Although the museum was only open at weekends for the first couple of years, visitors arrived randomly during the week. They would often get an impromptu guided tour. One such visitor was Old Bill. He introduced himself with a question, “Have you got any steam boats here?”. We hadn’t, but we liked him so we invited him in for a brew and a chat.

Bill had recently retired from lorry driving for the nearby car factory. He told us he had always been known as Old Bill because, everywhere he worked, he had been the oldest William. At Vauxhall there had been Young Bill, himself and Bill the Bum!

Like many amateur engineers of his era, Bill had a lathe in his garden shed but he’d run out of projects since retirement. His first job had been as fireman on a steam lorry and he’d yearned for involvement with a steam engine ever since.

“We don’t have a steam boat,” I explained, “But we do have a pair of hydraulic pumping engines”.
“Oh!” said Bill, “Can I have a look?”

The steam engines used to provide hydraulic power to the whole dock estate. Sadly, they were derelict and all their bearings and other brass bits had been nicked. I unlocked the door and we entered past the silent Lancashire boilers then up the steps into the engine house. Bill got very excited. “Do you think,” he asked “if anyone would mind if I just cleaned them up and painted them?”

Old Bill, realistically, wasn’t going to stop with prettification. He aimed to get an engine running. Soon he had an agreement with a brass foundry in Widnes. He would supply the wooden pattern for the required part, along with scrap brass, and they would cast the part for free. Volunteers who came along at weekends began to bring unwanted brass items with them to add to Bill’s brass stash.

Bill worked long hours in the engine house. He would often drop in for a brew, regaling us with tales of his years driving trucks, his time serving in world war II, and his childhood, playing with snowballs made from asbestos waste.

It took him 3 years to get the first engine running. Reviving the Lancashire boilers was impractical so a small vertical boiler was installed the other side of the covered arm. On steaming days the job of fireman fell to me, using scrap wood as fuel. A simple intercom was used for communication across the water.

As time passed the Boat Museum increased in fame. I acquired a wooden motor boat called Sarah that, like Lilith, needed rebuilding. It developed a bad habit of sinking.

We had an arrangement with the local fire station when a boat sank. They would come and pump it out and put it down to training. The one proviso was that, if they should get an emergency call, they would rush away to answer it.

One day Sarah sank, gunwales under, right in the most prominent part of the museum. I summoned the brigade and they started getting set up, then an emergency call came in and they were off, returning later to recover their equipment.

The museum committee started to take an unusually intolerant view of my sunken boat. They let me know that they were expecting a visit from an unspecified but very important person, and Sarah was an embarrassment.

Lorries began to arrive, delivering half of Derbyshire in the form of crushed limestone to make new roads and paths. A British Waterways dredger turned up and started work. BWB also started work repairing the bottom lock, giving access to the ship canal. This required the use of three huge Sykes Univac pumps, two on the land and one on a work flat.

The job finished on a Friday. The two pumps on the land were taken away but the work flat was brought up the locks and left in the outer basin with the pump still on board.

When the workers had gone I went to have a look. There were suction pipes, diesel in the tank and a starting handle. I shafted the boat into the museum and tied her abreast of Sarah. The suction pipes were soon connected up and fed into the sunken boat.

I spun the handle, knocked down the decompressors one by one and the big 3 cylinder Lister roared into life. Water started to jet across the basin from the pump outlet and a mini Niagara started all along Sarah’s gunwales. In almost no time the cascade stopped and the boat popped up like a cork. The big pump ran out of water to shift, so I rigged up a little electric pump to complete the job.

With Sarah safely afloat I shafted the work flat back to where I’d found it and carefully re-placed all the equipment so that, when they came to collect it, no-one would be any the wiser. After 50 years I don’t think anyone will be bothered!

It soon became clear that our mystery guests were to be none other than Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip. We began to get posh impromptu visitors, who we’d never seen before, claiming to have been the first to think of having a boat museum there. It’s amazing what a royal visit will bring out of the woodwork!

A few days before Her Majesty was due to arrive, stop planks were inserted at the first bridge-hole. Police divers dragged the basin and checked under the boats for bombs. This was quite handy as they found a lot of the tools that I’d dropped in over time.

With the divers' work done the police ringed the whole site, one copper every few yards and every third one with a dog. Access was only possible with a pass. I had a pass, but nobody informed the officers that I lived there. Every time they had a shift change I would get interrogated by bored and suspicious policemen, who clearly thought that my pass was a forgery. I had a wonderful but scruffy mongrel called Caspar who was invaluable in guarding the site, but was not happy about all the police dogs on his manor.

On the big day, Old Bill came dressed in his shiniest overalls. The royal visitors wanted to see his engine running. The sun shone and crowds of visitors assembled, many of the ladies wearing dresses of delicate shades of pink or white.

My job, of course, was to fire the boiler. This had the added benefit of keeping me out of the way as my Cromwellian sympathies were well known. For the first and last time I was supplied with the luxury of coal to fuel the fire.

I had full pressure in good time. The intercom crackled and Bill told me that it looked like it would be a while before the royal party reached the engine house, so we might as well run the engine.

This happened a couple more times, then Bill said he thought they wouldn’t be much longer. I had a full boiler, full pressure and the safety valves just sizzling. To cool things down I put on the damper and filled the firebox with coal. Deprived of air, the coal began coking, and a haze of sulphurous yellow smoke drifted from the chimney.

The intercom crackled again. “They’re coming over now!” said Bill, “Give me steam!"

I removed the damper and, from inside the firebox came a loud WUMPF as oxygen ignited the hot coal. As the products of combustion exited the boiler they took with them the layers of soot that had built up in the passages.

A great cloud of black ordure rose from the chimney, sailed above the island warehouse and descended on the ladies in pink and white dresses...

Bill was dead chuffed about meeting the Queen and later related to us the entire conversation that he had with her, several times.

******

Bill carried on with his work in the engine house for many more years, leaving a legacy that is enjoyed to this day by museum visitors.

The old boiler was replaced with a new gas fired one, eliminating any future risks of dry cleaning claims.

Caspar moved to Runcorn with me in 1982. Sadly, he later succumbed to cancer aged about 10.

Sarah’s original name turned out to be Forget me Not, built originally as a horse boat in 1927 for number one boatman Henry Grantham. She was motorised at Braunston in 1929 and fitted with a counter stern in 1931. She was launched after a comprehensive rebuild in 1994 and now is the principal motor boat for the Wooden Canal Boat Society. Among other things, she tows Hazel on well-being trips. After 32 years in the water she now needs another overhaul.

As numerous canals continue to suffer low water levels, breakdown and assistance firm, River Canal Rescue, is receiving daily calls from boaters with fouled props and damage to rudders and skegs, plus associated damage to drive systems, impacting engine mounts with ‘legs’ failures, and gearbox coupling/drive plates.

RCR managing director, Stephanie Horton says many calls involve a combination of these issues, due to hitting underwater obstacles exposed by low water levels, and confirms a significant number of vessels are grounding in unusual locations. “When this happens,” comments Stephanie, “there are some simple things you can do.

“Where we can, we talk people through how to move their grounded boat. We have a ‘24hr’ rule in many situations as water levels can change, boats come by or customers just manage to get themselves free. It’s not a hard-set rule, but we do advise customers, in some cases, to wait 24hours, if they can, before using our services.

“If the boat can’t be moved, we liaise with CRT staff to check if low water levels are known and if this is likely to change. The CRT will usually endeavour to try to attend and move the boat, but if it’s unavailable or other issues are identified, then we’ll despatch a team. This type of event is usually covered by a fully comprehensive insurance policy.

“If you run aground on a river, put on a life jacket and put your boat in reverse to see if you can move away from the obstruction. If this doesn’t work, walk around the vessel testing the surrounding water depth with a boat pole. This will pinpoint where the water’s shallower and where the problem is. On rivers you can usually see rocks or grave, as the water’s clearer.

“There’s always the option to get into the water and ‘push’ the boat; it may sound drastic, but if you’ve travelled up a non-navigable section then usually the water is less than 12inch/30cm deep. Once you’re off the boat it’s easier to get it moving - just ensure you have a way to get back on, when it refloats.”

Ballast

Stephanie continues: “If the front of the boat’s grounded, move some of the ballast that may be holding it down. The water tank is always at the front of a narrowboat so turn on the taps to empty it and move heavy items such as gas bottles, the anchor and any chains to the rear – this will give the boat more buoyancy at the front and potentially lift it a vital few inches, which may be all it needs to clear itself. Half a ton of water can create a six-inch difference. If it does clear, put the boat in reverse.

“If the boat’s grounded on one side, it’s a similar scenario; move anything that’s weighing it down in this area to the opposite side. Do this in cautious stages - if you over-balance, the vessel will list and it could end up taking on water.

Tow

“If there are people onboard, position yourself at the helm and ask the remainder to rock the boat gently; the momentum may move it. If the rear of the boat’s aground and the propeller’s lifted (which is a rare scenario), you’ll probably need a tow.

“And while it’s tempting to ask a passing boater for a tow, this should only be undertaken by an experienced boater. We’ve had cases where the person towing the vessel has got into trouble and we’ve ended up rescuing two boats. Also, anyone on a hire boat will invalid their insurance if they try to tow you, so it’s better not to put them in that position in the first place.”

“If you are able to free your vessel, check it thoroughly at the first possible opportunity – particularly the hull – as this could have been damaged.”

Patience

Stephanie advises: “Find out about restrictions and closures, the protocols and what’s happening in areas you plan to navigate. Situations develop all the time, so be aware of the risks around you and be cautious while cruising. If you’re on a canal and you find the boat is not moving as fast as usual, and water levels look low, DON’T simply increase your speed, be patient and wait until the water levels increase or you can get though a lock to a better location. Speed on low water levels puts pressure on the drive systems.”

Drive systems

Stephanie concludes: “Putting more revs on to speed up, creates rather than resolves the problem. Without the depth to ensure smooth travel though the water, the load transfers to the drive system, putting it under undue pressure, resulting in gearboxes overheating, and a higher risk of hitting or catching something underwater, damaging drive plates and couplings.”

The last of the light slid behind the hedgerows, leaving the canal washed in indigo and silver. Theo balanced the violin against his knee, listening to the water slap gentle rhythms against the hulls. Across the narrow gap, Ivy leaned against her cabin rail, mug cradled between her palms, her father’s cap shadowing her eyes. She looked at home in the half-dark, as if the canal had decided to claim her after all.

Theo tightened the bow hair with careful turns. “One more tune?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “As many as you like. The canal doesn’t keep time.”

He drew the bow across the strings, starting slow, letting the first notes breathe. Not the storm-fire reels he was known for, not the restless tearing at melody. Something gentler. A waltz his grandmother had hummed when he was a boy, rough-voiced in the kitchen while water boiled and windows steamed. The sound settled into the dusk like a lantern on still water.

Ivy closed her eyes, rocking slightly with the rhythm. “That’s different,” she murmured. “You’re not fighting anything in that one.”

Theo gave a slight shrug, still playing. “Can’t fight the ghosts. Best to let them sing.”

When the tune ended, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt companioned. He set the violin across his lap and reached for the apple she had passed him earlier, biting into it, the crunch loud in the quiet.

“You said your father read the market like a book,” Theo said, wiping juice from his thumb. “What did he read about you?”

Ivy’s smile flickered. “That I was always in a hurry. He said I tried to skip ahead to the last page. Maybe he was right. I left the canals for years, thought I wanted noise and speed. Now…” She gestured to the water, the sky, the boats rocking together. “Now I wonder if he knew I’d come back eventually.”

Theo tapped the violin’s belly with his fingertip, thoughtful. “Fathers like to think they can read the future. Maybe they hope loudly enough that it feels like prophecy.”

She looked at him steadily. “And yours?”

He shifted, shoulders tightening before he forced them loose again. “Didn’t stay long enough to read anything. Music filled the space he left. Bandmates, teachers, crowds, they all had an opinion. None of them were his.”

Ivy said nothing, but the quiet she offered was better than words. She reached across the gap with another slice of bread, bridging the boats with her hand until he took it. The gesture was small, but it felt like an agreement.

Theo raised the violin again, this time offering the bow toward her. “Want to try?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I’d sound like a cat in a sack.”

“Cats can be tuneful if you listen right,” he said with a grin. “Besides, there’s no audience but the water.”

She hesitated, then set her mug aside and stood. The step between the boats was a narrow risk, but she crossed, balancing with arms outstretched until her boots found his deck. Up close, the lantern glow from his cabin caught the strands of hair loose around her face, the green-gold in her eyes. She looked younger, but also steadier.

He placed the violin gently in her hands and guided her fingers. Her laugh bubbled out when the first note squealed, but she pressed again, slower this time, and the sound smoothed enough to be recognizable.

“Not bad,” he said softly. “For someone in a hurry to get to the last page.”

She shot him a playful look, then tried another bow stroke. The melody faltered, but Theo filled in around her, weaving his bow under hers until the two sounds awkward and assured met in the middle. The waltz limped into being, uneven yet beautiful for its effort.

By the time she handed the instrument back, her cheeks were flushed with laughter. She sank onto the roof beside him, breathless. “You made me sound better than I was.”

“Every good tune hides the rough notes,” Theo said. “You just have to carry on until the music forgives you.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder, the violin resting between them like a third presence. Above, the stars thickened. Below, the canal rocked them gently in its slow pulse. Theo felt the knot of tension inside him loosen another thread. Here, with Ivy’s laughter still echoing and the water steady beneath, he no longer needed to fight the silence. He could let it hold him, note by note, story by story.

The sun slid down toward the tree line, painting the water a coppery shade and casting a shadow. Ivy had cooked bread, warmed on the stove, with cheese softened at its edges, and apples cut into neat slices. The kettle rattled and hissed before she poured two mugs of tea. She hesitated with the second mug, then stepped onto the stern, balancing both.

Theo sat cross-legged on the roof of his boat, violin at his side, fingers idly plucking at the strings. He looked up when she approached, the faintest grin tugging one corner of his mouth.

“You bringin’ a peace offering?” he asked.

“Or reinforcements,” she replied, holding out the mug. “Depends on how you play it.”

He took it with a nod. “Then cheers to both.” He blew across the surface, sipped, and winced. “Hotter than it looks.”

“Always is,” she said, settling on her own roof across the narrow gap of water. Their boats rocked gently in tandem, like two lungs sharing the same breath.

For a while, they sat in easy silence, the water lapping softly against steel. Theo plucked a tune, fragmented, uncertain, and Ivy found herself humming before she meant to.

“You know it?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Dad used to whistle it in the market,” she said, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. “Every Saturday, like clockwork. He said the tune was older than the bricks in the bridge.”

Theo’s bow lifted the melody into the air, soft and unhurried. Ivy closed her eyes, hearing not just Theo but her father’s ghostly whistle threading through. She smiled. “He’d have liked that. You’d have annoyed him, mind you, but he’d have liked it.”

Theo’s brow furrowed. “Annoyed?”

“You play like you’re fighting something. He liked music that didn’t argue with the listener.”

Theo considered, bow stilling against the string. “Maybe I do argue. Maybe that’s the point.”

“Or maybe you just haven’t been listening,” she said before she could stop herself. The words hung between them, too honest to take back.

Theo looked at her for a long moment, then chuckled low. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, line-burn.”

“It’s Ivy,” she corrected, though she smiled as she said it.

They ate together without ceremony, passing bread, trading slices of apple, sharing the space as though they’d rehearsed it. Conversation slipped between silences like oars dipping into water.

“Your father,” Theo asked at last, careful as a man setting a fragile thing on the table, “he was well-known on the cut?”

“Not famous. Just… known.” She brushed crumbs from her lap. “People trusted him. He fixed engines, gave tows, and listened more than he spoke. The market was his measure of life, bread weight, fiddle tunes, and the way folks greeted each other. He said if you can read a market, you can read a village. And if you can read a village, you can tell if you belong.”

Theo nodded slowly, eyes on the canal rather than her. “Sounds like he belonged everywhere.”

“Everywhere there was water,” she said. “Everywhere the lines hummed the same tune.”

Theo set the violin across his knees, fingers stroking the worn wood. His voice lowered, almost more to the strings than to her. “I came here because the noise was too much. City noise. Band noise. Even the applause felt… like shouting in the wrong key.”

Ivy tilted her head. “And the canal fixes that?”

He gave a half-smile. “Not fixes. Teaches me how to sit still long enough to notice what I’m carrying. Out here, you can’t outrun yourself. The water’s too slow for that.”

She studied him, trying to read the words underneath. He hadn’t said what he was escaping, not directly, but she heard it in the pauses, the weariness, and the dissonance of a man who’d given too much to the world and lost his own voice.

“Maybe slow is what you needed,” she said gently.

“Maybe it’s what we both needed,” he answered, looking at her then. His eyes caught the last of the light, green-gray and steady. For once, he didn’t look like he was arguing with himself.
The night settled around them, crickets stitching the silence. Theo lifted his bow again and played, not the storm-fire she had first heard, but something quieter, almost contemplative. Ivy listened, tea cooling in her hands, heart warming in her chest. For the first time since taking her father’s boat, she felt less like a visitor to the canal and more like part of its slow, unfolding song.

In military circles it is said that plans rarely survive contact with the enemy. The same could be said of my plans for a teaching career. I dropped out after my first teaching practice and got a dead end job in a fascist paper factory. I use the F word advisedly. The boss kept asking me if I was Jewish and once told me that he’d fought on the wrong side in the war.

No longer needing to be near the college I moved my two little boats to join Lilith on the farm moorings. The fees were 50p per boat per week, which was a bargain for Lilith. Even at £1.50 for the 3 boats it wasn’t too bad but, when he realised that I was living on them the farmer demanded £3 a week for the 3 craft. Extortion!

I moved on to the towpath side near the village of Stoak. With a wage in my pocket I was able to re-activate the little car that I had left behind at my parent’s house.

The planking was complete at the stern end of Lilith and I wanted to build a back cabin to live in. Someone told me that at Ellesmere Port the canal was chock full of wood from the recent motorway construction. I drove over there and, though I found no free wood, I came across volunteers preparing the derelict area for opening as a boat museum in a few weeks time.

I got talking to Tony Hirst who told me that they had a problem. They were planning to bring lots of historic boats to the opening, but had no way of keeping them safe in a place renowned for vandalism and arson. I immediately volunteered to become resident volunteer caretaker, boat pumper outer and vandal chaser offer.

The photo is of Lilith on her 120th birthday, December 2nd 2021. We towed her and Hazel to the first winding hole up the Peak Forest then returned to a patch of waste ground in Dukinfield and had a bonfire. An oak tree was planted in the ashes, growing the wooden boats of the 22nd century!

Arrangements were made to move my boats. Lilith was to hang on behind the Thomas Clayton pair Spey and Gifford. My floating hutches were to follow on after the celebrations were over.

Lilith still had no means of steering, so it was an interesting journey, dangling on the end of a line from Gifford’s anser hook. Tony Lewery was steering the butty and a combination of his efforts and my use of an improvised shaft we mostly kept her out of trouble.

Trouble came on arrival at The Port. The volunteer harbourmaster was the owner of a Josher steamer and tended to look down on lesser craft. With one glimpse of my disreputable Joey boat he ordered her to be taken down to the bottom basin, which was then still derelict. Bad decision!

There are parallel locks down to the bottom basin, one set wide and the other narrow. Being a narrow boat Lilith started down the narrow locks. It had been several years since she had been through a narrow lock and she had not been dieting. It took a team of volunteers, diverted from other work, most of the afternoon to drag her protesting hull through those two locks. It was then decided that she could come into the top basin after all. She returned up the wide locks.

When the weekend festivities were over I fired up my little Ailsa Craig outboard and whirred along the canal with Mosquito and Melford, the floating chicken hutches, to take up residence in the basin and start my new duties.

Gifford is still an important part of the Boat Museum’s collection.

Spey is still travelling the canals in the care of the ‘Spey crowd’. They are probably the best example of a shared ownership group looking after a historic boat. They have continually maintained and improved her for over 50 years and are now passing her on to a younger generation.

Lilith is in the care of the Wooden Canal Boat Society and, in her 125^th year, is awaiting another restoration at Portland Basin, Ashton under Lyne.

Please feel free to get in touch if you would like to help https://www.wcbs.org.uk/ 07931 952 037

Anu Aladin is a highly experienced paddleboard instructor and writer based in South West London. With more than a decade of paddling experience across the capital, she says she has spent countless hours discovering London’s waterways, sharing her adventures on My SUP Stories and encouraging others to discover how accessible paddling can be in London.

Anu Aladin 

I’m Anu and I live in Richmond. Back in 2010, I was on a beach in Hawaii when I saw a middle-aged guy carrying what looked like a giant surfboard and a paddle. He stepped onto the water, stood up and paddled out like it was the most natural thing in the world. Graceful glide. I was mesmerised.

It took another year before I got to try SUP for myself, on a beginner’s lesson in Falmouth. My legs were shaking, I kept falling off, but by the end of the session, I stood up. And just like that, I was hooked. Why? I’m still figuring that out.

Over the years, I’ve tried all sorts of hobbies. I’m one of those people who dive in deep, then just… move on. But SUP stuck. I’m glad it did. It’s brought me everyday adventures and a brilliant group of paddle friends.

In a personal article written for Ordnance Survey Maps, Anu describes how stand up paddleboarding helped her through her most difficult times:

"Surprising as it may sound, hopping onto my paddleboard anywhere in London brings me an almost immediate sense of calm. I get up to standing, find my balance and feel the water moving under my board. Everything quietens down. The city is still there. Trains rumble over bridges, people move along towpaths and embankments, traffic hums somewhere in the background, but it all fades away. What I notice instead is the steady rhythm of paddling: the soft glide of the board through the water, the paddle dipping in and lifting out again. My breathing deepens. My shoulders drop. With each stroke, worries and doubts begin to melt away. Even time shifts slightly. I’m no longer in a hurry. I’m simply here, present in a way that rarely happens on land. Perhaps this is what meditation feels like to people who can sit still."

Paddle London - the book

Paddle London is described as 'The definitive guide to exploring the rivers, canals, docks and reservoirs of London under paddle power', and the editor goes on to say that 'paddling in London offers a paddle experience like no other, combining a connection to nature with the vibrant energy of the city's architecture, culture and art'.

Elsewhere, it is stated "Paddle London invites you to see the capital from the water. A practical and inspiring guide to exploring in and around London, it features 40 urban and rural routes across the Thames, canals, rivers, docks and reservoirs, combining clear maps, photos and essential guidance with history, wildlife and public transport–friendly access."

The book is a lovely one to hold, with those oversized bendable covers enabling you to both save your page, and shove the book in your backpack without creasing it. And gloss pages throughout which make it more practical for handling near water! Open it, and it is jam-packed with lovely photographs and maps, and text split into very readable paragraphs. Appealing, not daunting.

Once inside, the book contains 40 routes along the London Canals, the River Thames and a few other waterways including the Basingstoke and the Wey Navigations. Each route is graded according to difficulty, with four different levels offering a wide scope from beginner routes to those with a great deal of experience behind them. Starts and finishing points for each route are linked with car parks, and public transport, so you can readily plan your experience.

Everything, it seems, has been carefully researched, and there is a whole section on safety, navigation rules, what you need to take with you, what to wear, and where you can get a licence when you need one. The routes are described in detail, with things you should be aware of, plus wildlife to watch out for, and any local features of interest are pointed out and their history given.

So even if you are not a paddleboarder, the book is of interest. Walkers and cyclists might benefit, and even those passing through London on narrowboats could be interested in specific routes. Especially as good drinking and eating places are also noted.

There is the usual challenge that would come from our readers: why is it London based, like everything else.  So I must mention some of the other books in the publisher's series: 'Paddle the East of England' and 'Paddle the North of England'.  But Anu's book is also a very useful guide for those who wish to take up paddle boarding wherever they might be based. And in it there are links to online groups and those paddleboarders who share their stories and their passion with other people. You could always research your own routes and share with Anu. Then she might be inspired to write another book!

Anu Aladin's book is readily available in good bookshops, on Amazon, and through the  Bloomsbury Publishing Website

Evenings on the canal were painted in gold. Lamps glowed from cabin windows, their light doubling in reflections on the water’s surface. Theo leaned against his railing with a violin in hand, coaxing out tunes that had no audience but the ducks and the ripples. His music carried across the cut, threads of melody curling through ivy-clad walls and along the towpath.

From her deck, Ivy listened. She pretended indifference, but her hands stilled on her mug of tea as she watched his silhouette framed in lantern light. The notes were raw, unpolished, and unlike the glossy performances she later learned he had abandoned. Here, he played not to impress but because the music demanded release. And something in her tightened with each refrain.

***

The weight of the shopping bag tugged against her shoulder as Ivy made her way back from the market. The cobbles underfoot gave way to the softer grit of the towpath, but before she crossed the bridge, she slowed, eyes drifting to the pub tucked into the bend of the lane. Its windows glowed amber even in daylight, and the painted sign, The Crown and Anchor, creaked faintly in the breeze. The place smelled of yeast, wood smoke, comfort, and memory, stitched together.

She hesitated on the threshold, then pushed the door open. Inside, the air wrapped around her like a worn quilt, warm, a little damp with steam from the kitchen, heavy with the smell of ale and roasted meat. Voices tumbled over one another, laughter here, a low murmur there, the scrape of a chair against the stone floor.

Behind the bar stood her friend, Meg, a stout woman with cheeks ruddy from both good humour and years near the fire. Her accent curled soft around the vowels, West Midlands through and through. “Well, if it isn’t Ivan’s girl,” Meg said, eyes crinkling as she set a tankard down for another customer. “I’d heard you’d taken the boat. Thought you’d be keepin’ yourself to the lines for a good while before bravin’ us lot.”

Ivy smiled, setting her bag on the counter for a moment’s reprieve. “Needed supplies,” she admitted. “And I thought a quick stop might be safer than learning to cook with coal smoke choking me.”

Meg barked a laugh. “Coal will choke ye, aye, but it’ll warm your toes better than bread and butter.” She poured a half pint without asking and slid it across. “On the house. For comin’ back.”

The ale was golden, a froth catching the lamplight. Ivy sipped, letting the bitterness settle on her tongue. Around her, the pub breathed with its regular rhythm: domino tiles slapped on wood, a dog nosing under tables for scraps, a man near the fire telling a story with hand gestures wider than the truth likely was.

“Feels different without him, doesn’t it?” Meg asked softly, her voice barely carrying past the bar.

Ivy nodded her throat tight. “He always liked the market. Said you could tell the health of a village by the weight of its bread and the boldness of its music.”

“Wise man,” Meg said. “And right enough. Did ye hear old Seamus fiddlin’ out there? Still got fingers quicker than lads half his age.”

“I did,” Ivy said, smiling faintly. “It made me think of Dad. He’d always pause to listen, even when he pretended he was in a hurry.”

Meg leaned on the bar, giving Ivy a look that was both steady and kind. “Then you’ll do the same. You’ve got his ears, girl. And maybe his stubbornness too.”

They spoke a little longer of coal deliveries, of which grocer sold milk that didn’t turn in a day, of how the swans had nested late this year. When Ivy finally gathered her bag and stepped back into the sunlight, she carried not only provisions but a sense of having been woven, however lightly, back into the fabric of the place.

The walk to her boat felt shorter, the canal glinting brighter in the late afternoon. She crossed the gangplank with care, setting the bag down inside before sinking onto the bench in the galley. The space smelled of bread, cheese, and faint smoke from the morning’s stove. She unpacked slowly: apples polished against her sleeve, coal stacked in the corner bin, milk set near the cool of the hull. Each item was an anchor, a piece of ordinary life to weigh against her uncertainties.

Sitting with a slice of bread in hand, she let her thoughts drift back to the marketplace. She had watched children laugh at the fiddler’s tunes, seen women haggle with sharp wit, felt the press and swirl of community around her. To her father, the market had been a gauge, a barometer of belonging. He had loved the bustle, the argument, the way a tune or a loaf could tell you whether a place was thriving.

For Ivy, the market had been overwhelming at first, too many voices, too much movement. But as the day wore on, she had felt something shift. Buying bread, she had been offered kindness. Buying coal, she had been shown strength. Listening to music, she had felt tradition steady her heartbeat. The market had tested her and, in small ways, accepted her.

Her father would have read it as a sign. See, lass, he would have said. The village has room for you, if you’ve the will to claim it.

Ivy leaned back, eyes tracing the worn beams above. Outside, the canal whispered against the hull, carrying both memory and promise. She was not yet fluent in this life, but today she had begun to speak its language. And in the music, both the old fiddler’s steady bow and Theo’s storm-fire glance from across the crowd, she had heard the conversation deepen.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the day settle. Belonging, she thought, might not come all at once. But it had begun.

It was during a long wait at Billing Aquadrome that some girls started to wash their hair, returning to the sitting out wells with towels done up as turbans. But before long this interest had spread, and some were now washing boys’ hair. All  the boys seemed (to me) to be tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and I could well understand why some girls might want to get their hands on them! Naturally, the boys had to take their shirts off first. I wasn’t sure whether to be plain envious or to feel critical and puritanical – after all, I was the Spanish Inquisition, to ensure that things were kept morally ship-shape!

camping boats at the River Nene locks, en route to Billing Aquadrome

Later the following day, I was enjoying my evening meal alone, using the galley hatch as a table top – when I saw bikini-clad Ingrid (for it was still hot and sunny) climbing around the boat towards me, meal in hand. We had shared a few smiles earlier in the day.

“Hi James, can I join you?”

“Sure, share my hatch!”

“Have you seen these boys having their hair washed? So I was wondering if you’d like a hair-wash too?”

I feel myself going red from the neck up. Fortunately, I was pretty red anyway from long hours at the tiller, in the sun. “Er - that would be great! But I’m not sure that the Spanish Inquisition would approve!"

“The what?”

“The Spanish Inquisition. You know – the Monty Python sketch!”

“Oh yes – that’s brilliant! Except the red cape might get caught around the propeller! Anyway, when you’ve finished your meal, come and find me, and we’ll get started. We can use one of the washing-up bowls.”

skipper Noel experiences the hair-wash treatment

Ingrid is a tall, slim and attractive girl from Staines, and studying Geography at Newcastle. With her glasses on she looks studious, without them, sensuous. With only a bikini on - smokin’ hot - one might say. I find her by the towpath, perched on the side of the boat.

“Come on James, let’s go inside – the kettle has boiled, the water is warm, and the shampoo is here . . .  But you need to take your shirt off first - of course."

This is the difficult bit, as I’m only too aware of my narrow chest, lack of muscles and skinny legs. So I never wear shorts on the boats, or on any holiday for that matter. And compared to Ingrid’s curvaceous body, I feel like a rake. But it doesn’t seem to bother her:

“Okay? So put your head down, and let’s get some soap into your curls.”

I do as instructed and, with her gentle hands massaging my scalp and longish, curly hair, my anxieties and unease seem to float away. It gives me a deep sense of connection, both to Ingrid and to the whole cruise. Certainly no girlfriend had ever offered me such a treat. After she’d finished, she wraps my head in a towel –and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you!” I blurt out – “that was wonderful! The high spot of my week!”

“You’re welcome – I enjoyed it too! See you later.”

But what’s going on? Envy? Guilt? Sensuality? Gratitude? A whole chemistry of thoughts and feelings now flood my brain. For I had never thought that the Spanish Inquisition might be like this!

happy campers relax by the River Nene

Nevertheless, despite this, and despite (or even because of) all the unexpected moments in the cruise, I was well and truly “all aboard” on this new adventure in my life. From now on, on a day-to-day basis, my interest in canals and planning for the next trip would become the bread and butter - and jam - of my life.

Cast off the ropes!!

Ken Jolly is a 75-year-old cowboy who lives in Texas. Has the boots and hat. His Great-Great Grandfather led a company of Virginians to Texas in 1836 to fight in the War of the Rebellion and served as First Lieutenant.  He participated in the Grass Fight and the Battle of San Jacinto. He was awarded the Land Grant, which the family still owns. To transport his small force to Texas, he brought a Brig, and after the Texas Navy lost its first four ships, he donated the vessel to the Navy and rechristened it the “San Jacinto”.

In his previous role, Ken served as a CAD/BIM Coordinator at an International Corporation, which required extensive travel. There he learned to appreciate the Tow Path and the quiet aspects of British culture. He can be found on weekends two-stepping at local dives, playing the fiddle, or fly-fishing. He writes stories about people who live between places where lives move at the pace of water and weather. His Tow Path Series blends contemporary romance, paranormal, and mystery with community-driven storytelling, rooted in the everyday rhythms of life.

Ken began writing technical manuals in 2010 and, upon retiring, has recently branched into fiction genres. He has a distinct writing voice across genres and establishes individual character arcs, adding unique direction and credibility to his actors.

He is a sailor, and his boat in Texas travels slightly faster than 4 knots when the wind is blowing, and he has often had to execute short tacks while going up canals. He actually lived on board the boat for most of a year through a brutal winter. However, he sees joy in living the slower pace of the canal. A lifelong observer of waterways, Ken is drawn to the quiet drama of small decisions, shared meals, late-night conversations, and the way music, memory, and place shape who we become. His characters are often rebuilding—boats, relationships, and themselves—finding connection not in grand gestures, but in steady hands, shared labour, and the trust earned over time. Some of his writing drifts into the paranormal, as he was the Leader of a ghost-hunting group, Paranormal Investigations and Eliminations (PIE), for many years.

When he isn’t writing, Ken can usually be found walking, studying the craft of storytelling, or listening for the kind of music that sounds better drifting across water at dusk. The Tow Path Series is his love letter to canal communities—past and present—and to the idea that home is always on the water.

Amazon books, where Ken's books can be purchased in a variety of forms, introduce his Tow Path Series thus:

"Set along the winding canals and hidden waterways of Europe, The Tow Path Series blends romance, music, and community into a tapestry of modern canal life. Each book explores the lives of those who choose the water as home—narrowboat dwellers, traveling musicians, wanderers, and dreamers—where the pace of the canal contrasts sharply with the turbulence of love, ambition, and second chances.

With recurring characters and overlapping storylines, the series paints an intimate portrait of a floating community bound together by locks, pubs, festivals, and the timeless rhythm of the towpath. The stories explore themes of belonging, self-discovery, and connection, often with a fire-and-wild romantic undercurrent that pushes characters to navigate both their waterways and their hearts.

At once tender and gritty, The Tow Path Series offers readers an immersive escape into a world where every bend in the canal reveals not only scenic vistas, but also new adventures, new faces, and the possibility of love where it’s least expected. "  (Amazon)

Review:

Ken Jolly writes with the precision of an engineer and the heart of a storyteller. A lifelong craftsman of words and design, he has authored acclaimed guides on architecture and technology, but his true passion lies in exploring the human connections that shape our lives.

When he’s not writing, Ken can often be found aboard his sailboat or imagining the quiet towpaths of England’s canals, where the rhythms of water and music inspire his stories. His love of the violin, his eye for detail, and his deep curiosity about people bring authenticity to the characters he creates.

Mooring Lines is his first romance set in the canal boat world, weaving together love, loss, and second chances against the backdrop of narrowboats and community life. With a craftsman’s discipline and a romantic’s heart, Ken proves that love stories told by men can be just as tender, raw, and true.

There are currently 7 novels in the Tow Path Tales series, all of which are available on Amazon KIndle The 7th book, 'Thin Water on the Canal', has only recently been published. Some of the books are also available as Audio books,  and all as paperbacks.

Ken's first book in the series, Mooring Lines, can be found serialized in this magazine - Ken Jolly, Author at CanalsOnline Magazine 

The next morning arrived with an optimism that felt almost unfair. Sunlight burned the mist away in uneven patches, leaving the canal striped in gold and shadow. The roof of Ivy’s boat glistened with dew, droplets rolling into thin lines before vanishing at the gutter seams. Birds took the day as their cue to be loud gulls squabbling over scraps, blackbirds stitching their notes across hedgerows. The world was awake whether she was ready or not.

Ivy emerged from the cabin squinting, a mug in one hand, her father’s cap in the other. She hadn’t worn it yet, only carried it like an object that she still needed permission. She turned it over in her fingers, thumb tracing the faint curve where his hand had always adjusted the brim. Finally, she set it on her head. The weight was small, but it changed how she felt her spine stack itself. She looked out across the cut and whispered, “Well, here we are.”

A man passed on the towpath leading a pair of dogs that strained in opposite directions. He lifted a hand in greeting. Ivy managed to return the gesture without spilling her coffee, though her smile felt unpractised. People along the canal noticed newcomers. Some tested them with silence, others with conversation. Either way, the water carried word faster than gossip had any right to travel.

She busied herself with the small work of the boat, checking the fenders, tapping the deck boards with the toe of her boot to listen for any hollow places, coiling a line that didn’t strictly need coiling. Each action steadied her, though underneath it all ran the pulse of the memory from yesterday: the man with the violin, Theo, his music threading through the fog. The canal had introduced them, but only on its terms. She wasn’t sure she wanted more, and she wasn’t sure she had a choice.

The sound of hammering drifted down the row of moorings. Someone was making repairs, the metallic rhythm irregular but determined. She followed it with her eyes and saw an older man in overalls repairing a hatch cover on his boat. He looked up, caught her watching, and tipped his flat cap in acknowledgment. Ivy nodded back. A little exchange, small as a coin, but it felt like her first earned currency on the cut.
By mid-morning, she knew she couldn’t avoid the errand any longer. Supplies were thin; she needed coal for the stove, milk, bread, and things to turn the galley from storage into a kitchen. The nearest village was a mile along the towpath. She set out with a canvas bag over her shoulder, boots crunching the gravel in a rhythm that matched her nerves.

The path curved past fields furrowed from the last ploughing, crows stalking the ridges like inspectors. At a bend, the sound of music stopped her in her tracks. Violin again. Not distant this time, but immediate, close enough she could hear the rasp of bow on string, the breath between phrases. Theo sat on a low stone wall, the case open at his feet, the bow dancing quickly and sure across the strings.

She considered turning back before he noticed. But the choice evaporated when he raised his head, eyes finding hers with the same inevitability as yesterday. He finished the tune before speaking, the last note hanging like a question.

“Morning, line-burn,” he said, his mouth tugging into that half-smile.

Ivy felt heat rise in her face. “That’s not my name.”

“It could be,” he said easily, resting the violin against his knee. “Names come from somewhere.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag. “I’m Ivy.” She put the word down firmly, as if staking a claim to the ground.

“Theo,” he said, though she already knew. The woman with the dog had told her, but hearing it from him was different, like a secret repeated for the first time.

For a moment, neither spoke. Birds chattered in the hedge. A barge engine grumbled in the distance, its thrum carrying along the water. Theo tightened his bow hair, more ritual than necessity. “Off for supplies?”

She nodded. “Trying to make the boat liveable.”

“Coal yard’s just past the bridge. Grocer’s across from the pub. You’ll find both faster if you ask, but you’ll remember better if you get lost first.”

“Do you always give instructions that sound like riddles?” she asked.

He considered that, then grinned openly for the first time. “Only when they’re true.”

She surprised herself by smiling back. The wariness didn’t vanish, but it shifted, made room for curiosity. She adjusted her grip on the bag strap and moved to go. “Thanks,” she said.

Theo lifted the violin again, bow already coaxing a new melody. “See you on the water, Ivy.”

His music followed her down the path, weaving into the rhythm of her footsteps until she couldn’t tell if she was carrying it with her or if it was carrying her. By the time she reached the bridge, she realized she was humming along.