leeds and Liverpool Canal

Leeds to Kirkstall (Leeds and Liverpool Canal) - 18.10.25

I initially was planning to walk the next day but it forecasted heavy rain and instead planned a morning walk on the canal on this day.

My 6^th walk was started at the first lock in the city centre and followed the towpath towards Liverpool, which is over 127 miles! I have walked on all the canal, in stages, in 2017 and it is certainly one of my life achievements.  On this walk it is approximately 3-4 miles and a bit  from Leeds City Centre to Kirkstall via Armley.

The canal was busy with other walkers, cyclists, and runners, but even so, it felt peaceful and calm with the stunning autumn colours enveloping the canal and towpath. Autumn is one of my favourite seasons and I aspire to  recreate the colourful trees in my photographs and paintings.

I finished my walk at Kirkstall Bridge and sought refreshments at Kirkstall Bridge Shopping Centre.

Apperley Bridge to Kirkstall, Leeds and Liverpool Canal- 13.12.25

My 19th walk took me to the Leeds and Liverpool Canal where I walked from Apperley Bridge to Kirkstall. A walk of approximately 5.5 miles.

It was a long walk down Harrogate Road towards the canal from the bus stop. Still, I was very happy to see blue skies and sunshine and no rain in sight!

My penultimate walk was pleasant through the surrounding countryside. It was busy with cyclists, runners, and walkers especially with dogs. I think there was a running race happening at the same time as I was walking. 

In Rodley I stopped at the Tiny Tea Room for refreshments. I then continued walking towards Horsforth, Newlay, Bramley Falls Park and Kirkstall Forge via three locks. I eventually arrived in Kirkstall and caught my bus home.

Crossflatts to Saltaire (Leeds and Liverpool Canal) - 5.10.25

I started the 4-mile walk, my 3^rd one, later than planned due to a train delay. The weather was dry and sunny but still very windy following Storm Amy.

Starting in Crossflatts, I descended the canal via the infamous Bingley Five Rise Locks, an engineering marvel (built in 1774), and through Bingley and Dowley Gap including its aqueduct (crossing the River Aire).

The canal goes through Hirst Woods and Hirst Locks. I took a little detour to the Higher Ground Hirst Lock Cafe for some refreshments. Afterwards I finished the walk in Saltaire which is famous for its Salt Mills and the village itself.

Gargrave to Barnoldswick, Leeds and Liverpool Canal- 16.11.25

The weather forecast was dry and sunny so I took the opportunity to do my 11th walk on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. The recent rainy weather has been a setback for the planned walks on this fundraising project.

On arrival in Gargrave, I walked half a mile or so to the canal where I started my walk. It is approximately 7.5 miles to Barnoldswick.

The walk took me through some of the most scenic landscape on the canal. This includes the Summit, the highest point, on the canal.  There are some interesting canal engineering features such as the locks. I especially love the signature bridges, including the double arched Bridge (Bridge 161), and they fit beautifully in the surrounding landscape. 

I had a lunch stop just before East Marton on the infamous zig zag stretch. I also stopped for refreshments at The Abbots Wharf, half way on the walk, and at Greenberfield Lock Stop Cafe at The Summit and just before finishing at Barnoldswick.

I thoroughly enjoyed this walk and I was appreciative of the Yorkshire and Lancashire countryside. I subsequently arrived in Barnoldswick in good time (wanted to be off the canal before it got dark), waited for my Skipton bound bus and alighted at the railway station for my train back home.

Rochdale Canal

Littleborough to Todmorden (Rochdale Canal) - 31.10.25

My 8th walk was on the Rochdale Canal, a canal that traverses through the Pennines. I chose to walk from Littleborough in Greater Manchester to Todmorden in Calderdale. The 5 mile walk takes in the Summit, the highest point on the Canal.

I made my ascent on the canal towards the Summit and stopped at the Summit Pub for lunch. I continued and soon made my descent towards Walsden.

The autumn colours on the canal, particularly in the Summit area, and the hills were stunning with the patchwork of yellows, oranges and browns. 

It began raining on and off in Walsden and it got heavier. I decided to walk the remaining mile to Todmorden on the road (fortunately they have pavements). The towpath on the stretch was muddy in places and some of the stretches were flooded. I did not want to walk on the towpath with those conditions anymore especially in the rain. I sought the dry and the warmth when I had refreshments in the White Hart Pub afterwards.

Hebden Bridge to Sowerby Bridge, Rochdale Canal - 30.11.25

I had the opportunity to return to Calderdale, West Yorkshire and the Rochdale Canal, for my 15th walk of this fundraising project. It was cold, temperature wise, but sunny and importantly, no rain!

I started at Hebden Bridge and walked the 5.5 mile walk to Sowerby Bridge . Hebden Bridge is a busy place with plenty of boats moored in line. Traversing through Fallingroyd tunnel I soon arrived at Mytholmroyd and had the opportunity to stop at the Moonbeam Coffee Boat again for refreshments. They were previously moored at Copley Bridge on the Calder and Hebble Navigation and I stopped there on a previous walk when I walked from Brighouse to Sowerby Bridge.

I continued after refreshments through the stunning Calderdale (South Pennines) countryside towards Luddenfoot and eventually Sowerby Bridge, the canal’s terminus or vice versa.

 

My other walk updates and details about the fundraising project in general can be read via this link

Roydon Marina

We spent the first few days in the marina finding our way around and getting to know our new neighbours, all very laid back and chilled out, just what we needed after two weeks continually on the move. The people around us were very friendly and welcoming and we slipped easily into our new way of life, it was becoming everything we had hoped it would be. We had a great sense of achievement, having travelled from Watford, via the Grand Union, Regent and Hertford Union canals, and the rivers Lea and Stort, to Roydon marina, not bad going, we thought, for our first ever cruise on a canal boat. It was good to finally relax though, knowing that tomorrow there would be no locks to work, no bridges to negotiate and no worries regarding the electrics; all that was behind us, we had started a new chapter in our lives.

Since setting off from Watford we had travelled every day, but now that we were in the marina and had reached our destination phase one of our plan was complete, but it felt a little strange to be stationary. We had been so focused on getting to this point that we had given no thought to the next phase of our adventure, how to market Art Deco as a short break destination. It seemed so simple and easy when we were living in our flat in Sheffield, overlooking the canal basin, watching the boats come and go, but now we had to get down to reality and make some firm plans. The difficulty was though, the more we discussed our future, the more difficult it seemed to become.

The first problem was that the marina was registered as a leisure facility and no business was allowed to be conducted from it, we could not even use it as a postal address. The other problem was the fact that we did not see the attraction of the area, there was simply not enough to offer guests, either from the river or the surrounding area. We had not been thorough enough with our research; we were naïve, thinking that the Lea Valley Country Park would have enough in itself to offer. In fact the ‘park’, in reality is a narrow corridor that follows the course of the river; move a half mile from either side of it and you are into an industrial landscape. No matter which way we looked at it we could not see a way to make it work. It was not a disaster, we had not planned for it to be a full time job and pay a wage, it would be something to do now and again, and hopefully meet some interesting people along the way. We decided to put the plan on hold for a while and enjoy the time leisure cruising, something we had not been able to do on our journey down.

This delay allowed us to finish a few outstanding jobs on Art Deco. As I have mentioned before, things were rushed with the build towards the end and there were a few items that did not get finished. I had designed a fold down dinner table for the saloon, consisting of a wooden frame with screw on metal legs and a glass top, etched with the Art Deco rose. The builders had made the frame but had not had time to fix it in place, so that was one job that needed completing. We had chosen oak flooring throughout the boat, but it was quite cold to the feet, so  we decided to carpet the two sleeping cabins, job number two. Last job was fitting a stove in the saloon which we had purchased at the Crick inland waterways boat show the previous year. We thought that it fitted our modern style of boat perfectly and I remember saying to Joyce at the time that it was much better than one of those black cast iron stoves normally seen on narrow boats. How wrong can one person be.

I was completely taken in by the salesman, believing everything I was told about his revolutionary new take on a boat stove. It was a contemporary design made from stainless steel, clean burning, it didn't need a flue as there were no fumes and was simple to install. I had the builders fit a small shelf diagonally across the right hand corner at the front of the saloon and the stove was simply suspended underneath. It really looked the part, sleek and modern and it fitted perfectly with our minimalist approach to décor. The fuel it burned was ethanol, a clean burning liquid which sat in a trough at the base of the unit. There were artificial coals, shaped to look like pebbles masking the fuel and when it was lit the flames danced amongst them, all very pleasing to the eye, but completely useless as a boat stove.

What a disappointment it turned out to be! It gave out very little heat and, as we found out later, when ethanol burns it creates its own volume in water, absolutely useless in the confines of a boat. After a few minutes of use the walls and roof of the boat were running with condensation! That was it, I fired up the lap top and found a Morso Squirrel stove for sale on Ebay, which our daughter and son-in-law collected and brought down a few weeks later. The black cast iron stove that I had been so critical of in the past, was perfect and served us well throughout our time on the boat. The old adage; if it ain't broke don’t fix it, came to mind and I was more than willing to eat my words. Pete, one of our new friends in the marina had been a marine engineer and he fitted the Morso for us and wouldn’t take any money for the work, a favour among friends he said, words we would hear time and again on our travels on the rivers and canals.

The ethanol stove was so short lived that unfortunately we have no photographs of it, we were so eager to get rid of it! I did try to contact the manufacturers, but, surprise, surprise, they had ceased trading. We eventually sold it on Ebay, after stating in bold capital letters that it was not suitable as a heat source. The lady who bought it was going to use it as a feature for a summer house, at least it would be used and we got a bit of money back, so not a complete disaster.

There was still one major problem that needed solving, the bow thrusters. The thruster tube was now 75% submerged, the thrusters did work but not as efficiently as they should, that last 25% needed submerging. More ballast was needed and for once we had a stroke of luck. A wide beam barge just along the pontoon was being renovated, and can you believe it, they had too much ballast! The owner was delighted to let us have it, he had been wondering how to get rid of it and we were only too pleased to take it off his hands: a win, win situation all round. We borrowed a wheel barrow and transferred the concrete blocks from his boat to our front hold and put them on top of the blocks we had installed at Watford and it worked; the thruster tube was now fully submerged.

Ware

To celebrate we decided to take our first cruise out of the marina, to the town of Ware on the river Lea. It would mean going back down the Stort. We had already concluded that Art Deco was too big to get any further up river, Roydon bridge being far too low for us to get under. The river was very busy as we set off; a temperature of around 30 degrees was forecast before thunderstorms arrived over the coming weekend. Traffic and boats moored close to the locks made for slow progress, but this was a leisure cruise not a race so we settled into it. We came upon Stanstead Abbots an enticing village complete with a village green, beside which was a traditional looking pub. We would have liked to stop and have a look around but the moorings were full, so we travelled on.

I had consulted Nicholson again, and there was a warning notice regarding Stanstead lock, stating that the top paddles gave an unexpected rush of water into the lock chamber, catching out the unwary and to make things even more difficult there was a swing bridge over the lock, which had be opened before entering. So we approached with apprehension. There was a boat coming from the opposite direction just entering the lock so we helped them operate the lock and sure enough as the top paddles were opened there was an amazing sight, as torrents of white foaming water rushed into the lock, fortunately we were prepared and there was no problem. In the end we negotiated the lock with ease and carried on our merry way, thankfully there was just one more lock to go, the lock gates were massive and heavy, and it was a struggled to open and close them. Now we realised why some people just sat aboard their boats and stayed in the marina, the locks in both direction on this river take some man-handling, cruising the Lea is not for the faint hearted.

The river bisects Ware high street by means of a very low bridge; we would have not been able to travel any further had we not sorted the ballast problem, but we were through the town before we knew it. We turned around just before Ware lock and found a lovely spot to moor next to Town Bridge. Ware is famous for its 18th Century gazebos in the gardens of the houses backing on to the river, they were renovated in the 1970s, and they are as charming as the town itself. It was 4.30pm by the time we were moored, it had taken us five and a half hours, with a break for a spot of lunch. This was turning out to be a challenging trip, so we decided to stay over and sample the night life of the town. Ware is a great place for a pub crawl, there are dozens of hostelries within a short walk of each other. We only tried one or two of them though; there is nothing like a day wrestling with heavy lock gates to tire you out. During the night we had thunder and lightning, the storm had arrived early, but by morning the sun had returned and the prospect was for another hot day.

We set off early, while it was relatively cool, determined to make better time on the return journey and remarkably we did, getting back in just two and three quarter hours. Granted two of the locks were open and ready to receive us, but still halving the journey time was rather satisfying, we were getting good at this boating game!. We did have one problem on the river Stort as we were coming towards Low Lock. The wind caught hold of the boat just as we reached an enclave of moored craft and we hit one of them, it was a gentle bump and no damage was done to either boat. Luckily the owner was very understanding and, when he asked if we could take a couple of his friends and their luggage back to Roydon Marina we were glad to oblige.

As we entered the marina I decided to try running the boat on the electric drive, and I loved it. Cruising along with no sound at all was very relaxing, but it did not have the power of the diesel engine which we had to return to in order to moor at our berth. Pleasant as it was cruising on electric drive, it did use a lot of power, not a problem today because we have shore power at our berth, but if we were away for any length of time it would not be practical. Our long term aim is to become ‘constant cruisers’ and the only way we will be able to charge the batteries when we are cruising is to use the diesel engine.

All in all it was a very successful first leisure cruise, the hybrid worked well in both charging and electric drive mode and it gave us confidence to travel further afield, something we were both looking forward to. As we planned to become "constant cruisers" we decided to get ourselves some professional tuition regarding boat safety and handling so we booked ourselves onto the Inland Waterways Helmsman Course, a course that one of our neighbours recommended.

Training Day

The day of the course arrived and Paul, the instructor was with us by 9.40am. The first lesson of course, was a lecture on Health and Safety, I shouldn’t be cynical, there are all sorts of hazards waiting to catch you out both on and off the boat. This was followed by a lesson on rope handling and knot tying. Joyce is left handed and found it extremely difficult especially when the tutor demonstrating is right handed, but she managed okay. Finally the theory was over and we cast off ready for the practical lesson with me at the tiller and Paul at my side. The progress was slow, Paul was quite meticulous, every part of boat handling and lock management was explained in the minutest detail, all very informative and we soon came to realise the importance of the course and just how little knowledge we had. A lot of time was spent learning the correct way to enter a lock and throw the mooring rope over the bollard and securing the boat in the lock side.

The most useful tip that Paul gave me was to use short bursts of the throttle, with the tiller positioned fully to the right or left, depending on which way you want the boat to go. It gives you good sideways motion with little or no forward motion and makes manoeuvring in tight spaces very easy and much less stressful. Lunch time was approaching so we moored at Dobbs weir and had sandwiches on the boat, courtesy of Joyce and a much needed pint at the Fish and Eels. It had taken us four hours to travel two and half miles, but we had negotiated four locks along the way, gaining knowledge of "best practice" regarding lock management. We will never approach a lock again in the way we had previously done.

Lunch over and panic set in when Paul announced that Joyce must take the tiller and bring the boat into the next lock, after all this was a helmsman course and to get her licence she had to prove she was competent handling the boat. She had taken over once or twice in the past when I needed a toilet break, but had not done any precise manoeuvres, but now she had to step up to the mark. The river was busy with people enjoying a pleasant Saturday afternoon, and Joyce was doing well until we approached the first lock where we came upon two hire boats full of young adults in party mode. Against all the odds she managed to moor the boat on the lock side and then entered without any problem, with only a little help from Paul. Through the lock safely, she turned the boat around to head back towards Roydon, fully expecting this to be the end of her tuition. But no, she had to take it back though the lock, negotiating a tight bridge on the way. The young people on the day boat were about to close the lock gates before we had time to enter until Paul shouted for them to stop, which to their credit they did and helped with the lock, nearly knocking one of themselves out with the windlass in the process.

We travelled up the Lee and made the turn onto the river Stort, where I took over again for the run up to the marina. A strong wind had developed and I knew I would have a problem mooring the boat stern on, and after two failed attempts Paul took over and using his theory of short throttle bursts in forward and reverse managed after a few aborted attempts to get us moored. The lessons we learnt will be put into practice and will make our life as ‘continuous cruisers’ much easier and more enjoyable. We both showed we were competent handling the boat and received our Helmsman licence; a good day's work and well worth the effort.

Decisions...

With our teething problems behind us we were able to give some thought to the future. The marina had provided just what we needed at the time, a stable environment to get used to the big changes in our lifestyle and a place to get all the boat problems sorted, but it had never been our long term plan to stay. We had enjoyed our time there and had made some good friends, but we thought it was time for us to move on.

We spent a lot of time researching which would be the best waterway on which to offer Art Deco as a short break destination and there was no contest, it would be the non-tidal section of the river Thames. Based there we would have just over 90 miles of river to cruise, from Teddington tidal lock in the east to Osney lock at Oxford in the west. We would have preferred to have the option of travelling into central London but that would mean getting a licence to cruise the tidal Thames and being a commercial waterway it is far more regulated than the non tidal section. Art Deco would need a VHF radio and we would need a certificate to operate it, and a whole host of regulations regarding boat safety to conform to. After a few conversations with folks who had tried it we decided it wasn’t worth the bother, we would be quite happy with the non tidal Thames There would be plenty of interesting places to visit along the section we had chosen, towns and villages such as Henley, Marlow, Kingston and Oxford along with the jewel in the crown, Hampton Court.

We pencilled in early September as our leaving date, by that time we will have spent around three months in the marina, long enough, we wanted to travel further afield and try out our business plan. If things went well we could start welcoming our first guest aboard Art Deco in the spring of 2015. The Saturday evening before we left the marina we invited all our new friends on board Art Deco for drinks and nibbles to thank them for all the help and advice they had given, and to say good bye. It was a great evening and went on well into the night and we promised to keep in touch and planned to return for a Christmas get together in the local pub in December. The following Monday we filled up with diesel and water, pumped out the effluent tank and left Roydon Marina for good. We would be returning in December, but not aboard Art Deco, she will be moored on a waterway somewhere near a railway station where we can get a train to Roydon.

Our travels begin, and a meeting with 'Mad' Jack

We would enter the Thames via the Grand Union canal at Brentford, retracing part of the journey we had made from Watford, and we were looking forward to it. On our way to Roydon we had been so keen to get to the marina that we had seen very little of the surrounding area, passing through towns and villages as quickly as possible, having “no time to stand and stare” to borrow a quote Wordsworth. The Thames and our business plan could wait a while, we wanted to take life easy and enjoy ourselves, after all that was the main purpose of this adventure.

A little further up river from Ware is the town of Hertford, the end of the Lea navigation for all but small craft, so it seemed logical to start our journey to the Thames from there. On our way we stopped in Ware for lunch and as we sat on the back deck having a beer, a little 40 foot narrow boat pulled along side and the skipper called out, “I’ve been looking for you guys, heard you're the boat with the fancy hybrid engine.” “That’s right I replied, how do you know about it?” “I’m Morrison” he replies and I know everyone and everything that goes on on this river, and without being asked, he tied up against us and jumped aboard! “That beer looks good” he said with a smile as he made himself comfortable, so I went below and fetched him a cold one.

This was our first encounter with one Jack “Mad” Morrison. He was a character of indeterminate age and according to him had lived alone on his boat ‘Bounty’ for as long as he could remember. He says he knows everyone and everything that happens on the Lea. He was a marine engineer and was keen to look at our engine, so I opened the engine hatch and he had a good poke around, stating that it looked very impressive. He asked where we were heading and when we tell him he replies, “great! that’s where I’m heading, follow me, I know the best places to moor. We travel in convoy and at Hertford lock, three of his mates joined him on board and once through the lock we all carried on our merry way. We were apparently heading for the basin at the end of the navigation, a few good pubs there he tells us, but I know from the Nicolson that there is a low bridge just before the basin, we will have to take it steady.

Sure enough, up ahead I could see the bridge, and as we get closer I know it’s going to be tight so I pull into the side and stop, not wanting to chance it. It is a modern concrete bridge that carries the A10 trunk road over the river in a single span, very wide but also very low. Morrison saw us stop, turned around and came along side to ask what the problem was. When I explain an argument erupted, he said we will just make it, I disagree, but he is so persuasive that I agree to try, on the understanding that I can abort at any time. He agreed and followed Art Deco up to the bridge, but as I get close I see that we won’t make it so stop mid stream. To my astonishment his three mates jump aboard and push on the underside of the bridge, lowering the boat slightly and shout to me to keep going forward. I comply, but they soon tire, and we ended up stuck under the bridge. Morrison came along side and tied Bounty to Art Deco climbed aboard and as I engage reverse the four of them pushed on the bridge roof and we slowly reversed our way out.

Thankfully there was no serious damage just a few scratches, but the river at this point is not wide enough for us to turn around, we will have to travel in reverse all the way back to Hertford lock, over a mile away. Morrison agreed to take the tiller, and to his credit did a brilliant job but when we got to the lock the river still was not wide enough so the boat had to go through the lock in reverse. Fortunately at the other side we were able to turn around and found a mooring spot just below the lock. We feared that we would be stuck with them for the night, but they were keen to get away and thankfully went on their way to Hertford, no doubt to enjoy the delights the pubs had to offer.

After breakfast the following morning we walked into Hertford and spent the morning looking around the town, stopping off at one of the many pubs for lunch before returning to Art Deco in the late afternoon. We didn’t see sight of Morrison or his boat that day and I thought that would be the last we would see of him, but Joyce admitted that she had given him our phone number, he was so persuasive she said! We spent a second night moored at Hertford lock, it had been an eventful cruise, but we had to admit it had been quite exciting and we enjoyed it immensely. We were in no hurry to move on, the CRT ( canal and river trust) who are responsible for the waterway state that unless there are notices to the contrary, any craft can moor in one place for a maximum of fourteen days. We liked the mooring and Hertford was only a 30 minute walk away so decided to stay a while.

“Dave, want some cheap diesel?” I recognise Morrison’s dulcet tones and hesitated, we were running low on fuel its true, but did we really want to be involved with him again? Joyce is asking who’s calling and when I tell her she is frantically motioning NO! “25p a litre” he says, we were paying upwards of 50p at the time, it was a tempting offer but before I have time to answer he says “meet me at Stanstead lock tomorrow afternoon” and ended the call.

What were we to do? It seemed too good a deal to miss, so after weighing up the pros and cons we decided to go, we would be heading down river in a few days time, far away from his stamping ground. It was only a short cruise down river the next morning, through Ware and Hardmead locks and sure enough as we approach Stanstead lock we saw Bounty moored just above with Morrison on deck to greet us. He is alone thank goodness, his mates are gone and he is his charming self, flirting, as ever with Joyce. Moored in front of him was a wreck of a boat, it must have been a working barge back in the day, but it was now long past its sell by date.

He climbed aboard and instructed me to come along side, tying me up midships. “Un-screw your fuel cap” he said as he reached down into the barge’s hold and pulled up a hose which he fitted into the fuel tank. There was a small in - line pump attached which he switched on and eventually fuel could be seen flowing through the clear tube and into my tank. This went on for what seemed a long time, but was probably less than 10 minutes before the tank was full. I replaced the fuel cap, he untied me and as I moored Art Deco by the lock he disappeared into a small cottage a few meters up the tow path. He returned shortly and said “wait for me at the Fish and Eels” which was just down river at Dobb’s weir. We obligingly obeyed his command and as we sat with a drink in the garden of the pub, we wondered if we had just been involved in some sort of crime? It all seemed very clandestine and we had seen no money change hands. Soon the distinctive chug of Bounty’s Lister engine interrupts our musings as he approaches and soon he is sat with us, pint in hand. He has a twinkle in his eye as he asks ”have you got a fiver Dave?” I take one out of my wallet and hand it over to him and as he takes it I start to question him, but he gives me a wink and says “ask no questions, get no lies”.

River Lea

Travelling down the Lea a few days later we came to Broxbourne, and there was a mooring free near the town centre so we decided to stop and have a look around. It looked quite an affluent place sporting lots of independent shops and a couple of large supermarkets, a good place to stock up we thought. Back in the marina we had relied on the internet to order our groceries, Tesco would deliver right to the boat, but that was not an option now, we had to get our own shopping. We liked the look of the place so we decided to stay a few days. The south east of England is unknown to us, apart from a few visits to London, so we wanted to explore more than just the immediate river side.

We had an enjoyable few days looking round the town and surrounding area before we set off again down river in search of new adventures. We were approaching Waltham Abbey, a place where we had overnighted on our way to Roydon and thought it deserved a better look. We found a mooring just by the bridge and as it was a lovely afternoon we found a decent looking pub and had drinks in the garden. We spent a couple of days in the town, then it was off again down river, through the imaginary portal that is Enfield lock and carried on down river before mooring for the night just below Tottenham lock.

Once again we were very much in an urban landscape, gone are the green fields and rolling countryside, to be replaced by factories and warehouses and the grimy moored boats added a sort of ‘edgy’ feel to the place. but the light was fading, we were tired and needed to eat and rest. As we were securing Art Deco a lady from the boat in front came over and explained that a body in a suitcase had been fished out of the river that morning, the police had just left she said, “I’m on my own and don’t feel safe around here, I’m moving off first thing in the morning.” It seemed a bit of an extreme reaction to us, we had hoped to stop for a few days and decided not to change our plans, after all lightening doesn’t strike twice, or does it?

We spent the following day looking around Tottenham Hale, we needed supplies and Google maps showed Tottenham High Street nearby, the only problem was that to get to it we had to go down, and I kid you not, (look on Google maps) Carbuncle Passage! The name certainly fitted the area, it was a run down and neglected place so after stocking up we decided to move on the following day.

The next morning I did my usual engine checks but as we prepared to leave the engine would not start, very unusual -  it always started with the first turn of the ignition. I was taught to always look for the simplest solution first, so did we have fuel? Of course we did, we had filled up courtesy of Morrison not long ago, but I thought I would check anyway. Art Deco did not have a fuel gauge, it had a dip stick instead, so I unscrewed the fuel cap, dipped the tank, and to my astonishment there was no more than a few millimetres of diesel showing on the stick. Some b*****d must have syphoned the tank in the night! We needed to get diesel and after asking round a few fellow boaters, without luck, I found the nearest petrol station on Google and set off walking the three miles there and back. I had to buy a container and of course roadside fuel stations do not sell red diesel, road diesel is exactly the same fuel without the red colouring, but as it’s taxed it is more expensive. The cost of the container and 2 litres of fuel cost me more than the full tank I had from Morrison just the week before, payback time for our little scam!

As soon as I got back to the boat I put the fuel in the tank and we were away, vowing never to return. Fortunately, just down river was Springfield Marina where we would be able to fill up with red diesel. As the mechanic from the marina was filling us up I related our problem with the stolen fuel. He said they had locking fuel caps for sale in the chandlery, and if I moved down the pontoon, away from the pump, I could moor there and fit it. I paid him for the fuel and cap, moved down the pontoon and waited for him to return. He was gone quite a while and I was about to go and find him when he returned with the fuel cap and his tool box. “It’s not just a case of replacing your cap with the locking one”, he said, “the old fitting will have to come out and the correct one fitted in it’s place”. Without another word he started removing the original fitting and replacing it with the new one. An hour later, after drilling new holes for the screws, he had the locking cap fitted. He would not take any money for his work but I shoved a fiver in his pocket and told him to have a drink on me!

Before we left I asked if there were any visitor moorings in the marina, we needed somewhere to leave the boat while we returned to Roydon for the Christmas Party. He said they had a couple and I gave him the dates and he said he would reserve one for me. They also had electric hook up, another problem solved, I would be able to do a battery equalisation at the same time. We carried on down river and shortly, in the distance we could see the bright red structure of the Arcelor Mittal Orbit, the sculpture and viewing platform in the Queen Elizabeth Olympic park, so we knew we were approaching the turn onto the Hertford Union canal which would lead us to the Grand Union canal. As there were plenty of mooring spaces available on the river and we thought it would be interesting area to spend a few days, we were in no hurry, so we found a spot and moored up.

Queen Elizabeth Olympic Stadium

The following morning we went for a walk and were pleasantly surprised with our surroundings. The park itself was superb, being only a few years old, in fact the whole area was amazing, very modern and it had a good vibe to it. Later that evening after we had eaten, sitting with a bottle of wine we reviewed our present situation and started pencilling in a plan for the following year. We decided to travel up the Grand Union to Stoke Bruerne, the iconic canal village by the Blisworth tunnel. This seemed the logical place to start our journey south to the Thames, we would not be able to travel much further north due to the narrow locks around Birmingham. As we were well into autumn and with winter approaching we needed to find a area to base ourselves before continuing north the following spring. Somewhere safe, with amenities near by and an interesting cruising area. We didn’t want to be stuck in one place all winter, we planned to move around as much as the weather would allow, in fact we had to move to keep the batteries charged. The hybrid set up was such that the 48 volt alternator was attached to the flywheel of the engine, which meant that it only put charge into the batteries when the engine was in gear and the prop was turning. An option was to detach the prop shaft from the gear box, not too difficult a job, but I kept that as an emergency measure and luckily we never had to use it.

After much discussion and map studying we opted for the easy way out, stay where we were! It suited us perfectly, there was Old Ford lock just down river with a water supply and Elsan disposal, Springfield Marina up river with diesel and chandeliers, the large Westfield shopping mall just a short walk away and Stratford Station with overground and underground rail services nearby. The area was good for cruising too, and what looked like, some interesting places to visit, we even had easy access to Limehouse Basin with the river Lea running into it via the Limehouse cut.

It turned out to be everything we had expected and more, we had a wonderful three months in and around the area. We made our promised visit to Roydon for the party just before Christmas, leaving Art Deco in Springfield marina, hooked up to shore power. We had equalised the batteries before leaving so on our return all the cells were up to 100% and in optimum condition. The winter of 2014/15 must have been a ‘kind’ one, or am I looking back through rose coloured glasses? We certainly did a lot of cruising, not staying in one place for more than a few days at a time. The area we covered was between Broxbourne in the north to Limehouse in the south, some 30 miles of the river Lea, with many interesting places to see in between.

Characters

Being so close to central London, there were many folks living aboard boats, from individuals to families and everyone in between. We met a wide spectrum of  ‘interesting’ people, those who wanted to ‘disappear,’ professionals who had full time jobs in the city and a few retired couples like ourselves. Living on a boat is a great leveller. One day we could be sharing a drink with an ex American air force fighter pilot who had ‘burnt himself out’, and the following day with the head of music at Middlesex university who insisted we go aboard his narrow boat because we didn’t believe he had a piano on board! Or chatting to ‘John’ the quiet one who didn’t share any personal information, not even his real name. Everyone was treated with the same respect, no one was judged.

At first we were surprised by the number of single women who were living alone on the river, but as time went by we realised that on the river there were small communities, grouped together who looked out for each other. There was always someone about, no matter what time of day or night it was, so crime was very low. Although some areas we moored in had a reputation as hot spots of crime, the river seemed exempt from it, we never experienced any or saw any, although I suspect that has changed now.

Once again technology played its part in helping these small communities to thrive. There was a Facebook group where boaters ‘met’ and shared experiences and offered advice and tips. The schedule of the fuel boat who delivered diesel, logs and coal, direct to your boat was posted. There were engineers who could fix any mechanical problems, carpenters, plumbers and marine electricians, in fact you could find all sort of help on the site.

The most useful aspect of the site though was the swapping of moorings. The CRT rules required that each boat had to move to a different spot every 14 days, and the site allowed boaters to swap places with each other. This usually happened in the early hours of the morning when you could safely move without anyone grabbing the vacated places. When we first arrived in the area we wondered why boats were moving around in the early hours? The answer was they were swapping places! It was a great community to be part of, everyone helped each other, it was like having a very large extended family around you and was very reassuring.

We didn’t restrict ourselves just to the river, we wondered further afield, mainly on foot, and Google maps was a great help. We were never bored, there was always something new and interesting to see and whenever we moored in a new place we consulted Google and then explored the area. We came across places we would never have seen if we had not been living this lifestyle, we thought ourselves very lucky indeed. Wherever we moored other boaters would come and talk to us, asking where we had come from and where we were going. It soon became clear that we were the exception: we moved around, whereas most of our neighbours tended to stick to the same general area, moving only every three weeks as the law demanded. It’s true, we were retired and had no commitments, where as most of our fellow boaters had work to go to, or kids to get to school.

Victoria Park and London

We cruised all the river Lea, but we always returned to the area around the Olympic Park, it was our base, a place to call home. On one of our walks, we came across Victoria Park, a place we had passed on our way to Roydon as we cruised along the Hertford Union canal. Unlike the Olympic Park this was a proper, old fashioned Victorian park, and it was beautiful, with well tended flower beds, a cricket pitch and lots of green spaces. On the edge of the park, away from the canal was ‘The People’s Park Tavern’, a great watering hole and a great place to eat. It was a community pub, run by the locals, and was a lively place with live music and dancing, performed in the large covered outdoor space. We wiled away many happy hours there and it will be remembered as one of the best pubs we found. In December the park was host to an eclectic market. Ignore everything you know or have heard about Christmas markets, this one was most defiantly different. There were none of the usual tacky goods normally associated with these events, everything on offer was hand made by local artists and craftsmen.

The park lies in the borough of Hackney, which is home to many small businesses and is a real bohemian place, frequented by artists, craftsmen and musicians who have their studios and workshops there. The cafes and bars reflect this and were wonderful places to sit and chat. It came as no surprise to us that many of the customers lived on the boats moored on the canal. In the summer months some of them cruised the canal system, selling the items they had made and there was always a pub to be found where local musicians were playing. It was our favourite place on the Lea and we have a lot of happy memories of the time we spent there.

We enjoyed visiting central London and managed it many times over the winter. Most of the time we opted for the tube from Stratford underground station, but that meant we had to return the same day. If we cruised there on Art Deco we could stay in Limehouse Basin for a maximum of three nights as visitors, paying £10 a night. The problem with this option was the fact that it wasn’t an easy journey, lots of moored boats and tight bends to negotiate and the scenery could only be described as grim. There is a saying which states “It's grim up north”. Well, we come from the north and I can honestly say that I have never seen any place in the north as grim as the Limehouse Cut. It basically consists of a concrete channel cutting through a run down urban landscape. That aside, once we were in the basin, we loved it. We could spend all day wondering the capital, find a good pub in the evening for a meal and a few drinks, then walk back to the boat, it was wonderful. One of our favourite pubs to visit was ‘The Grapes’ a short walk from Limehouse Basin and owned by Sir Ian McKellen, in fact on one of our visits he was ‘holding court’ sat at the bar, surrounded by his admirers.

We liked Kew Gardens and made many visits over the months, Christmas time being especially memorable when the gardens are illuminated. The Grand Union Canal enters the Thames at Brentford opposite the gardens so it was a good place from which to survey the river and familiarise myself with the layout. This stretch of the Thames is the tidal part and it’s about a 5 mile cruise upstream to Teddington where the tidal lock is situated, upstream from there is the non-tidal Thames. Boats like our’s are allowed on this stretch without the necessary licence as long as they make the journey in one go and without stopping. A slot has to be booked at the lock and exit is allowed only at slack water which is usually around 2.5 hours either side of high tide. We spent our first Christmas on the boat by the Olympic Park, enjoying Lobster Thermidor for Christmas Day dinner, purchased from a restaurant near by followed by a walk in Victoria Park and a few drinks in The People’s Park Tavern. It was very different from the family Christmas dinners we were use to but thoroughly enjoyable.

I’m leading my fourth school canal cruise when an unusual and frightening incident takes place. Thus far it had been an excellent cruise, the only anomaly being that we turned our two boats around in the middle of nowhere, having failed to make it to either Leicester or Market Harborough. After returning through the Foxton lock-flight, we pass the Laughton Hills on our right and moor up just before Husbands Bosworth tunnel, just as a breeze is getting up.

After the evening meal I get asked by both crew and kids if we can have another ‘Coke & crisps’ night – so I agree to go to the village to get some large bottles. I notice on my OS map that there’s a short-cut from the towpath to the village, which I take. It soon turns into a fairly narrow path with high fences and modern houses either side, making it quite dark. But suddenly I get stopped in my tracks by the sound of loud barking and two Alsatian dogs jumping about, further up the path. I’m terrified - as I’ve never been a fan of dogs, especially large ones with aggressive reputations. Their pointy ears tell me they are Alsatians, and they are standing right in my path! My natural inclination is to retreat - but I can hardly return to the thirsty crew and kids empty-handed - and with what excuse?! I feel totally stuck and unable to move either way. I could be stranded here for hours!!

One thing that surprises me however, is that the dogs haven’t already come after me – so I can only assume they are chained up. But the path is so narrow that they will surely be able to attack me if I try to squeeze by. So I continue to wait, with mounting anxiety about what to do. I also notice that their barking is like an echo - as if it were coming from behind the fence to my left. By now, my eyes are adjusting to the darkness as I creep, inch by inch, towards them, ready to race away at any moment should they escape their chains. Their movements are also very repetitious, their ears flicking backwards and forwards - but nothing else.

Eventually, after what seems like a lifetime, I venture to think that they might not be dogs after all. So I take some further steps forward to see them more clearly: they are not Alsatians! Nor any kind of dogs! But four miniature fir trees swaying in the breeze! Do I feel foolish or what? Although now utterly relieved, I realise that I’m still shaking and sweating with anxiety before heading quickly for the main village store as fast as I can.

Upon my return to the boats, I’m naturally asked what took me so long, as a search-party was just about to set off! So I reply calmly that I had been attacked by a couple of Alsatian dogs, but I had fought them off! Well, it was sort of true! However, back in my own bunk that night, I realise the glaringly obvious – that one’s own anxieties can actually precipitate the very situations and dangers that one actually dreads! Situations that may, in fact, be groundless.

This incident was one among several at around this time that got me seriously thinking about my own moods, anxieties and identity. A decade later I read an excellent psychology book* that transformed my life and which, a few years later, led to my becoming the Head of Psychology in a large secondary school.

Thus it was that on that particular breezy canal cruise evening, it wasn’t just four miniature fir-trees but my whole future life and career that was blowing in the wind.

James Adams

Adapted from Chapter 8 ‘Sunshine and Shadows’ – from the author’s: ‘The Curious Incident of the Bacon Butty a Broken Tiller and a Mid-life Crisis’.

* John Bowlby and Attachment theory by Jeremy A. Holmes. Routledge.1993.

Prologue - the last encore

Theo’s POV – Four Months Before his Canals retreat

The lights were blistering.

The kind that burned halos into your vision long after the music stopped. The kind that made it impossible to see the people, only the movement, hands in the air, heads swaying, bodies humming like a single live wire.

Theo stood at center stage, violin tucked under his chin like a weapon drawn in surrender.

The final chord still vibrated in his chest.

The crowd erupted. Roared. Pleaded for more.

He let the bow hang loosely in his hand.

Behind him, Tess tossed her mic toward the drum kit like it had offended her. Jules kicked over a monitor. Rafe stormed offstage without a word.

The moment wasn’t victory.

It was fallout from an explosion among bandmates.

Theo stepped back from the edge of the stage, blinking past the lights, the heat, the static rising in his ears. He could still feel the crowd’s pulse as if it were his own, but the electricity no longer reached his heart.

Backstage

Brilliant,” Ezra muttered, shoving a phone into Theo’s hand. “Twenty million views already. They’re calling it a ‘violent symphony of raw catharsis.’”

Theo glanced down at the screen. A video clip: him, mid-solo, eyes closed, his shirt sweat-plastered to his back, dragging the bow across the strings as if it owed him money.

He didn’t recognize himself.

“Congrats,” Ezra said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That performance will live forever.”

“That’s the problem.”

Ezra blinked. “What?”

Theo handed back the phone and walked toward the exit.

“The moment’s over, but it’s still echoing,” he said. “I need somewhere it can die.”

Out the Door

He passed the green room, still heavy with tension. Tessa sat with her head in her hands, mascara smudged, knees bouncing. Micah threw a bottle across the room.

Rafe cursed. A chair slammed.
Theo didn’t stop.

He moved through the hallway, down the ramp, past the crew, the buses, the fans with posters and Sharpies. He brushed these aside.

He kept walking.

Past the sound.

Past the light.

Past the noise of who he was supposed to be.

Until the only sound left was the wind, and the only light was moonlight, and the only direction that made sense was anywhere without an audience.

Chapter One

The canal held its breath that evening, the surface dark as ink with only the faintest shiver where a moorhen disturbed the reeds. Lights along the towpath had not yet flicked on, leaving the water to borrow what it could from the last of the day. Ivy stood on the roof of the narrowboat with her arms folded, staring at the line of orange smudged low over the horizon. The color made her think of a fire that had burned too long, stubborn but fading.

She should have been grateful. The boat was hers now, a legacy written not in paper or wills but in the kind of trust her father had always carried quietly. When he passed, he left her this vessel paint scuffed, lines frayed, the diesel engine prone to sulking, but also the unspoken challenge: live in it, or let it sink with his memory.

The cabin door creaked behind her when she pushed it. Inside, the air smelled of smoke and damp wood, with a faint trace of engine oil underneath. Her father’s scent still clings in corners. Ivy placed her hand on the back of the galley chair, steadying herself. You wanted this, she reminded herself. You said you would take it on. But the thought landed heavier than the words could hold. It could never be the same without him.

She flicked the switch for the lamp, its glow catching the brass trim that had gone dull from years without polish. Dust motes spun lazily in the beam. She ran her hand over the scratched table, ringed from mugs, but solid. A memory came unbidden: her father sketching routes on a folded map, telling her that canals had their own language, one you learned through patience and mistakes. She had laughed then, a girl impatient to leave the quiet, dreaming of something louder. Now the silence seemed to press in from all sides, waiting for her answer.

A kettle sat on the stove; its enamel chipped but loyal. She filled it and set it to brighten the cabin with its propane flames, listening to the first groan of water against iron. The ritual gave her hands something to do. Through the porthole, the last of the light drained from the sky, leaving only the outline of the hedge and the tree, softened into the dusk.

She told herself she wasn’t lonely, just adjusting. Yet when the kettle began its low rumble, she found herself speaking aloud: “You left me the boat, Dad, but not the instructions.” Her voice startled her. It sounded small, raw in the confined space. In some ways, its loneliness scared her more than anything else.

The kettle whistled, and she poured the water, the steam rising like a veil. She sat with the mug between her palms and stared at the opposite bench, half expecting him to be there, cap pushed back, that half‑smile he wore when he was letting her think she was winning an argument. The bench stayed empty, the canal outside breathing its slow rhythm.

When she blew on the tea, her hands steadied. The boat swayed gently with some unseen current. She decided then, without ceremony, that she would stay. Learn the language and traditions her father had promised, even if she had to argue with the water until it answered.

Outside, a violin carried faintly on the evening air. Just a scrap of tune low, yearning, half‑lost in the distance. She froze, listening. The sound wove through the dusk like a thread, tugging her in a direction she could not yet name. For the first time that day, her chest eased.

Tomorrow, she thought, setting the mug down with care. Tomorrow I’ll find out where that music comes from.

The canal shifted against the hull in reply, and Ivy let herself believe it was an agreement.