A simple little ceremony on the day belied the task ahead.
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****POST UPDATED 5th October 2015****
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****POST UPDATED 5th October 2015****
(update title is "Elvis has left the building")
***If you would be kind enough to like my Mayfly Page on Facebook I'd be much obliged.***
The google shortcode below will take you there
From Plywood to Steel
So, what happened next?
I went back to school armed with the diary, and my holiday photos.
Nobody else had kept a diary, and the teacher had forgotten she'd
set the work so it never got looked at. This was a very
inauspicious start to a bad year. My final year at primary school,
and that worst of exams, the Eleven Plus. Whoever came up with the
idea of a general exam that could have just about anything in it, and
could come at any time, must have disliked children with more hatred
than I have for yoghurt. I got caught up in all of the hype and
ended up so nervous about almost everything that the enjoyment of
being a kid in the sixties was temporarily suspended. The memory of
the holiday, the promise of another, and “The Flower of Gloster”
on the television were pretty much the high points of an absolutely
appalling time in my life. The start of secondary school (after the
promised holiday) did little to improve things but, after some
battling by my parents, I switched to another school which did, in
the short term at least, improve the situation.
It was in my fourth
year at secondary school that some money from the sale of a house in
Greece that my grandparents had owned before World War 2 came
through. Suddenly we could think of getting a bigger and better
boat, and plans started in earnest to find one. The sale of Lady
Jena raised about £200, which gave us just enough cash to consider a
26 foot Springer hull that would be delivered before Easter so that
my dad (mostly) could fit it out with help from the rest of us.
Early seventies delivery dates were more of a rough target than any
form of binding contract, and it was on the day of the school fête
in July that the hull finally did make its way to us. Even then
(due to traffic) it was late. Nyzark though, had arrived, and we
had about three weeks to get her ready for the holiday.
First obstacle was the
secondhand Petter 22 hp twin cylinder diesel that we'd bought that
was supposed to fit the mounts. Due to a mistake in the information
sent, the thing wouldn't fit, unless you cut a hole in the bottom of
the boat to allow the prop shaft to line up! We'd spent every penny
we had, plus some, and, thankfully were able to return the motor but
still had to get something that would fit, and time wasn't on our
side. About the only thing with no waiting list was the Japanese
Yanmar diesel. The urgency of getting one, plus the need to
economise, even on the delivery cost, meant that we were of to Acton
in my dad's old Vauxhall Cresta to have one of the things placed
neatly in the boot. It all but bottomed out the back suspension,
and with the nose of the car pointing skywards, we headed back to
Kingston on Thames.
Full Steam Ahead.
Sorry that I don't have a photo for this post. We were a bit too busy to take pictures.
This link will be interesting though.
Even if Nyzark had been
delivered on time it was going to be a tall order to get her ready
for the holiday, but, armed with plenty of advice from Sam Springer
himself, we felt (or at least Dad felt) up to the task.
On the day we went up
to see the “factory” where the boats were made, we were greeted
by Sam, who was a pleasant enough guy with what could be called a
“rough and ready” manner to him. He showed us around the place,
and we were able to see a hull under construction. I remember him
saying that the boats were designed to be fitted out with standard 6
inch planed floorboards.
“You'll be wanting
windows,” he said, picking up an aluminium frame complete with
sliding panels. “We get asked for these ones a lot, and we've
fitted tons of them. The're the sort they fit on fibreglass boats
and stuff. They cost quite a packet though, but I'll tell you
something,” he paused to get our attention. “They're no
bleeding good at all. They leak and they're a bugger to fix if they
break. What you want is these,” he added, having set the posh
frame down and picked up something a lot more modest. “You can't
go wrong with the old Crittall frames. They're as tough as anything
and if you break one you can put any old glass in them. And of
course they're a bleeding sight cheaper too.”
Having just done
himself out of the extra profit, and advised me to take up welding as
a career, we felt he was good enough to be trusted, and went ahead
with the order on the day.
I remember the truck,
and the weather, also, for some reason, being driven in it for the
short run from the road down to the river. It was a blisteringly
hot afternoon, and in the days of no air conditioning, the cab was
like an oven. Nyzark had arrived though, and the timber had been
ordered from Gridley Miskin's wood yard in Kingston-on-Thames. To
cut the cost Dad had ordered slight seconds, these being planks that
had the odd stain, split or warp, but which were mostly fine to use.
There was a minor
issue of getting Nyzark from Turk's boathouse (where she'd been
delivered) to Thames Ditton Marina, where we'd set off for our first
canal holiday several years earlier. Dad's friend, George
Hargreaves, from Kingston Power Station stepped into the breach,
offering to tow us with his boat. George was an interesting
character who, some years earlier, had been left a small steam launch
called Churr in a will. He was up for a challenge, and surprisingly
quickly got steam up on the paraffin powered boiler of the craft.
Churr was then in her seventies, and painted white, with a small
saloon cabin at the back, a centrally mounted steam boiler, brass
funnel, and a beautiful compound steam engine sitting between it and
the saloon. With a head of steam, George set the little motor
running with its sewing machine like sound and, despite comments from
some people that she would not be powerful enough, we were soon under
way. Once Nyzark was safely tied at Thames Ditton, we returned on
Churr to pick the car up from Turk's car park. This was where the
little craft came into her own. She was almost as long as the
springer hulled Nyzark, but a lot narrower, and with the steam engine
wound up, she could move really quickly. George Hargreaves kept her
in pristine condition, and had even had a few commissions for her to
appear in films, but he'd always insist on being behind the wheel for
those occasions. Knowing her to be his “Pride and joy.” I was
more than surprised when he got up from his seat and said “You can
steer her for a bit Mike” I remember the quiet efficiency with
which she cut through the water with little wake, at speeds that
seemed rather faster than the 7 knot limit (and may well have been)
though with George controlling that side of things I won't ever know.
George kept Churr until about 1980, when he'd found some problems
with the hull, the remedy set to cost more money than he had. I'd
often wondered what happened to her after that, but have since found
that she is still very much alive and well, having undergone
extensive restoration in the mid eighties. She is now a grand old
lady of 115 years, and looks splendid.
From left to right. Me, Granny, my brother John, and Mum.
Left to right My brother, Granny, Auntie Olive, Mum, Me, and Uncle John.
Good To Go
Here is a very similar motor to the Yanmar that first powered Nyzark.
Good To Go
We knew the fitting out
was going to have to be basic, and what was planned was to run two
more or less continuous bunks down each side, partly on the advice of
Sam himself, the one to starboard being shorter to accommodate the
door and a rudimentary galley. The Yanmar diesel, being a general
purpose boat engine, came complete with a 1 ½ gallon tank attached,
ready for instant use. To save time Dad ran a pipe from the 20
gallon tank Springers had installed, to a tap that sat just over the
filler of the Yanmar, so that we could keep the thing topped up (on
the run if necessary).
At the time, the
working arrangement at Kingston was ten days on and four off. This
supposedly being in keeping with the union agreed rule that no worker
should work more than six days in any week. The arrangement was
imposed as something of a “stitch up” because Sunday is
officially the first day of the week, which allowed working from
Monday to Saturday of one week (six days) followed by Sunday to
Wednesday of the next (four). If ever there was a case of not
following the spirit of an agreement, that was it, and Dad was stuck
with it. Worse than that, it was the beginning of a ten day stretch
at work that Nyzark had arrived, so all spare time was used in the
getting ready process. That she was fitted out in any way at all,
however basic, was something of a miracle, and by the start of the
school holiday she had the two linear bunks, a fitting into which
some plywood could be dropped to make a transverse bunk for Mum and
Dad, battens in place over the newly glazed windows and the all
important connection of engine to prop shaft. Any electrics beyond
the starter and charge circuit were to be arranged. Also there was
a rudimentary deck across the top of the engine with open steps down
to the cabin door. The rust scale on the cabin had been covered
with a liberal dose of aluminium primer too.
We had been invited to
a cousin's wedding on the first Saturday of Dad's next four day
break, but work had to continue, a small window in time being taken
for the do itself. The previous evening I had been busy painting
the outside cabin with green gloss paint, eventually by the light of
yellow sodium street lamps. The lighting made it impossible to see
what I had and had not painted without resorting to prodding at the
cabin side to see where I'd been. By the time I'd decided I'd
finished, I was well covered in splodges of the paint, and had no
knowledge of whether I had done a good job or not.
The following morning
it was time to prepare for the wedding, and I, as a sullen teen
flatly refused to dress up. “They can have me in a sweater and
jeans and like it.” were the words I'd used. I must have got the
point across because nobody actually challenged it. They insisted
that I was as smart as possible and I was to clean my shoes as well
as wear clean clothes. There came the problem. I only had one
pair of relatively decent shoes, these being the ones I'd been
wearing to school. They were also the ones that I'd come home from
school in, and gone boat painting with. They were well decorated
with drips of the lime green gloss that I'd been throwing everywhere
the night before, and black boot polish wasn't going to cover them.
I polished as much as I could, then got a magic marker and blacked
the remaining spots of green, declaring myself ready to go.
When we did get to the
wedding, Monica, my second (... or so) cousin's friends had all taken
her instruction not to get dressed up like a dogs dinner, so my bit
of teen rebellion went unnoticed amongst the denim jackets and
sweaters present.
On the Sunday morning,
we headed back to Thames Ditton to carry on with the fitting out.
Surprisingly I found that I'd done a fair job of the cabin sides,
with only a few bits of touching up before I painted the window
frames with Royal Mail red paint (part of the same batch of leftover
stock which included about half a gallon of green and the aluminium
primer. Nyzark looked almost ready to go.
As time went by, the interior of Nyzark got a lot more homely.
This photo was taken the year the plywood panneling went in.
Springers were solid enough, if a bit rough and ready (like the man himself)
Note the Crittall windows and unground welding.
Ready or not, here we come!
Left to right
Mum Granddad Nye (then in his early 90's) my brother John, Granny (on Mum's side) and a very sullen looking teenage me.
Edstone Aqueduct, scene of the famous non-suicide leap.
Things are getting better.... (sort of)
And here she is again, looking somewhat bewildered at the helm of the very stationary Lady Jena.
Here are Mum and Dad, with Nyzark still in her original bright green with name painted by me
Below are views of the newly (1975) panelled cabin.
This photo was taken the year the plywood panneling went in.
Springers were solid enough, if a bit rough and ready (like the man himself)
Note the Crittall windows and unground welding.
Ready or not, here we come!
When the day came to go
on holiday, the interior of the boat was just about habitable. We
had electric light from two 48 watt lamps (which I'd wired with a
drum of rather thick cable and a screwdriver that could have been
used as a tyre lever for a lorry), a gas ring to cook on, curtains
and a chemical toilet. Luxury it wasn't but it was time to
holiday, and the Yanmar diesel was started. On tickover it sounded
almost authentic and we moved slowly down the length of Thames Ditton
Marina, turning left to go under the bridge and into the main river.
Dad increased the throttle and the motor ceased to sound in the
least bit authentic. Worse than that, the boat was hardly moving.
Eventually, with the thing wound up to the point that it sounded like
a large and very bad tempered lawnmower, we gave up the fight and
returned to the shelter of the marina. After some discussion and
consultation into the various data sheets it was decided that the
prop that had been fitted (to replace the steeper pitch one that was
originally installed for the slower revving Petter (the engine that
wouldn't fit into the boat) was actually too shallow a pitch. In
the absence of a suitable substitute, the original prop was put back
on. Back out on the river, the instant Dad increased the throttle,
the exhaust smoke came out pitch black, but at least we were moving.
Trouble was we were also destroying the Yanmar, which was not up to
the challenge of the steep pitch of the prop. Back to the marina
and another prop was fitted. This coming with no other guarantee
other than it was different and (due to it having sat at the back of
the workshop for several years) available. Another run on the river
revealed that this was actually a shallower pitch than the one that
was thought to be correct. I remember commenting that if we went
any slower we'd actually be going backwards. The comment wasn't too
well received. With the day mostly used up (and someone commenting
that we should have named the boat “Yo Yo” instead of “Nyzark”)
we waited whilst several phone calls were made to E.P. Barrus, Yanmar
U.K. and eventually the Japanese company to ascertain the exact
pitch of the propeller that should be fitted. Finally we had an
answer, but no chunk of bronze to attach to the end of the shaft.
That came the next day, was fitted, and we set off. The decision
seemed to be that whatever the new prop did as far as performance
went, we'd cope with it and deal with any consequences at the other
end of the holiday. To be truthful it wasn't a lot better than the
first one we set off with. Nyzark was noisy, very very nosy,
ungainly (due to lack of any form of ballast) and slow, extremely
slow. But we were on holiday even if we did sound like a machine
gun being transported by a rather bad tempered snail.
The following morning
we woke up to what seemed like a slow drizzle. The weather was O.K.
but the coolness of the shady mooring allowed our collective breath
to condense on every surface inside the cabin, most of which was
painted with aluminium primer. Over the years several attempts were
made to alleviate the problem which only went away when Dad fully
lined the cabin with plywood and tongue and grooved board. First
attempt was polystyrene lining “paper” which, thanks to the
advertising hype, was stuck up with a proprietary brand of wallpaper
adhesive. The paper was very fragile, and eventually succumbed to
the fact that the adhesive was designed for plaster walls, not steel.
The man in the advert, who was pasted to a board by his overalls
and then suspended from the bottom of a helicopter was either very
brave, or completely stupid. Hopefully he was well insured. Next,
someone said that a paint called Corkon would do the trick because,
as everyone knows, cork is a good insulator. It was expensive stuff
though, and was therefore spread sparingly, so, it didn't work!
During the day we had
a downpour of rain which revealed that the Crittall windows also
leaked. This we could do something about, and Dad set off into town
to buy a couple of pounds of a putty that was suitable for metal
frames. This was liberally pushed round the joint between frame
and boat on the inside, and actually worked really well. With a
reminder to dry the condensation as soon as we woke, we felt we'd
conquered the worst shortcomings of the hastily prepared craft, and
our holiday continued.
"Doing" the Avon ring.
Here we are on a later holiday by one of the beautiful lock cottages on the Stratford-on-Avon canal
Mum Granddad Nye (then in his early 90's) my brother John, Granny (on Mum's side) and a very sullen looking teenage me.
Things are getting better.... (sort of)
Given the time taken to
create something habitable, and the unknown reliability of just about
any part of the Nyzark, we decided to follow a tried and tested route
along the Thames, Oxford and Grand Union Canals. Though noisy, and
ungainly we were on the move, with Dad lifting the engine hatch every
now and then to top the 1 gallon diesel tank on the Yanmar from the
20 gallon tank fitted by Sam Springer via a gate valve and associated
pipework. It was during one of these routines that he decided that
we should moor up, pretty much straight away on account of the fact
that we were in the process of slowly sinking. Nothing too serious
though, just that the weed hatch bolts had worked themselves loose
and water was being thrown from the prop into the engine hold.
Tightening them and pumping the bilge provided a temporary fix,
allowing Dad and I to head into town when we reached our destination
for the day to buy some shake proof washers, a flat rubber mat and a
Stanley knife with which to seal the hatch in such a way that it
would not vibrate free again. This was about the only issue we had
with reliability for the whole of the holiday, as, with typical
Japanese efficiency ( I won't say quiet efficiency here ) the Yanmar
did the job asked of it, even if that job was rather beyond its
capability. There were various other shortcomings that came to
light though, not the least of which being that, once under-way there
were very few places to sit apart from inside the cabin, which was
O.K. if your idea of a quiet time was sharing a grain silo with a
pneumatic road drill. The side decks were O.K. but they had a
slight inward slope, which collected rainwater. That was easy
enough to spot and avoid, but when my Granny was doing her morning
ablutions, she would open a window and throw the water she'd washed
with out into the river (or canal). This wasn't as eco-friendly as
it should be but things, I guess, were a bit different then. Granny
was quite short, and at over 80 years of age, would not have made the
England team as a fast bowler, so most of the water ended up on the
side deck, trickled back, and soaked into whoever's jeans that was
sitting there, so I guess no lasting ecological damage was done.
Nyzark was definitely
more at home on the canals than the Thames and although still far
from quiet, the engine note was rather less abrasive. We never did
sort the issue of ballast out, which seemed something that both Mum
and Dad were staunchly opposed to, so the boat always sat too high in
the water, and was prone to being blown about by even moderate winds.
One incident I do remember was on a later holiday when, on my
brother's suggestion, we “Did” the Avon ring. We were about to
cross the Edstone aqueduct on a day that couldn't really be described
as breezy, but there was sufficient air movement to highlight toe
shortcomings of our 26 ft Springer. Unlike the far better known
iron trough of Pontcysyllte which has the towpath suspended over it,
Edstone does not. The trough is the width of the navigation channel
and that's it. As we entered the trough, any way we had was
immediately damped, and we were soon pinned to the side of the thing
by the wind. The Yanmar hadn't got enough power to use brute force,
so we eased back out of the aqueduct and tried taking it at what
speed we could muster. The result was the same. Much discussion
followed as to how to overcome the obstacle, and I eventually had the
rather obvious idea of hopping onto the towpath to push the boat back
into the channel. Having thought of it I acted on the plan and,
much to my poor Granny's surprise, I jumped off the side deck and
disappeared from view to her. It never occurred to me that she
didn't know there was a towpath, because she hadn't seen it as it was
built at the level of the bottom of the trough to save on having to
extend the stone piers to water level. It basically looked, to
Granny, like I had simply got bored and jumped off the boat and into
the river valley tens of feet below and she was understandably
concerned!
Here are Mum and Granny with the new Nyzark in the background.
The Summer of 1965 was the only other waterways holiday that Granny came with us on.
Here she is in the cockpit of the "River Rose" hired from TW Allen and sons.
Granny Mum and Auntie Winnie enjoy the spartan comfort of the early Nyzark cabin.
Here she is in the cockpit of the "River Rose" hired from TW Allen and sons.
Two photos of Granny and Mum chatting with the lock keeper of Stoke Lock on the river Wey in the early seventies. Next to Granny on the balance beam is "Phoenix" a balsa model I'd made at the start of that summer.
Gladys Amelia Gout (prnounced Goo) A truly magnificent lady.
Granny.
Granny had lived with
us ever since I was two years old, which was when Mum and Dad moved
into Chantry Road. The house had been owned my my grandparents when
they arrived via Malta from Greece at the start of World War two, but
Granny was keen to sell it, so it made sense for Mum and Dad to keep
the place in the family when the house on Maltby Road became too
small for us. In the days before Nyzark she'd either stay with her
sister and niece in Surbiton, or her son and daughter-in-law in
Caversham for the duration of most of our family holidays. To be
honest, I'm never quite sure which she preferred. Thetis (her
niece) was happy to have her in the flat and enjoyed feeding her with
as many of the recipes she had pencilled into a small notebook. I
only later found that my “Auntie Thetis” actually disliked
cooking and, in her later years, avoided it wherever possible. John
and Olive had quite an active social life at the time, and Granny
enjoyed being a part of that as much as John and Olive's friends
loved her forthright way of speaking, which was always polite and
tinged with the slight continental accent that she'd obtained by
living most of her life in Greece. The holidays did, however, give
her the chance to spin a yarn to the relatives, story telling being
something she'd always enjoyed. Even now, snippets of those tales
still rattle round my head, sometimes merging into something totally
different. I'm sure the incident at Edstone Aqueduct was related
many times over, though I don't remember her telling it. The time
that the headlamp (the one from the breakers yard in Kidlington) went
out in the middle of Shrewley Tunnel was, however, embellished to the
level of high drama on the ocean. Basically the lamp was wired to a
two pin plug, and the insulation on the headlamp (to remove the earth
return on it) shorted out, which, with the plug being the way round
it was, caused it to blow a fuse in the old Wylex distribution box
in the engine compartment. That light, and all the others went out,
and for about twenty seconds we were blind and invisible (if not
inaudible). Several torches were lit to provide more light than the
original headlamp, and we continued forward to the end of the tunnel
where a piece of fusewire fixed everything.
Then there was the
crash near Fenny Compton “tunnel” in the summer of 1973 not long
before my 17th Birthday. It can't have been long after
the marina opened at Fenny Compton, as I remember us stopping there
for fuel, and also remember thinking that it wasn't there the year
before. The tunnel is (as most people know) actually a cutting,
having been opened out many years ago. It's still narrow and you
have to pass boats carefully When out of the “tunnel, it's nice
to enjoy the full width of the canal again, and the person piloting
the 40 foot hired boat was doing just that. What do you do when the
boat coming at you seems to be aiming at wherever you go to avoid
it. Ultimately it will collide with you however good you are at
steering (and Dad, being ex Royal Navy) was pretty good. Granny,
who was ever watchful for my brother's and my welfare had long
disliked me climbing onto the cabin roof to run the length of the
boat when crewing, so I had eventually agreed to take the slower and
considerably more awkward route via the side decks, holding the hand
rails instead (and having to avoid the edges of the open windows and
fender ropes. I'd seen what was gong to happen and set off in this
manner. Having just let go of the deck rail to get the boathook to
fend the other boat off, it hit us, knocking Nyzark sideways and
putting a small dent in weld along the top of the port bow. Having
let go of the deck rail, and had Nyzark knocked about two feet
sideways, instead of a side deck, I was now (like a Roadrunner
cartoon) standing on thin air. So I did the only decent thing and
fell into the canal, drinking a fair bit of the water and deciding
that I'd really rather have lived a bit longer and done a bit more
before this untimely end. Thankfully, I'm still here. As I came
up for the first time, I grabbed at anything I could, and that
happened to be the bow of the boat that had just hit us. I made
light of it, and stepped off onto the bank. At that point Mum
suggested to Dad that we pause to pick up the crew, getting the reply
that they can pick up their own *****ing crew. When she told him
that it was me, the previously thin air turned rather thick with
Dad's best naval expletives and a graphic (and biologically
impossible) description of what he would do to the person steering
the other boat if our paths crossed again. When I finally arrived
in the cabin of the Nyzark, Granny greeted me with
“I know it's been
raining, but your father isn't that wet.”
“Yes, but he didn't
just fall in the canal did he.” I replied flatly.
Whether it was a pang
of guilt (Had I simply run along the top of the cabin I'd have been
there in time to push the other boat off with the pole.) or simple
protectiveness, Granny went into overdrive on making sure I didn't
catch pneumonia, insisting that I change all my clothes, (which I was
in the process of doing) and that I should have some hot coffee with
rum in it (which was quite pleasant). When I got the mug, it smelt
pretty alcoholic, and tasted like very little water had been used in
brewing it. I was instructed to rest, sleeping for about half an
hour, then it seemed that I could pretty much have the rest of the
day to myself, having been absolved of all boat related duties, so I
spent the early evening walking along the towpath recording the top
40 on my radio-cassette recorder.
I'm not absolutely sure
if the people did remember us, but when we did do the fuel stop at
Fenny Compton, we walked past the hire boat that had hit us, and it
was all locked up with all curtains drawn. It's tempting to think
that the crew of the boat were all cowering in fear of my dad's
wrath, but it's far more likely that they were enjoying lunch at a
pub somewhere close by. As for me, bear them no malice, and never
have done. They'd been put in charge of a 40 foot concrete
ballasted all steel narrowboat with the simple instruction that it's
pretty much like a car to drive. I expect they just couldn't get to
the handbrake in time.
No need to explain this one.
Here are a few photos from the year we "did" The Avon ring.
The Avon Ring
The Avon Ring
The last run I remember
doing with the grossly underpowered Yanmar diesel was the “Avon
Ring” which we attempted in the mid seventies. By that time my
brother was at university and had already had a narrowboat holiday
with some other students on a hired 56 foot boat where they had gone
to Llangollen. Fired up with adventure it was John that suggested
we do a round trip instead of going to the same old haunts every
year. In principle the scheme was good, but for the fact that we
didn't really have the time to do it. Dad worked at Kingston Power
Station, and was usually allowed only two weeks annual leave together
out of the total of either four or five (I forget which thought I
think it may well have been only three. As we'd already managed to
get third week the previous two years, mainly because the power
station by then was generally mothballed in summer with maintenance
easy to schedule to make it ready for the winter months, dad had the
application turned down by the new management. With a bit of careful
number work, Mum was able to slightly circumvent this by the
placement of a couple of days leave which added to the 4 day weekend
meant that we could get a head start which would get us to the “Wise
Alderman” at Kidlington. Dad at the time was still on what was
called “Staggered working” where he worked through for ten days
and then got a break of 4. The longer break sounded good but wasn't
(it being more than countered by the ten day week)and there was no
extra pay for the arrangement. From Kidlington, Dad went back to
work for three days and then returned by car, leaving it in the pub
car park by arrangement with the landlord until we arrived back two
weeks later when he would go back to work for a couple of days,
returning by train for the run back down the river. Even with this,
there wasn't much time available for the planned trip, which in the
end turned out to be something of a route march. For the first time
we had to get to a certain place by a certain time, and, with John's
planning, we actually achieved it (albeit with rather frayed nerves).
Probably the most frightening part was the short run on the Severn,
which seemed massive compared to the narrow canals. The Yanmar was
simply not up to the job of propelling the Nyzark and we knew it,
though thankfully she wasn't as noisy as the previous year thanks to
the purchase of a Mc Murdo rubber silencer which reduced the
percussive machine gun exhaust noise massively. The motor itself
still sounded like a bag of bolts in a washing machine though. We
wouldn't normally have bought something like the Mc Murdo, but we had
ventured to the Earls Court boat show and, with all the salesmen
there it was hard for even Mum to avoid spending some money. Apart
from the silencer, two more things that came out of it. The first
of these was a catalytic heater that was supposedly safe in all
conditions. The salesman was very polite and when asked to
demonstrate the key feature which was that the thing could be doused
with petrol and not catch fire, he duly threw a small cap full of
methylated spirit at the catalyst, which caused no harm whatsoever.
We bought the base model which was about the diameter of a medium
sized frying pan, and which screwed directly onto a refillable
Camping Gaz cylinder. It worked, but produced a lot of water
vapour, and robbed the cabin of oxygen pretty quickly too. Also,
due to its compact size, the edges of the thing got extremely hot.
I found that out when I caught my hand on it. Some of my skin was
left stuck there, and the rest blistered into something that I really
should have gone to A&E to have sorted. It was (suffice to say)
painful, and took until well past Christmas to heal adequately.
Even now (well over 40 years later) if I am out walking on a cold
day, a red mark appears on my hand showing an imprint of the edge of
that heater. The other thing that came from the boat show was the
seed of an idea that we could (a the right price) replace the motor
in Nyzark with something more powerful should the funds be available.
The Yanmar was still a saleable item, and the unit that caught our
eye most was a 12 horsepower Sabb. It was sat there in a glass case
ticking over almost silently and we were impressed. It was set up
to look like it was actually running, with the exhaust neatly piped
to an unknown destination. I do now wonder whether the thing was
simply being turned over by a small and hidden electric motor despite
what the sales staff claimed. As with all ideas, nothing happened
on that until we did get another small windfall emanating from the
final sale of one of the houses that my mum's side of the family had
to vacate rather quickly due to the second world war. Stuart Turner
at the time were offering a small diesel that was made in Spain.
Mum wasn't keen but we investigated it anyway, to be told that the
total cost by the time all work was done would be too great.
Somehow they were then convinced that it was a good idea to buy a
secondhand Sabb which was actually marginally less powerful than the
Yanmar, and which did not have electric start or a generator. Of
the three ideas, the Mc Murdo silencer was the most successful and it
meant that we could have a holiday without ear damage.
The most interesting
part of the journey was the relatively newly restored Avon with its
secondhand Thames lock gates and steel shuttering lock chambers
which, though Heath Robinson in appearance, seemed to work pretty
well. There was still a lot that was makeshift, including the
signage which was almost graffiti like in nature. A lot of the
bridges had just one navigable arch, and there were a lot of markers
for obstructions in the channel too. The river itself though was
very picturesque, if a little fast flowing in places, and of all the
waterways I think it came equal favourite to the Srtaford on Avon
canal, which was also beautiful but in a more ordered way. Being
the sullen teen that I now was, I spent quite a lot of my time
sitting on the cabin front, scribbling various things onto scraps of
paper. What I scribbled was lost a long time ago, and I have no
real recollection of what it was. I know that at the time I felt
that I was heading in the wrong direction, having moved from school
to Kingston College of Further Education where I was studying for a
City and Guilds in industrial electronics. I was pretty good at
what I did and, despite my not really wanting the path that it
offered, I completed the course, continuing work for the company that
I'd done day release (in the final year) for another year. It was
on the Avon that summer though that the seeds of an idea were sown.
I wasn't going to stick in a test room with no natural daylight for
the rest of my life. One of my workmates had gone there from
school, and was 32! It seemed horrifically old to me, though now it
seems really rather youthful! I worked slowly through what I could
do, and when working, spent my spare time doodling, or making small
models from the plentiful supply of tinned copper wire. On one
really black day, one of the guys (I think it was Martin) spotted me
and saw that I was pretty fed up.
“Why don't you do
some evening classes,” he said, adding, “You can draw so why not
try art.”
A swiftly booked day
off took me back to my old school (who I felt still owed me
something) to be largely dismissed by all but the headmaster who
advised that I spoke to the careers officer who just happened to be
there that day. The guy was pretty positive about things and
understood that I wanted to broaden my horizons, suggested a couple
of classes and arranged enrolment for me. That then set the course
that took me to art school, and it wasn't long before I was visiting
Kingston College of Further Education to tell them of my change in
direction. Peter Hayes, who taught most of the final year, was
about to go into class at the time, but dragged me in to introduce me
to his new students.
“This is Mr. Nye,”
he said. “He was a student here and left a year or so ago. We
had a lot of arguments but he did well. Now he's decided to go off
and do a degree in Fine Arts.”
I waited for
condemnation of my choice but got none.
“It's a new adventure
and I wish him all the best in it,” he paused for a moment.
“Now,” he continued. “If any of you lot have ideas like that,
please come and tell me, then I can kick your backsides for you,”
another pause. “Mr Nye here can do that because he can. He
isn't like any other student I've taught, so if he decided he can do
something he'll damn well go and do it and do well too.”
He said a good deal
more before I headed back home (it being Derby day, Epsom school of
Art and Design was closed). It was sunny and I was strangely happy
to have the blessing of someone that had been at times an adversary
as much as he was an advocate. I realise now that, had my brother
not have suggested the routemarch that was the Avon Ring, I may not
have had the right situation to think things through. I did go on
to complete a degree in Fine Art at Sunderland Polytechnic, which I
got an upper second. After that I went back to electronics as there
were no jobs and everyone has to eat. My horizons were broadened
forever though.
Below are views of the newly (1975) panelled cabin.
Elvis has left the
building.
My
memory of the 1977 summer holidays is that they were rather
disjointed. My brother had decided that he wanted to either watch
cricket on television or go to the Oval to watch. John always liked
the sport and had played for a team called the Oxford Erratics. The
team was comprised of players who enjoyed, but were not awfully good
at cricket, and they presumably played matches against similar teams
from other colleges or universities. His life at Oxford is somewhat
shrouded in a mystery, partly of his own making, and also because we
were not the closest of siblings. Whilst he had managed, by his own
intelligence and sheer hard work, to get through the eleven plus, and
all other things in between with flying colours, my path through
education was more than a little odd. I had completed my City and
Guilds in electronics, then worked for a year whilst going to evening
class and gained a further two O levels after which I was now set to
start on a foundation course in art at Epsom school of art and
design.
A
holiday we were having though, so it was Mum, Dad, Granny and me that
set off for a trip covering the River Wey, the Thames to Lechlade,
and the Oxford Canal to Napton and back. There wasn't anything too
strange about the holiday in terms of adventure, it all being ground
that we'd covered several times before, but one day sticks out as
being one of the strangest I can remember. As I remember we were
tied up near Send on the river Wey, and I had idly turned my radio on
whilst thinking of what to do. There wasn't any music, but a
continuing commentary on how people were gathering around the gates.
Many were distressed, and most were pretty incoherent in anything
they said. We had absolutely no idea what was going on, but needed
some groceries from the village. Someone from another boat also
needed to go to the shops and, I'm not sure quite how it happened,
but I think he suggested that I borrow his bicycle and do the
shopping for both. He seemed an amiable enough guy, and was about
as careworn as his bicycle which had a rather large lump on one tyre
that caught the brakes with each revolution. Thump, thump, thump.
I kept looking down to see the thing was still intact, and bought a
newspaper when at the shop to see if I could throw any light on what
had happened. I didn't want to make myself sound ignorant by asking
but the rest of my family plus the old guy with the bike were
depending on me finding out. Thankfully I was able to do just that.
The news broadcasts that had been continually telling what was
happening were now simply assuming that everyone knew the basic story
and reporting on events as they unfolded. The newspaper rack was
rather different, each paper carrying a variant of a very similar
sentence. The date was August 17th
and the weather was forecast to be warm with thundery showers.
Elvis is Dead, or King Elvis is Dead, or even Elvis Presley dies at
age 42, were the headlines. I bought the groceries, bought the
paper, and rode back with the associated thumping from the tyre and
passed the knowledge on.
By
the Summer of 1977, Nyzark was just about as well fitted as we could
make her on a low budget. The cabin was lined with plywood (finally
getting rid of the condensation issue), we had a proper, though
small, galley with a Calor gas cooker that had two burners and an
oven (though Mum refused to pay the extra few pounds for one with a
proper “Regulo” thermostat) and we even had a new engine. We'd
taken the Yanmar out, and had a Sabb fitted (as mentioned earlier).
As standard the second hand motor had no electric start, no
generator, and was, as mentioned earlier, less powerful than the
Yanmar. Sabb diesels, we were told, were reliable, easy to start,
smooth running, and a whole host of other things that may well have
been true about every other machine they built but not the one we
got. Starting by hand, we were told, was simple. Just lift the
decompression lever, swing the starting handle round a couple of
times to get the motor moving, drop the lever and... Well, actually
and nothing. The thing stopped dead, Dad's hand slipped off the
starting handle and he skinned his knuckles on an unidentified
protuberance in the engine compartment. Various profane words and
an Elastoplast later, he had another go. Still nothing. We both
tried and got nowhere, phoned the company we bought the thing off and
told them of our problem.
“No
problem, it's just a knack,” we were told. “I'll come down on
Saturday and show you how to start it.”
Dad
was at work that weekend so I agreed to meet the guy and be shown the
special knack. Though not as hot as 1976, the summer of 77 had its
moments and that Saturday was one of them, sunny, hot, a little humid
but all in all a beautiful day. I cycled to Thames Ditton and met
the guy that would start the motor and show me how.
“Simple,”
he smiled. “Drop this lever, then one, two, three.”
When
it hit compression it stopped dead and he caught his knuckles very
likely on the same protuberance. No profane language, no
Elastoplast. Just a smile.
“Must
be a bit cold. I'll give her a few more swings,” he said.
By
the time he was doing one last effort, about 45 minutes later, he was
swinging the handle round so fast that, had I put the thing in gear
the boat would have gone faster than it ever did when powered by the
thing. It still refused to start.
“May
be a little bit of dirt in the filter,” he smiled, red faced and
perspiring. “We'll have it right.”
I
still wonder why Sabb actually bothered to fit a starting handle and
its associated mountings to the motor because it was basically
impossible to start by hand. The marina eventually gave up and
fitted the Sabb approved Dynostarter which looked like an over sized
car dynamo and either drove or took its drive by two parallel belts
around the flywheel. Even with this fitted, the process of starting
was not easy. The motor would not start without a shot of motor oil
down a little copped tube, it needed to be run on the dynostarter for
several seconds before the decompression lever was dropped and the
thing burst more into a zombie like existence than actual life.
Once the black smoke from the motor oil subsided, it ticked over
smoothly, but had absolutely no power whatsoever when it came to
moving Nyzark. At least we'd be able to charge the battery again.
The
thing was fitted, and we were going on holiday, albeit slowly. The
Sabb was a bit quieter then the Yanmar but it wasn't by much. It
had a habit now and again of deciding it wasn't going to start,
usually at the most embarrassing times, and then occasionally would
stop for no reason. Another little kink it had was that every now
and then, and again for no apparent reason, the water pump, a
complicated thing with nylon valves, would stop pumping water,
causing the motor to overheat. Dad, with a little help from me,
dismantled the thing several times over the holiday, and finding
nothing wrong, reassembled it to find it worked again. Well it
worked until the next time it stopped.
That
winter, several letters were sent to the marina, and also to Sabb
themselves to inform them of our displeasure at the thing in out
engine compartment.
Sabb
themselves said that the model we had was known to them as not being
a good starter, but given that it was second hand, were not willing
to do anything to remedy the problem. The vendor um'd and ahh'd,
made sympathetic noises, but did nothing. We were stuck with the
thing.
The
word Sabb, we were told meant either “dependable or reliable” in
Norwegian. Having checked, it apparently means nothing whatsoever
in the language. Sabb have a good reputation for building good
engines. This story is about one Sabb diesel that may have been the
only bad one they made. It sure was a shocker though.
