For Gerry.
Too many Micks Oxford…
What a flippin amazing place! Where do we start? I mean it’s the breeding ground of the educated, the home of the enlightened, the hub of the lettered, the residence of the learned, and the birthplace of owls. It has more history and amazing facts than you could shake a tree, a woodland, a common or indeed a rainforest at, and doctor google of course knows a lot more of them than yours truly. So, let’s woo the aforementioned with some keyboard foreplay as it were and see what informational juices it spouts.
Oxford was firstly named `Oxforda’ in somewhere around the 8th century. The definition of the word back then quite simply meant a Ford, a shallow part of a river where cattle could cross. This of course largely amounted to ox, the favoured cattle of the century, had it been pig or sheep it surely would have had a different name altogether. It was continually called `Oxforda’ for an unknown amount of time or at least right up until it wasn’t. It seems the `a’ was dropped, stolen or disregarded sometime over the passing centuries and nobody really seemed to mind, in fact no one minded so much so that the word was erased altogether, it literally no longer exists in any word providing publication or certainly not one that wassaname online can now find anyhow. So, at some point it may have been known as, Oxford, the city with the missing `a’? possible but I doubt it. It may have been that the letter `a’, being the last in line as it was, merely fell off a rotted sign and as such Oxforda lost a small bit of its identity, again It’s possible, but my money is of course on the then newly formed town of Bingdon, whose locals had always felt something was missing from their name, and that the use of a letter`a’ would come in rather handy right at the front of Bingdon no matter where one found it. Whatever happened or however it came to be, Vowel play certainly played a part.
After a gentle amount of keyboard caressing the all-knowing laptop lovely gently divulges another not so well-known fact, that Oxford was indeed once the Capital City of England. October 1642 during the English civil war to be precise`ish and the title remained that way for 3 ½ years, or again right up until it no longer did. The Cavaliers protecting the Monarch state were overthrown by Parliamentarian Roundheads and the Title of Capital City was swiftly bagged up and moved to London.
So, there you go that is just two amazing facts given up and delivered to my fingertips from the ever knowledgeable brain in a box, but fear not, among the armfuls and armfuls left on offer are; It was the first place to serve coffee in England, was the home of Morris motors (and quite possibly dancers but not confirmed),it was the setting for Inspector Morse, home to the 12th century church of St Martin, whose height of 23metres is used to set the height of all buildings in Oxford, it has the Turf Tavern, a 13th century watering hole where Bill Clinton famously got stoned enough to mess things up across the pond, it’s the oldest university in the English speaking world housing either 39 or 43 colleges (depending what mood the electronic floozy is in) and is lucky enough to have the famous and amazing Bodleian library within. It is nicknamed `The city of dreaming spires’, has given us 30 British prime ministers and is a champion spot for punting. Further investigative fingering around the digital Gspot will inform you that the university alone has around 26,000 boys, girls, girlboy, boygirl, and the yet undecided within its ranks, a general population of 166,000reside within the city, it has a boat race of course and it sits 60 or so road miles from the newer Capital City of London. But why…? I hear you ask, why all this rather crudely delivered, possibly, maybe, slightly factual information about Oxford eh? I mean what is your point? Well…Patience please dear reader I am getting there, just another couple of facts I’ve saved for best. Facts that required no fiddling with the firmwear, or buttering up of a bot. Oxford lies some 85 nautical miles from Steven’s eyot, has 31 locks of varying depth in-between and is home to a rather low bridge…. That dear reader is where I come in.
Journeys, as we know, come in all shapes and sizes. Some of course are short and simple requiring minimum effort and no major re-shuffling of lives, some of course are long and arduous, requiring huge amounts of preparation, planning, letters of consent from employers, cooperation from spouses and even more cooperation from offshoots. They may require a coordination of dates having to be pre- booked months in advance and may rely upon multiple modes of transport to accomplish. This particular journey however consisted largely of opportunity, spontaneity, a happy and compliant Margaritaville (aka The Duchess), a cool box loaded with beer, a barbeque, six bags of nuts, two ripe and juicy plums, and an abundance of Micks. As we know there are many Micks rattling around inside Mick, we regularly hear from the gobby one for sure, we may hear from others in this tale.
We start our journey of course at Stevens Eyot or Ait. As it is a little unclear even on our own SBC website, the difference between an Eyot and an Ait maybe it is now time to shed the light on the correct terminology.
An Eyot or Ait are either man made or naturally made islands in a river, not quite big enough to be inhabited (unless of course for yours truly or the lesser spotted Pinnock, who ironically is rather largely spotted, not in chicken pox or measle fashion you understand it’s just that you see him quite a bit) and are generally used for recreational use. The only real difference is that one is an English term Eyot, and one is an American term Ait. So, for this tale then we start at Stevens Eyot.
It was a Tuesday morning in Late May, the 20th to be exact and as luck would have it the stars aligned, and the many Micks found themselves in the fortunate position to become unbusy for a while. The timing was great, as just a matter or weekends previous yours truly & co had been offered the opportunity to crew the Thames in the other direction which we had duly accepted managing collectively to reach the giddy heights of Rochester. (I say giddy heights but in truth Rochester lies a good many miles beneath Teddington, so there, the first oxymoron of this tale, (sit tight I’m sure there will be others) Having travelled that fair stretch of the Thames downstream and into Estuary waters it seemed only fit that we now try to get just as far in the other direction and find out exactly what this low bridge shenanigan is all about.
Heading upstream luckily requires far less planning, charting, and calculating than heading downstream. There are things to consider, of course, the main contender’s weather, stream flow, and river closures. However, after a massive 15 minutes checking all the above and an internal vote, the Mick majority gave it the thumbs up. Toothbrush, cool box,nuts and juicy plums safely stowed, the only other thing to consider is the re-fueling stations for both craft and crew. The crew part of things in all honesty is extremely straightforward. The Thames you see was rather thoughtful when it first weaved its route downstream. It decided, (as any river worth its sort should), to nestle itself as close as possible to some extremely pleasant Alehouses. At least I’m pretty confident that must be the way it was designed, I mean surely when the good lord above created this beautiful green and blue planet the very first things added would have been places to quench one’s thirst with a lovely pint. Quite simply how else would anything else have ever been built?
The Duchess however is a tad pickier and will only drink the finest of Juices, and positively turns her nose up at the overpriced muck served at Marinas. This little quirk of hers does however give the many Micks a little more to do in the planning department and a little more internal drawing of straws as to which one of us is going to load the trolley with empty jerry cans, make the ever slightly arduous task of trundling off to find a local distributer and returning with brim filled containers of fine E5 fossil fuel. As it panned out it really didn’t matter, we rowed constantly over it, smug Mick drew the longest straw who laughed our head off first, only to find out that even though he had won as always he was still going to have to make the journey with us, which positively cracked the rest of us Micks up and completely wiped the smile off my face. Confused? Good, stay tuned.
Paranoid Mick sits at the front of the Micks when it comes to fuel. He likes The Duchess to always have a belly full of the stuff, a three-quarter reading on thirsty gauge just doesn’t cut it, especially if there is a long journey planned. We are all pretty sure this stems from having a very loopy thirsty gauge on the first love, you see it was something to do with a European depth diddler rubbing a yankee doodle dander up the wrong way and if you can make sense of that, I’ll give you a quid. Here let me help you, the sender unit for the petrol gauge on our first boat was European, and the boat itself was American and the two just didn’t get along. The result of this was of course when the reading was full, the tank was empty, and when the reading was empty, the content within was anyone’s guess, hence the arrival of paranoid petrol Mick. My apologies here I am digressing as always, and we haven’t even started yet, just thought it may be useful to have a bit of background.
So, much to the dismay of one of myself we commence our journey three quarters full, which however, is a far better way to start a journey than one quarter empty, pointed out optimistmick. With the internal bickering slightly subdued, the moorings were slipped, and our adventure was underway. Molesey lock soon appeared, coming into view just after The Albany, much the same as it always does, and a little wave of excitement ran through us all. Maybe it’s just me’s, but there is something special about going through Molesey lock when you’re heading upstream. It feels as though you’ve completed the first challenge, gone through the point of no return and the excitement of the first nibble of freedom awaits. The weather was fair to middling, which basically meant it wasn’t raining and although it has been forecast to downpour at some points in our selected timeslot, we relished in the fact that it hadn’t yet, as this allowed the duchess and I to travel the Thames as we normally like to dress, canopy down, shorts on, and shoes off. Molesey lock is generally manned by Steve but If however, you arrive on a Tuesday like us, service is taken up a notch or two as you have the added luxury of being fast-tracked through by none other than our very own superb Commodore. It’s been said you’re welcomed in first, regardless of queue, ushered to the best spot where your ropes are collected, suitably looped over a secure fixing and handed back to you. Unfortunately for us we’d missed the round Robin about phoning ahead and it wasn’t until we had thrown and missed three times and quite a bit of hollering was dispelled that pity was taken and we were noticed. “Ah sorry Mick, didn’t recognise you without your shoes on, where you off to?” “As far up stream as I can Si” came the reply. The simple fact of those words leaving our lips gave excited Mick cause to run downstairs and gently tap dance in our belly. It’s a simple pleasure, but there’s something about the whole river thing that pleases our soul. For us, we cannot bore of the beauty, whether it be the sight of a duck with all her ducklings following in a row, the reflection of the tree lined banks, the gentle lapping of the river, a jumping fish, the friendliness of other boaters, the ever-changing skyline, the list is endless, it’s our happy place and if your reading this then possibly yours too.
Sorry, if you feel a bit emotional after that little paragraph, why don’t you tootle off and have a cry and we’ll catch up with you on the next one when things have returned to normal.
Better now, jolly good lets continue.
We Moseyed up through Molesey, wound our way around Walton and slipped through Sunbury lock with surprising ease. A steady pace was kept; river traffic was light to non-existent, and even the sun stuck its head through the clouds on an occasional basis. Slowly but surely thoughts of work, bills and general life admin drained into a sleepy state, let’s do it later Mick picked them up and gently rested them on a shelf way at the back of our bonce marked `do not disturb.’ Empty headed and happy then we approached Shepperton Lock. We had taken the direct route, bypassing the scenic leafy loveliness that delivers you to Lindsays lawn and arrived Portside of the gates where we sat awaiting entry. If you’ve never had the experience of passing through Shepperton lock well, you are in for a treat. It is one of the most immaculately kept locks along the riverside. In fact, so much so that there is always a throng of people scattered around. The place is genuinely filled with lots of Portly faced ladies and Gentlemen sitting on benches eating packed lunches and holding score cards at any given time of the day. It’s one of those nobody’s looking, yet everyone is looking type places, where of course you must be bang on the money throwing your lines. Failure on the first attempt is frowned upon and would score you a four, failure on the second attempt is sneered at, a two at best, failure on the third is get your boat out of here and try again mate. Not that any of this is said out loud, just merely implied using the universal art of the nonchalant frown. Of course, failure on the fourth attempt brings about a whole range of more visible signs of disgust, a stitch is dropped from the knitting, a mouth is missed with a cheese sandwich, a tut is heard disguised as a cough, a piece of cutlery rings out a clang of failure as it hits the floor. Fortunately, on this occasion it’s not for us. Precise Mick loops around first time, exercising a perfect ten. We sigh a very internal sigh of relief which is masked beautifully by an external nonchalant look of our own, and it’s back to business as usual for all the non-looking looking audience.
As the lock fills, we perform a quick shoes on, shoes off routine whilst talking to the locky. Although it does bring about a confused look upon his face, we’re still left heading upstream wondering whether we really are hard to recognise when we’re not wearing shoes, or whether its only lockkeepers that have this visual impairment, best not to try it out in a bank with a sawn off just yet then. We continue onward, meandering the short hop to Chertsey. There are a couple of shallow moorings here, portside just below the bridge, and the engine needs to be trimmed a little. This spot is THE most convenient we’ve found to acquire a drink for the duchess, as the petrol station is only twenty or so big steps away. The stop is warmly welcomed by you know who, the empty cans are loaded onto the trolly, and two trips later paranoid Mick is just a distant memory.
Now then reader, we could do a lock-by-lock account of the journey, complete with a bunch of information about the history and beauty that each stretch has to offer, but I feel that would surely be too long a task for you to endure or indeed for me to write, so instead let’s have a one sided chat and let me bring you up to speed about some of the more key stops along the way. I’ll do all the hard bit and keep talking, and you just stay tuned and nod your head every now and again. That’s the spirit.
Oh fudgestix, you may have to bear with me now as I’ve just dropped a bit of biskit onto the keyboard and it seems it has got itself stukk down the korner of my see button. I will do my best to unklog it, but for now let’s just get on with the story.
Shertsey lock done, Penton hook follows and then we end up at Bell Wier. The point of interest here is it was the site of the signing of the Magna Karmasutra. For those of you who are in the dark about this historik event the Magna Karmasutra is an anshent book which takes its name from both Hindu and Roman desent. Magna is taken from the Latin word Magna which basikly means huge, and Karmasutra is taken from the Hindu language whish roughly translated means bedroom athletiks. The book is filled with thin pensil line drawings of sexual positions one kood perform whilst helming a kraft along this stretsh of the Thames and proved a big hit with boaters bak in the day. Apparently, there was a rather raunshey display of sush events along the bank of the lokk on the day of the signing and everyone who attended reseeved a free kewkumber, but don’t quote me on that.
Moving on, and rather swiftly to, another two lokks are kompleted and we find ourselves on the long stretsh within but not within the grounds of Windsor Kastle. One former okkasion when passing through said stretsh myself and krew at the time were lukky enough to see our then Queen of Blighty riding her horse at the ripe old age of 90 something. Just to klarify, it was dear Queeny who was ninety something and not the horse on whish she rode,but, given she had two birthdays a year this means her aktual age was around 180 and although she had shrunken to the size of yoda she still looked damn fine. There were three of us boats passing through at that time, and although none of us knew eash other we stopped at the lok and all got out shatting about it like exsited skool shildren.
There got it, dislodged the bugger! Things should return to normal now, the letter c is back in the game. I will try my best, but bad grandma and poor smelling may still however be an issue.
We passed through Windsor as swiftly as we had arrived. Theres a lot of history here of course, the castle itself is the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world, Its home to the oldest working Kitchen which has been serving dishes to our Royals for the last 650 years, it also houses over 450 clocks, (which can be a pesky nuisance twice a year) and has over 300 fireplaces in which to keep the royal tootsies toasty, however, it’s also a busy stretch of river, the town is filled with tourists and unsightlys and not the most serene of overnight stops. The stores were still healthy, the duchess had been watered and after a quick show of hands let’s keep going had been the majority vote. A bottle of water was cracked open, and thirst was quenched in the most boring of ways. Satisfying one urge leads onto satisfying another and so we reached for a handful of nuts, coughed, found everything to be okay and continued with our journey. We chugged through Boveney and past a favourite stopover of Lata Da’s. In all fairness this is a beautiful place to moor, and once secured you can stroll through the scrub, past a well-aged small brick church and purchase some breakfast eggs direct from the farm. Again, simple pleasures that warm the heart.
We had a schedule, a date and time had been loosely set, and we were so close to our own favourite haunt we upped the pace. Once through Bray we weaved our way past the strategically placed and ever tempting watering holes that maidenhead has to offer but slowed as we approached the railway bridge. I will never forget passing this feat of engineering a good few years back in the first floating love of our life. Staring up at the brickwork and marveling at the beauty of the engineering, I vowed to look up its construction which I will now share with you. It was designed by the great western railway company and in particular a gentleman named Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The learned folk among you may know this name and some of his legacy. It was he who with his father constructed the Thames tunnel, the first tunnel under a navigable waterway, he then went on to design the Clifton suspension bridge and also built the first propeller-driven, ocean-going iron ship which was named the SS Great Britain. The Maidenhead bridge is also nicknamed the sounding arch, and it is said that if you pass through at exactly midnight on specific days twice a year you can hear the painful winding of the clocks back or forward one hour respectively at Greenwich. Isambard was an incredible inventor of stuff from an early age and at the ripe old age of nine had built a musical instrument called the clutterpuk. This oddly shaped instrument was largely constructed from string, old cotton reels, matchsticks, and a jar of chutney. Apparently if you blow the chutney through the cotton reel and land it square onto a piece of string pulled tightly between two matchsticks the reverberated sound it creates resembles the opening bars of an early version of Simon and Garfunkels bridge over troubled water, or so it’s said. We floated under and took a moment to once again marvel at the beauty before arriving at Boulters lock. The moorings here are Starboard and are metal grided much the same as the starboard side at Bell weir or indeed old Romney but with the added advantage that if you skip just that little bit more to the right you can moor and spend the night eating and boozing to your hearts content at a rather lovely establishment whose name escapes us at present. Although the evening was light, it was early in the season and just outside of Locky hours. Safely moored, you need to traverse the grid, walk under the bridge, and up the steps to find the operating controls. Of course, on arrival we find the lock empty and walk the length to close the far sluices before returning to set the wheels in motion at our end. It’s a deep lock and home to nearly 8 feet of rise which makes the whole Thames throw a tad more intense should it be manned. Not for us at this time of day says smart Mick, we moor next to the steps and take a line with us, climb to the bank, tie off and back to the process of sluices down sluices up etc. Once through, and with the painful task of mooring portside running back around the lock, closing the gates and then jumping back on board completed, we find that temptation has its limits. Without really knowing what happened suddenly, there’s an open beer in one hand and a grin that spreads from ear to ear starts dancing across our chops. The thing is we know what’s coming; we know what’s just beyond the beautiful houses that sit opposite the weir. With no other boats in sight, it’s just us, we slow the engine and almost drift around the bend, there the beauty of Cliveden unfolds. It’s not that the rest of the journey so far was …well unbeautiful if that is even a word, but Clivedon just gives you that bit extra. The trees here are tall and tiered on the starboard bank and sit majestically in perfect rows on the side of the hill, the river is wide and has small islands nestling in the middle, peace rules the roost and the feeling is that of entering a library, everybody hush, the birds and the trees hold the only language here. Clivedon House with its stunning architecture sits 40metres above the Thames, showing off its splendor, but from a distance. Excited Mick does his tap-dancing belly thing once more as the Duchess picks her spot, not on the portside possible early morning joggers, not on the starboard, possible early morning dog walkers, she settles at our usual spot, starboard side on the island in the middle of the river and with the sound of silence ringing loudly in our ears we settle for the night.
As it turns out Cliveden geese are just as fucking annoying as Stevens Eyot geese and don’t seem to have the same respect for the National trust place of beauty as the rest of us. Just as a few of the Micks start to drift off the screeching and honking about courtship and territory begin and continue in fits and starts for the next couple of hours. With the general ambience of the place let’s just say, interrupted, we decide that in order to get any rest some evasive action is required. We climb out of bed, rummage around the rucksack and pull out the trusty earbuds. Plugged in then, and back in bed we finally nod off to the gentle sounds of the Prodigy.
The morning brings a different sound, the honking subsided, the rustling of the wind in the trees muted, it’s instead the familiar tapping and splashing of rain that leads the morning symphony. We’re not surprised, it had been forecast, and we had escaped it yesterday. Yes, it means we can’t drive as we would like, but maybe it will pass; we can definitely lie in for a bit, but maybe it will get heavier? It appears all the Micks have woken at once, but the sound of the rain soon soothes the internal chattering. We get up, act upon natures other business and put the kettle on. The duchess is not a large boat but the amount of space she has is ample, even for an abundance of Micks like myselves. The coffee is brewed in the Kitchen/diner, chocolate biscuits are found in the larder, and the lot is taken up the stairs and into the cockpit/conservatory. A few minor leaks are spread about the place, and seating is carefully chosen to avoid a wet rear. The angle of the rain is assessed, and the starboard side panel can be unfastened without fear of a soaking, and the action is performed forthwith. Sitting there, watching the rain was truly mesmerising. We were only a few miles upriver, a good few indeed mind but it felt like we had stumbled across the very middle of nowhere, the view from the duchess was stunning and the rain dancing off the mirrored river only enhanced it. Whatever dispute the geese had the previous evening had been settled and even the sight of them with raindrops dripping from their beaks was really quite beautiful. We could have sat there for days, that moment, that ambience; the feeling was the true meaning of tranquility and if it could be bottled, it could be sold for fortunes. However, special moments are special moments for a reason and if they lasted for days, they would soon cease to be special, and purely by definition cease to be a moment.
Dan was on duty as usual at Cookham lock but the shoes on, shoes off routine had no impact behind a semi closed canopy, and the chat turned instead to him wanting to purchase an outboard motor for his tender. I promised to keep my eyes and ears open, thanked him for his time and we proceeded on our way. The Cookham to Marlow stretch is a long and affluent bit of water and is broken up in-between by the infamous Bounty pub at Bourne end. We’ve stopped here for a bite to eat and a pint on occasion, and also once on a mercy petrol mission on the first love. The petrol station here is the other side of the river and a bloody long walk back and over the bridge. We had found this out from a friendly chap called Aaron who seemed to have taken root on his houseboat outside the pub. We’d talked for a while and after buying him a pint by way of a bit of buttering up he took us and petrol cans over on his tender, and waited for us to return! He really was a friendly chap but stunk heavily of body odour as I recall, and he had a whopping great nose recalled observant Mick, yeah it was so big he could probably smoke a fag in the shower added Mick taking Mick. Yeah, but showers aren’t really his thing are they argued observant Mick, Well with a nose of that proportion what a fine sense of smell he must have and a great platform for some spectacles added pleasant Mick, Fine sense of smell, you must be off your trolley said Mick taking Mick again, one half of a pickaxe and he can’t even work out he smells like the unpleasant end of a dust cart! The arguments in the head continued and soon we reached Marlow lock. As it came into view, we did the usual, staring, squinting and trying to see from as far away as we could which sign was decorating the doors, but sadly, as we neared, the big blue sign reading SELF SERVICE was sitting proudly on full display, here we go again then.
Theres a very dated gentleman’s toilet as you go up the stairs here just left of the control station and there’s something about being out and about when it’s lashing it down that makes you feel you should join in. So, while the duchess was rising, we nipped in and did our bit. A very old urinal spanned the length of one wall, and an equally aged throne complete with lopsided seat sat in a small cubicle in the far corner. A slightly rotting but heavily graffitied toilet door sat slightly ajar, and a half open roll of toilet paper decorated the floor. For some strange reason when in one of these situations, you feel compelled to read some of the graffiti and see what inspirational messages they hold. The normal arrow was there, which went off round the door in a swirly circle and when you found where it ended was a little note that read, if you’ve read this your now pissing on your shoes, an inspirational quote donned the door a little further down scribbled in biro and written on the angle , which when deciphered read,’ Vandalism is much better when you know what to write’, the quote completed with a drawing of a stick figure man with a confused look on his face. A little further down from that A and written in striking blue marker pen was ‘Tony loves Man Cheese, and by its side in separate inks and scrawls were, 9 `espeshally gordonzola’, and `yeah and cheddar George’ suggesting they had been added at other various times. I had a sudden urge to add, what about Peter Parmesan, and Edam musk, but the thought left my head almost as fast as it had arrived, largely due to the fact I didn’t have a marker pen on my possession. We rinsed our hands in the 1960s sink, declining the offer of the bar of soap, which looked as though it also hadn’t been disturbed since the sink was installed, and had instead moulded itself over the years next to the obliquely angled broken hot tap as some form of toilet art. We then went to check on the duchess. Happily, she had risen in much the same way as a Victoria sponge does, although without the aid of an oven and with no eggs inside, and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Given the time of day, which was halfway round the clock at a push, the whole place was eerily quiet. There was absolutely no sign of a lock keeper; no one had walked through the lock, and no boats were to be seen in either direction. It was as though the moment the words self-service had arrived, anyone within helping distance had scarpered. We closed the gates and pushed on. Feeling a tad peckish we grabbed a handful of nuts, squealed, put them down again and turned on the speaker. A couple of beauty spots passed which I could talk about in length, (but then I can’t go giving every secret away eh.) the rain ceased and soon we were on the approach to Hambleden lock which is of course the gateway to Henley. The locky and I have history here. A difference of opinion a few years previous and another man uninvitedly touching the duchess had led to an exchange of words between us all and the rudeness of both locky and helper soured my whole Hambledon experience on that occassion. Over the years I had put that down to an off day on everyone’s part, anyway surely lightning couldn’t strike twice. The micks and I eased in through the open gates, headed portside and threw a line. The only boat in the lock and firmly secure we hear the same dulcet tones as years previous and as we turned we saw the same sour face. We sent an ear-to-ear beam of happiness in his direction, but all the while thinking his name must be Tony, he loves man cheese and people write things about him on toilet walls.
Until this time, the duchess and me’s had only ventured up to the giddy heights of Sonning (no oxymoron here) and so everything after here was to be a new adventure. Excitement running around our veins and optimism in plenty we arrive at Blakes lock to find the now all too familiar blue sign, and as if to try to dampen our spirits, upon further inspection it was hand wind only. Optimitmistmick says, `well it’s only a workout’, pessimistmick says `Yeah but we gotta close em’ Both right then, and no arguments necessary we get on with the job, hoping for another boat to appear, but as usual in these situations the law of sod was standing firm and subsequently nothing doing in either direction, as we wound the final turn with sweat dripping from our face nosey Mick was sure he’d seen a curtain twitch in the Lockkeepers cottage .The day was moving on, soon there would be less of it left for us to relish than we had already enjoyed, and thoughts began to turn to food. We reached for some nuts, and this time got lucky shoving a handful into our chops and munched happily as we passed joyfully through new surroundings. As the evening drifted in it bought about with it a drop in temperature. We decided to put our shoes back on as the chance of being recognised in these new parts was slim to non-existent, and we knew that no matter what, the next lock we were to arrive would surely be unmanned. It wasn’t the night that just got dark, for the first time in our trip the stretch of water we motored through took on a different tone. A lot of terribly unloved boats adorned the portside bank and the bank itself was filled with litter, we upped the pace and zippered the hoodie shaking off an unwanted shiver whilst watching a group of adolescents start a bonfire. Things may have looked different in daylight, but it’s funny how quick the milk turns sour as darkness creeps in. True to form self-service came into view and as we passed through and into Reading, we saw a man franticly looking through a wheelie bin that was up on bricks and had a strong urge to lock the duchess before making the journey back around to close the gates. It was dark now and getting cold and time to find a mooring for sure. There were moorings on the bank but for some strange reason none of us fancied it. Onward spoke the voice of reason Mick and the rest of us nodded as we continued past the none to pleasant surroundings. Nav lights on, music off and concentration on full alert we passed a small island which looked like a contender for a mooring, however as we approached, the protruding trees ushered us away, their branches low and protective. Scenarios running through our head suggested, worst case we would tie up at the next lock cut, and we were pretty much resided to that fact when all of a sudden, bingo. We just floated past two huge posts set around 40foot apart and in the middle of the river. It was an obvious mooring for a far bigger floating vessel than ourselves but as luck would have it, they were out. The time of night suggested that they wouldn’t return that evening and so the duchess and us made our way over. The posts were positioned broadside in the river and protected on one side by the island. As we were in no way big enough to span both posts, we approached one and had to poke the boat hook out, throw the rope around the post, land it on the boat hook, retrieve it slowly, leave a little slack and tie it off. Then, with careful maneuvering, we managed to repeat the game at the other end. A bit of adjustment on them both and hey presto a smug Mick and a boat hammock duchess. Time then to kick back, abuse the cool box and get some well earnt rest.
The sleep that night felt good and long but was filled with lucid dreams and strange visions. We woke remembering something about a man made of cheese, crooked and bent over and trying to catch geese with airhorns strapped to their heads that were running up and down a runway constantly cocking their legs. He was dressed as the child catcher from chitty chitty bang bang and had a huge bent nose with a big blue wart on the end of it and he was trying to lasso them with two ropes at a time. The whole thing then morphed into a weird goldilocks and the three bears type scene, but the bears were replaced by huge ocean crossing liners and ill swear as we woke one of them was booming “who’s been sleeping in my bed!”. We lay there for a while in a mild sweat and collected what was left of our thoughts, searching around for something rational among the debris. Coffee was needed so we jumped up, made our way through the empty beer cans and found a half-eaten packet of nuts, a sure contender for the cranky dreams, one should never eat late I grumbled to myselves, but we were all there and so responsibilities for our actions should be shared, said one mick, up your dungpipe! shouted another. It was a crisp morning and still quite early, we drew the curtains which revealed a low mist across the water and bought with it muted visibility. The birds were chattering, but at a low hum as if not to wake anyone, and a layer of morning dew adorned every visible surface. No scary faced Ocean liners claiming their bed space could be seen from the window, but the scene was set for a lone Galleon to drift through the mist with a crew ready for some pirating. Along the bankside a spattering of lights could be seen between the trees, the sound of an engine came and went in the distance, and a hazy ray of sun could be seen doing its best to burst through the clouds. The morning felt like that of a slow burner but held the promise of a glorious day we were keen to move on and thought the second whistling of the kettle should provide the inspiration to stir the duchess. It did and she roared into life on first asking and performed a massive roaring throaty yawn of her own. We needed to busy ourselves whilst she warmed herself up and muddled around dropping the canopy, sweeping the empties to one side, and checking on the rations. Despite last night’s activities things were still looking quite healthy, a decent measure of beer still bobbed around in the cool box, four and a half packets of nuts were still in stock and two shiny plums sat on the side. Plume are not our usual go to fruit, but we had bought exactly two along with us for this trip as we had heard that you need to have one in your mouth at all times if one is to engage in proper conversation in Henley. One for the way upriver and one for the way back had been the thinking, but seeing as that ship had sailed for this half of the trip anyhow, breakfast was served. A quick look of the map told us we still had an exciting journey ahead and territory unvisited by ourselves to explore. This of course bought about the general buzz of excitement as we slipped our lines. We drifted off slowly switching the nav lights on as we left, the low morning mist had warranted this action but the going was slow as we scanned the river for large bits of debris to get out of the way of. The early morning internal chit chat was quite reserved, and we found ourselves talking mainly about the weather proving beyond a shadow of a doubt we are good and English. It took a few miles for the mist to clear, but clear it did, revealing a beautiful blue and cloudless sky, and with it some welcome spring sunshine. They say time and tides wait for no man, and this was decidedly true of the day. Half of it had passed in a blink of an eye, giving the feeling that it had some other pressing engagement in which it needed to attend, and the other half had jumped out of nowhere and was now in full flow. We had passed through miles of river adorned on either side by overhanging trees and fields of cows and it struck us of how immensely quiet the river had been. Thinking back, there had been little to no boat traffic along all our route and we thanked the river gods for such, to be handed the river free from the usual array of people, paddle boards, rowers, clippers and such felt like a true gift and one we truly cherished. However as we approached Cleeve, the second of two locks that lie within a large splash of each other a large wide beam was slipping her mooring and heading in with us. As it turned out we made it in first and landed two ropes quite a way up on portside. Safely secured on both bow and stern, we adopted the nonchalant stare and began looking but not looking as the wide beam made her entry. She was all of 60 feet if not more and was headed by a pleasantly plump lady sitting on a chair in the v birth space at the front with a rope in one hand and a walkie talkie in the other, she made no attempt at either leaving the chair nor throwing the rope and instead sat giving instructions into the radio, to which there was no reply. There was a large amount of whooshing and thrusting coming from the other end which seemed to be doing the trick as soon enough the well-behaved boat came to a standstill. A helpful lockkeeper duly appeared, and a boat hook was lowered down to the bow. There was an exchange of words which we couldn’t quite hear but the tone spoke of familiarity. Once all lines were in place and comfort was apparent, I opened the introductions. “What a glorious day” one of us said, “yes isn’t it” came the reply, “you’re always going on about the weather Sam, that’s what they used to say to me in Greece”, We didn’t know who ‘they’ were but we returned a nod of approval with a smile and a chuckle. “ that’s what they always said to me” she continued, “I used to live in Greece you know” Her hair and t-shirt confirmed this fact, but of a different kind altogether pointed out a Mick, a few of us chuckled on the inside but managed to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. In the time it took the lock to fill general pleasantries were exchanged along with names and a friendly warmth was built, “you know what I’m gonna do when I get in” she said, “get in where”? we asked, “Parliament of course”, “Oh of course”, another chuckle, “I’m gonna pass a law that says it can only rain at night” “superb Stuff, I’m gonna get some t-shirts printed with Vote Sam on, it’s certainly got my approval” More chuckles and the gates opened, goodbyes were said and although we didn’t know it at the time that was the first and last boat we would share a lock with on this leg of the journey.
An amount of time passed, how much we weren’t exactly sure, but it didn’t matter as no-one was counting, and we soon came drifting into the sleepy town of Wallingford. A small pang of hunger had been niggling us for a while, the type that peanuts alone just wouldn’t satisfy and it was decided a little stop was required. A list was made, meat for the bbq, salad to go with, beer of course, a marker pen for the return journey, some chutney and a fridge magnet if possible. But before such provisions could be purchased the immediate hunger needed to be quelled, and with it a thirst needed to be quenched. As if by some form of river magic The Boathouse pub appeared complete with available mooring, desires it seemed could be gratified. Something with eggs was on our mind, maybe a chicken suggested Mick, I gave myself a clap for the speed of delivery, and a scorn for the dad joke scenario in which it was delivered. Upon entry we scanned the premises for the perfect dining spot, the way you do when walking into any establishment. We all do it, walk into somewhere hoping to sway the waitress into taking us to the place we desire, only to be ushered past it and led unhappily to the table with no view and the wobbly leg. As luck would have it, a couple were just leaving. The table itself sat just inside the open doorway giving the comfort of being inside with the aeration of being outside, the sun although waning was doing just enough to keep the table in its sights and the view of the river was stunning, in fact if one strained their neck a little the duchess could be spotted happily tethered bobbing around in front of a Freeman. A quick glance around for competition spotted a young couple gathering their things from the table with the wobbly leg who had obvious designs on the prize, but the stealth and speed of the Micks was no match for them and once seated we felt even happier knowing we had won it. A young waitress approached the table full of waitress patter and opened with “hi guys what can I get you”. We looked around, doing the comedy look for someone else, knowing full well that all the Micks were kept safely within the one body and surely she couldn’t know how many of us were in there just by looking, but this trip had oozed magic from the start, so we went with it. “First and foremost a pint of beer please, and I was thinking something with eggs” said the voice of Mick, “Great how about the surf and turf “, “does it come with eggs? “,“I’m afraid not sir”, “superb I’ll have them Sunday side up please”, “did you say Sunday side up?”, “yes just a mere play on verbs”, “but a verb is a doing word”, “exactly, off you pop then”, “oh and if you’re wondering, horns off and wipe the bottom” “sorry sir I don’t follow”,” the steak , rare as rocking horse shit please”,” it doesn’t come with steak sir”,”no and it doesn’t come with eggs either but never mind just do your best I’m really quite hungry”. As we nursed the pint basking in what was left of the sun and awaiting whatever it was that we were to be served our thoughts turned to Wallingford itself and wondered if it had once been named Wallingforda, or had it been named Wallingford as it was once a ford for the crossing of Wallings and if so what was a walling. Visions of a mythical beast sprang to mind and we was just about in danger of giving Imaginative Mick full reign on the subject when the Boathouse pubs version of surf and turf was plonked in front of us. Hunger took over and we ate whatever it wa,s which could have been cardboard without any seasoning but thanked and tipped the waitress again in true English style offering no complaint and just handing over the salt and pepper shakers adding “ Condiments to the Chef “.a remark which unfortunately shot straight across the top of her head and smashed headf into a mock tiffany wall lamp.
A quick shop was done sadly no fridge magnet was available, but the duchess was overjoyed at our return and together the merry band of misfits continued their quest. We passed the Le boats at Benson, hand wound Days and arrived at Clifton to see the dreaded blue sign hanging from its holder. We tethered the duchess and walked up to do the business and bumped directly into the locky. “Are you on duty” we asked, “Course I am” he replied beaming his head off, “ oh its just that the blue sign is still in place”, “oh is it, silly me, probably been there all day” he said beaming again. His smile was infectious, and we warmed to him immediately. His name was John and probably still is and it turns out he has been a lockkeeper his whole life. His father was a lock keeper up at Sandford where he had spent his childhood and had done a two-year stint at Molesey from 1967-1969. In the time it took to pass through we chatted constantly and when we left it felt as though we had known each other for far far longer than the time it takes to fill a lock. As we pulled the rope from the mooring, we turned to say goodbye slipping one shoe off as we did, “bye John, thank you so much and great to meet you”, “yep you too Mark, safe Journey”. So it was true, one shoe off and one shoe on, he’d got if half right, there was an M and a K in his answer, if not the I and C, there was definitely something in this shoe thing.
We still had our schedule to follow, and our sights were set on spending the night somewhere in Abingdon. The word on the river was it was stunning and although we could have happily stopped anywhere a goal is a goal and we were within striking distance. The map told us there was one more lock in which to pass before reaching that goal, two if you count Abingdon itself, which I guess you should so two then. We put the hammer down a touch and the duchess responded happily. In truth we could have really thumped it down, there were fields either side of us and not a moored boat in sight, but even the slight oomph in power felt wrong in such a chilled and serene environment and why were we even making a schedule? The river upstream screams relax, and time and schedules should not be adhered to. In fact, that’s a lie, the river upstream doesn’t scream anything, it speaks to you softly, it whispers meaningful nothings as it rocks you to sleep at night and offers you inner peace when you wake, trees dwell at its banks and bow down to its knowledge, she will wash you when your dirty and cool you when you’re hot and ask nothing in return. We caught it at last knockings, locky was leaning over and removing the free gateway sign and just about to slide in the do-it-yourself version when he spied us descending at pace. It was probably gone something o’clock, but he was in no rush and welcomed us in with a smile. “ Theres x amount of uninterrupted miles of natural beauty between here and Sandford” he said as we left, “fill your boots and moor where you wish, mind getting too close to the bank though it’s quite shallow in places”. The x refered to the actual number of miles there were, which I’m sure he told us, but we failed to compute that fact, anyway who cares, there was loads of it and it was ours for the taking. It seemed the day had stretched itself and there was life in the old dog yet. He was right that locky, miles of loveliness as far as the eye could see delivered itself with perfection in every direction and we couldn’t wait to spend the night among it. It took a bit of time but there it was, the perfect mooring. What we’d found was the perfect me’s space, sure the engine had to be trimmed a little but other than that the sleeping quarters for the duchess were impeccable. It was a clearing on an island bedecked with branches of all shapes and sizes that offered themselves to her as convenient mooring points however she sat, there was cover in the canopy above but high enough to not hinder her putting her coat on and to top it off easy access for the many Micks to come and go as they pleased. Happy boat happy life I think the saying goes , or something like that,anyhow that shit is infectious and not for the first time on this adventure a beam ran ear to ear across our chops. The next half hour was spent exploring our island, 29 of those minutes was spent clearing goose shit and the other minute was spent marching up and down the length and breadth of our new domain. Yes, it was small, but it was home for the night, and we set about fixing the bbq. We’d bought steak for the occassion, this was partly due to the fact that lunch had been an overpriced pile of dog turd but mostly because Waitrose had wanted to get rid of it. Mick lit the barbeque whilst mick prepared a salad, mick found the plates and the cutlery, and mick watched the coals. Coal watching and sun watching amounted to much the same thing, the day was reluctantly fading away but it left measured and elegantly leaving a beautifully warm glow as it gently slid down behind the trees, the coals also knew the game was up and in turn gracefully began to lose their fiery glare and settled gently into being the quiet white heat. It was time to cook and time for beer and as beer was mentioned mick decided to do both. The dining was delicious; the beer was perfect, and the company was charming. The charming company was in the shape of a mother duckling and her chicks that were obvious residents of our island and had returned for the night from a hard day’s ducking. The chicks were adorable as was their mother and we watched silently as she found a me space of her own and swaddled her babies under her wings. Being out with nature is one of life’s simple but awesome gifts and we were appreciating every second of it, the duchess was happy, the micks were happy and the ducks…ahh man the ducks.
The evening dimmed even further and as the day shift animals on our island readied their nests the nightshift crew began exiting theirs and it wasn’t long before the twilight chorus took on a gentle hum. The steak and the beers were leaving a warm glow and after listening to the forest beat for a while the Micks thought they may join in. You see having such an interest in all things musical we had thoroughly researched Isambard’s Clutterpuk and it had thrown up a couple of interesting points. It turns out his mother had been a massive fan of anything her son had touched, which of course stands to reason, and the Clutterpuk had been no exception. Mrs B had bought up as many cotton reels, chutney, string and matchsticks as she could and then got Mr B to build a shed right at the end of their garden where young Issy was sent to practice his playing. She had noticed the sheer brilliance in his invention and recognised the fact that in order to perfect such an art one should be as far away from any other human contact as possible and insisted that if he were to master his craft then on his own in the shed should be where it would happen, and possibly with a bib on. So, apart from the shed bit, this then was the perfect setting in which to learn. Fortunately, I had managed to acquire most of the components required to replicate the instrument on my trip around Waitrose, 5 emergency sewing kits, a ball of string, two boxes of trusty Bryant and Mays and having only to replace the Chutney with a caramelised Red onion relish, which, I believe is roughly the same thing, you say `potato ‘and all that. We slipped on a head torch and selected the red night vision option and set about building a clutterpuck. We’d watched a you tube video and mimicked it as best we could and was confident the end result would have won us a blue peter badge back in the day. A decent slouch position in one of our rickety fold up chairs was adopted, our feet rested on a branch, beer in hand and relish at the ready, the Thames version of Huckleberry fin had been born and was adopting the body of a fifty something delusional man. The next twenty minutes or so had been filled with enough huffing and puffing to blow any pigs cover, the island and bits of the duchess were covered in the remains of a red onion murder scene and the only note we’d reached had very vaguely resembled, Michael row the boat to shore hallelujah. Red light on forehead, slightly pissed, the place filled with cotton reels string and relish, the whole scene looked like a seance for a knitting club. There’s a damn good reason why these things are done in the middle of nowhere and high five to Mrs B, she had it right from the start.
The geeses in this neck of the woods are hybrids, in appearance they’re goose like but they have the beautiful orange beak of a duck, their plumage is also different to the residents of stevens eyot and jeeps they howl like banshees. Again, we found this out once we were tucked up in our kipping’s. The initial thought when we were awoken was that attack was imminent and so reached for the Banshee whacker we keep beside the pillow as a welcome for unwanted guests. There have been various banshee whackers housed in the captain’s quarters but on this occasion it turned out to be an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. We lie there for a while coming round from the semi-comatose state that a late-night steak puts you in, and in that while felt as though we were caught up in a Harry Potter movie of some kind with angry death eaters circling above, or had we awoken a coven of witches, was this their island and had we been lured in with its beauty and now were captured and destined to end up as stew. The voice of reason mick was the first to rise who folded sleepy imaginative mick up and popped him back in his box, I need a piss mick thought about using the Banshee whacker for some other purpose, but declined as the voice of reason mick again had something to say and so a comfort break was completed, ear buds were found and back to bed it was.
Day turns to night, and night turns to day every so often and thankfully today was no exception. The day- night transformation had taken place sometime after banshee o’clock and the backdrop for Friday 23rd May had been delivered. It sat in all its glory just outside the duchess’s interior and had already started peaking its head through the gaps in the curtains inviting us to go see what it had in store. We heaved ourselves out of bed accepting the invitation as quietly as our bones would allow so as not to wake the sleeping ducks. We needn’t have worried; mum was awake and busying herself with all the things a mother must do when she has five mouths to feed, the chicks were just as adorable as they had been the previous evening and were all walking around in different directions and squeaking like a bunch of tiny furry wind-up toys and life on our island seemed content, if a little filled with chutney.
Today was the day, we were here, well almost. All that stood between us and this infamous low bridge were two more hops upstream; Sandford was one, and we were well on our way to that and Iffly the other. We had given ourselves little to do and were handed a big bundle of time to spend however we wanted, and, on that morning, we decided to blow the whole budget on coffee drinking and duck watching.
It had been a blissful way to start the day, and we had watched as mum had got all her babies in a row and taken them off the island and out into the big wide world to learn duck stuff. We’d watched the howling hybrid gooses work as hard as they could to return the carpet of shit to the island, and we’d seen absolutely no-one. There had been no distant engines, no chitter chatter of friends out for a walk, no barking of dogs, no loud obnoxious shouts from cyclists, and no rowers. Maybe this was it maybe this was the place where one comes for absolute and utter peace or maybe we had just got lucky. Whatever the reason we had cherished every moment, and in time to come would treasure the memory.
Soon it was time to finish what we’d started, well this leg of the journey anyway. The loose plan had worked to perfection so far, and there seemed no reason why it should fail us now. The reflection from the trees was just delicious, each one a perfect image of itself but the other way up and it felt criminal to disturb this picture. We passed a few moored boats on our way, each sitting in their own version of heaven. There were no cheap seats here, no tables with a wobbly leg, everywhere you looked was just gorgeous. Arriving at Sandford we were amazed to see the white sign from a distance and even more amazed as the gates opened on our approach. The locky here was quite young and helpful; he was on hand to take a rope as we drifted in and eager to tell me all about the mooring situation in Oxford. The moorings by the bridge were closed, he said, deemed unsafe by the EA, but he was confident that it would be okay to stay there for a short while. One last crack at it then we thought quickly whipping our shoes off, “ah hot feet John, same as me” said the locky, again inconclusive proof. We thanked him as always, and a little wave of excitement grew as we got ever closer to our destination. It’s quite a short hop from here to Iffley and before we knew it, we were on the last stretch. Civilisation began to creep in slowly, houses appeared dogs barked people talked and rowers rowed. Oxforda itself is a little maze of old buildings and quite narrow in places, and you must weave your way in and out of the moored commercial vessels on approach but little by little, boat by boat we made it. There it was as we turned the last corner, Osney lock, unmanned of course but in truth we wouldn’t have had it any other way. As we sat watching the water fill, we glanced over at the bridge and had a sudden thought that we hadnt accounted for. What if….. What if we could actually fit under, how cool would that be? Another wave of excitement tickled our insides, and the whole anticipation went up a level. The duchess rose on her podium of water, and we performed all the necessaries and jumped on board. As we left a locky appeared, saving us the bother of closing and we waved our appreciation. This was it then this was the moment we’d been waiting for will she.? wont she.? we edged forward slowly and carefully; people had gathered on the side and were now watching with anticipation, our throat became dry and the duchess creeped ever onward, feet turned to inches and inches turned to centimetres and the crowds on the bank oohed and ahhed, the bow was under the duchess was going for it and……………………….. That dear reader is where it ends.
I am afraid for now you are to be left guessing, of course there more to tell, there’s always more, there was a return journey as well where we may learn what happened to the plum, how the duchess nearly crashed and how we had screwed up our eyes seeing our life flash before them and got right up to the bit where Oasis split before opening them and finding out everything was okay, then there’s the bit about the marker pen and the return visit to see Tony who loves man cheese, but these tales are not for today. These are for the sequel !!!!!!