Wednesday 5 October 2016

Where is all the water?

***New book "Nearwater" out soon! *** 
There are currently three books in the Mayfly series
Mayfly, Here we Go! and Emily's Journey.
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***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available.   Check website or Facebook. 
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This post started in October 2016.   Scroll down to find the he latest update
****POST UPDATED 15th June 2017****
(update title is "Our Triumphant return!")



Basingstoke or bust.



On the first trip up the river Wey, which I think was in the late summer of 1973, I spotted a notice in the middle of a canal that led off at right angles to the navigation a short way above New Haw lock. “Basingstoke Canal. Basingstoke 37 miles” is what was painted on the fluorescent green noticeboard. I wondered why anybody would build a canal to somewhere like that, and thus my interest in the waterway began. Early the next year, on a general drive around, Dad turned down Scotland Bridge Road near New Haw. There was a car park just over the bridge so he parked for mum and him to have the routine cigarette. I remember they used to smoke Players Number Ten, unless they were on a health kick in which case they gave up or smoked one of the many non tobacco mixtures sold at health food shops. One I remember “Shaka Maxon” came in tins of 100 and smelled like burning compost heaps.
Whilst they smoked, I took a walk along the towpath to what I assume was Scotland Bridge Lock. A further walk to Woodham lock had me riveted and Mum and Dad wondering exactly where I was. That was it though, I was hooked. Like my little boat, the Basingstoke canal had worked its spell on me and I wanted to find out more. Other journeys were made, and I walked a fair way along the lower reaches of the canal. Then I bought the rather good book “London's lost rout to Basingstoke,” by P.A.L. Vine. This was a kind of sequel to his rather more dramatically titled book about the Wey and Arun, “London's Lost Route to the Sea.” I guess that both routes are now more mislaid than lost because London Has a route almost to Greywell,at the very least. I was even more hooked, and wanted to make the journey to Basingstoke by water, something which the canal didn't have very much of. Even at her small size, It would be impossible to go more than a short distance in Bee 1, so for the time being I was scuppered.
Kingston College of Further Education was the place that provided an answer in the form of a friend who had just built a 10 foot rowing dinghy out of plywood and was keen on doing a visit to Cubitts Yard on the tidal Thames using Bee I as motive power and the dingy for the final sortie. Sadly the trip had to be called off when property developers shut off access to the place, but my suggestion of an alternative adventure was well accepted.
“Why not go up the Basingstoke canal?” I'd said, then followed it with details of the incongruous waterway and that I had joined the society that hoped to preserve it. Plans were made, and on the allocated weekend, he rowed up the tidal Thames to be picked up by me on Bee , after which we towed the dinghy up the river and through onto the Wey where we then transferred to the dinghy.
As a plan it was good enough, but most of our time was spent actually getting to the canal, so we didn't really make much of a dent on the journey. Not wishing to be beaten, more plans were made, and on March 22nd 1975, we set off again. This time the boat was on top of Dad's car as he'd been badgered into helping. We arrived at New Haw Lock at around midday, and were soon on the canal for a journey that we had calculated would take us 4 days, after which Dad would come and pick the triumphant team from the terminal basin, which was in fact now occupied by Basingstoke bus station.


Making a Start.

First lock of the day

Looking back down the canal.

 The lock chamber from above.
Pretty much what it said.

Making a start.

We'd gathered plenty of information about the state of the waterway, not the least of which came from photos I'd taken of the lower reaches of the canal of the few walks I'd done. After some searching I have managed to revive the old 120 format negatives to get a bit of a flavour of what we were up against. Along with these I have rediscovered a journal that was kept of the voyage, plus another wad of photos and negatives which I have now scanned. 40 plus years has taken its toll on image quality, but there is plenty to jog my memory of the adventure. We were told that probably half the canal was in water, which was broadly true dependent on the definitions applied. Still, on the day, the boat was put in the water and we set off at a good pace towards the junction. The section up to the first lock was well watered, and not in too bad a state. We'd been warned of various underwater obstructions (which included a mysterious power cable that had a habit, so we were told, of sinking canoes or any other craft paddled foolishly over it) but found none, only a piece of forlorn graffiti on the lower gates pleading for the restoration of the whole canal. The chamber of the lock was in a fair state but unworkable, as were all the locks (and there were plenty) so we did the first portage using the launching trolley. This was a basic abuse of the thing, which was designed to roll down a gentle slope until the craft floated and not to heave it over canal banks. It did the job though, and we soon got used to the process of getting the point of balance right before pulling the craft ashore. The pound above was watered, so the boat was relaunched and we rowed off towards Scotland bridge where we paused for a lunch of sandwiches taken from home. The lock chamber was again in a fair condition, though it did have quite a bit of vegetation in it. After making some notes, we carted the boat round again to another short but well watered pound that contained a number of widebeam houseboats. Although the reduced the width of the channel we were still moving by water, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. The chamber of the next lock was in poorer condition again, and getting the boat around was pretty awkward due to a car parked close to the canal on the tarmac edge. We had also arrived at our first unwatered pound. I remember being tempted to push the gates together to see if they would hold water again but, without balance beams it would have taken a winch to shift them. There were advantages and disadvantages to the dry sections of canal. Although rowing was easier than towing on the trolley, the process of getting the boat out an in the water was hard, so that on short pounds there was really no difference in the energy we used. We'd decided though that we would row on any part of the canal that had sufficient water depth to do that. The trolley was O.K. on flat land, but did have a tendency to find any rut on the towpath and go its own way. The boat also shifted back periodically, meaning we had to stop and re-balance it. The two pounds gave us a bit of a chance to get the towing procedure right, which helped a lot on later parts of the journey. We'd started by using the wooden handle to tow by hand, but soon found that lashing ropes to create a harness for ourselves worked a lot better.
We paused before going up to the top of the last lock in the Woodham flight in case the promised water was not there, feeling that a rest was in order. After a few minutes we pulled the boat up to a well watered pound which were again able to row along. We'd been told that the gates of the top lock leaked rather badly, but we were lucky that there had been quite a lot of rain, which temporarily have us the depth we needed. When moving again it was hard to think that this was in fact a disused canal. They were all pretty quiet at that time of year, even in the summer the traffic was minimal by today's standards. I remember holidays on the Oxford Canal (which I have already put in this blog) where you could run all day and maybe see just a couple of other boats on the move. Where we were though, was somewhere that had largely had a back turned to it. There was talk of filling the channel in and using it as either building land or a linear park. Suggestions had been made to convert locks to dams and keep some of the sections in water. The best suggestion though, and the one which has been adopted, was the idea painted on the lower left gate of that first lock. 
 “Save this canal.”
 


Here are a few more photos from our first day's travel.
(the black and white one is from an ealier visit by car)
Quite why I chose to hold onto the rope whilst the photo was taken is anybody's guess.
The boat was hardly going to blow away!



The wilds of (wait for it!) Woking.

It's never been a surprise that any area of wasteland is either reclaimed by nature, or used as a linear rubbish tip by humans. It should have been no surprise therefore that, as we slowly approached the town of Woking, the channel became narrower, and more choked. We'd had a good run through the remaining locks with a little bit of help from some inquisitive local kids who eventually dispersed to their respective homes a short while before we got to the watered pound. Now it was time to get to the side (before weed prevented us) and heave the boat back onto the launching trolley. Once on the towpath, which was in a reasonable condition, we continued on our way, with ropes round our middles like a pair of biped horses with a small cart.
It was somewhere around a bridge with a criss cross ironwork parapet in the middle of the town that we saw the blue helmet of a policeman. We'd been taking a short break, but cut it even shorter, deciding that he should meet with us as we headed purposefully along the towpath. Quite why we thought this would make a better impression I have no idea, but it was the two of us, harnessed up that he met. First question was:
“Is this boat yours?”
We were both tempted to say that it wasn't, and that we had in fact stolen it, but we owned up and said that the boat belonged to my friend, and that the contents had a mix of ownership, some mine and some his. We were also asked if we had any offensive weapons aboard. This subject is a bit of a grey area. We did have a sizeable billhook, which was quite old, but also pretty sharp. I'm sure that it could have caused great offence if brandished at someone, but we'd brought it in case we needed to clear our path. In any case, we told the policeman that we had no such items on account of the fact that we were tired and had forgotten we had the thing. It would have been interesting explaining that something with a sharp 12 inch blade, and a fair amount of weight behind it, was not offensive, and we'd have been on the right side of the argument. We also had the oars which could have caused a fair bit of upset if used as weapons. On the balance it's probably a good idea that we didn't, as two rather scruffy looking youths, try and argue our point. The third question:
“Where are you going?” was rather easier to answer.
“Basingstoke,” we both said, in all seriousness.
We were met with laughter from the officer, who laughed some more when we told him that we were not joking, but were on a self imposed mission to be the first boat to get to the town in a very long time. Eventually he believed us, and let us proceed on our way, having taken our names and addresses, and given us the assurance that we stood absolutely no chance. After thanking him for his help, albeit with rather a lack of sincerity, we were on our way again.
As we edged our way out of the town, the water level in the canal became a bit more tempting and, after a bit more towing, the weed had reduced sufficiently to relaunch and row, which was a welcome break.
By about 7.30, having asked a hiker earlier on about possible camping spots, we gave up for the night, close to the bottom of another flight of locks, as the light began to fade. Whether we'd found the one he'd suggested or not is something that will never be found out. But the area we chose, though not ideal due to the soil being rather wet was, after a bit of clearance, good enough to pitch our tent. It had been our intention to make a small camp fire and cook on it, but any wood we'd collected was still too wet to burn, and anything in the rather muddy area was in the same state, so it was the little blue camping stove that we used to prepare our tea on.


And a few more photos.
These were all taken well over 40 years ago.   I don't have prints for all of them so I have copied them using a digital camera and Gimp on my computer.   I'm as sure as I can be that they are in order but I have used the film numbering and the cut edges of the negatives to get them right.   If I have made any mistakes, please feel free to let me know.

Onwards and upwards.
The following day, after an early start, we cleared the boat of debris and set off to the first of what were informed were the Goldsworth locks. Though the locks, and some of the gates, seemed in fair order, the pounds in between were dewatered, so it was a longish slog to the top, where we ere greeted with a pound with sufficient water to float the boat again. The section took us to Brookwood, where the first lock caused us to have to unload the boat to get it up and over a bridge then reload it. Getting back onto the canal involved us having to go across the forecourt of a petrol station, and past a rather inconveniently parked caravan. This meant unloading yet again to tip the boat on its side in order to get past. Next obstacle came in the form of a balance beam which, yet again, there was no clear path round. Most of the gates that we'd tried as we moved slowly up the canal were surprisingly easy to move, despite the lack of water, but this one would not budge whatever we did. Only solution was to lift the boat up and over, which again meant unloading it!
Again we were on our way, and at the top of the flight we found there was still no water. The only solution to that one was to pause for lunch! Our culinary skills stretched us to instant mash mixed with dried vegetables, which probably tasted a lot better then than they would do now.
One of the surprising things that I have noticed in re reading the diary of our journey is how helpful people were. Whilst on our way to the Deepcut locks, we decided to try and find somewhere to fill our water container, so we simply set off across a bridge where we'd noticed some houses, then knocked on a door. An old lady answered it and took us (two rather scruffy youths) at face value. We'd said we were travelling by canal to Basingstoke, and she had no reason to doubt it, even if she hadn't seen the boat (which we had simply left, rather trustingly, on the towpath). Not only did she let us fill our water carrier, but she insisted on us coming in for a cup of tea!
Thankfully the towpath was in good condition as there was a lot of towing to do with the trolley. The whole of the Deepcut locks in fact, and there seemed to be plenty of them! We counted fourteen of the things, some of which had pounds with water in between which, according to our initial plan, we rowed along. Whilst on our way up the locks we encountered some of the local kids who used the canal as a play area. The sight of two possible lunatics and a rowing boat got their attention rather bore than a half deflated football, and we got asked all kinds of questions. As they seemed keen to help, we let them walk the trolley along the towpath for us whilst we rowed, to save us having to keep loading and unloading the thing until they decided it was time to go home for tea, and left the trolley waiting for us at the next lock before they went. Yet again it's odd reading this from a diary in current times, but there was nothing unusual about it. People generally seemed a little more easy going then than they do now.
About ten or so minutes after the last lock we'd had enough. It was gone seven o'clock and we had got further than our target for the day so it was time to celebrate with a curry. Aficionados of the cuisine would no doubt have turned their collective noses up at a mess made out of dried soya mince, dried vegetables, Marmite and curry powder, served with rather sticky rice, all cooked on a camp fire, but this was the food of the gods that evening.


Two views of Greatbottom Flash


Section of dry canal bed 

This view of the famous breach hardly 
does it justice. 


 The boat with a full load halfway up a flight.

 The campsite after a bad day.



Good and bad.

Our next two days of progress towards Greywell were very variable indeed. Setting off in good spirits, we made good progress, though the fatigue of lugging a 10 foot plywood dinghy for long periods on the launching trolley did get to us. There were several watered sections of the canal, but some were pretty weedy so we were unable to propel the boat with oars. By lunchtime we were close to a pub called “The Swan Inn” which was advertising pub lunches. We decided that the energy we would save by eating there outweighed the cost and time disadvantage so, despite warnings from a man bearing a striking resemblance to Private Fraser from Dad's Army who was standing on the bridge, we left the boat on the towpath and enjoyed what was a good meal. I have no note of what it was, but we felt bolstered by it and set off again, putting the boat back in the water soon after.
The canal eventually widened out into “Greatbottom Flash” which resembles a reasonably sized lake. The wrecks of two narrowboats mouldered on the far edge, and I was given to understand they were called “Greywell” and “Mapledurwell” that, again I was told were once owned by the Harmsworth family. I have since found that one of the boats was in fact called Brookwood but was built on the scrapped frames of Basingstoke, this being the last craft to attempt what we were now attempting. The canal remained watered until we reached a bridge with stop planks, the next mile being dry due to a breach at Ash Vale many years previously. With the towpath in very poor condition, the mile to Ash lock took a longer time than we thought, with us having to keep the boat from sliding down the slope into the canal bed quite often. Eventually we saw the breach on the opposite bank, which still showed itself as a scene of devastation. The photo we took doesn't really do the area much justice, but the twisted fencing does give some indication of what happened.
After looking at the lock, which was in pretty good condition but for a concrete dam that kept the water in the Hampshire section of the canal. We were told that the Hampshire section was watered throughout and were looking to move fairly quickly so that we would be in good time to get to Greywell the following day. We'd done well and this next bit was going to be a doddle.... or so we thought! After a mile of clear water we encountered a patch of thick weed, which we decided to plough on through. This was not a good choice and we ended stuck fast in the stuff, eventually giving up moving to sit and think of a solution. After some time we decided to force the boat to the bank and portage. It took half an hour to get turned but we still couldn't get to the bank, so eventually Charles, (who had the longer wellies!) took the rope and stepped onto the mat of weed whilst I stood on a thwart to raise the boat by pushing the oars down on the mess. To do this I had to hook one foot under the thwart whilst standing on the other. This worked well until, on the third step, the weed gave way, and Charles' boot was well and truly filled with something that only loosely equated to water. I wasn't wet, but the lurch in movement of the boat had tipped me off balance and I'd fallen backwards into the boat, cracking the water carrier in the process. We then pressed our food container (a one gallon catering ice cream box) as a substitute and carried on, having lost a lot of time and energy.
Eventually there was enough water and we put the boat back in, only to have to take it out soon after because of a really strange and very clingy weed that made propelling the thing impossible. That was it... it was tea break, and whilst we sat with one mug and one bowl (we'd lost the other mug somewhere) of tea, we worked out that we were now quite seriously behind schedule. It was whilst going through Aldershot that a group of soldiers passed us in the opposite direction on the towpath. One of them looked across and smiled.
“You knackered lads?” he said. “You want to do what we've just done.”
I doubt he would have thought us mad enough to drag a dinghy as far as we had, but we still had high hopes of getting to Greywell the next day. We continued later than we'd wanted but were still only a mile or so out of Aldershot when we pitched the tent. One piece of luck was that we'd found quite a nice spot with plenty of dry wood for a fire, over which we cooked a mess that was best described as stew. It could have been anything and we'd have eaten it happily! The original idea was to have been at Greywell that evening, and do the rest of the journey in a day, as the canal would be dewatered and we (theoretically) would have made brilliant progress. We still thought we may be in with a chance.



And on to Basingstoke?

The following morning was cold, but we soon warmed up heaving the boat on the trolley. We felt just a little fed up that there wasn't enough water to float, and what was there was so choked by weed as to be unusable (our experience of the previous day having made us a little wary). We still pushed on and, after being blown about by the wind on the embankment at Farnborough, we decided to do a quick sortie to see what lay ahead. Eventually there was sufficient and we put the boat in tying up at Pondtail bridge to go and replenish our water and buy some food. This was at 1.30 pm and we now knew we would not make Basingstoke, but still had high hopes of getting to Greywell. Though the water level and amount of weed made for easier rowing, we came upon several other types of obstruction in the form of concrete blocks under some of the bridges, which were presumably put there to stop enemies using the waterway during the second world war. The defences for this were quite prominent, with pillboxes and haystack shaped concrete tank traps which we (for some reason) referred to as zombies.
We stopped for lunch at half past three just short of a lifting bridge that we would probably have to carry the boat round, given that there was no visible way of opening it. After a closer inspection we decided that there was just enough clearance to get the boat through, which saved us a bit of time. The next big obstacle was Baseley's bridge which was under repair and totally blocked. This meant heaving the boat up and over the road then back down the other side, requiring us to completely unload and transport the contents of the boat separately. Once on the other side we rowed for a bit in the now fading light. We knew we wouldn't reach Greywell, but also had no real idea of where we actually were. By the time we had got to Broad Oak Bridge, we'd had enough. The canal was again impassable, the water having descended into being barely liquid mud. We were exhausted, had no food left, and no money to buy any. It was time to phone home!
Dad was beginning to wonder where we were but was happy to know we had arrived somewhere identifiable. By the time he and Mum arrived it was pitch dark, and pretty cold so we wasted little time in getting the boat onto the roof rack, lashing it down and heading off, both of us swearing that we would never attempt something as stupid again, whilst we raided what we had of our food (a jar of Marmite, and some powdered milk.) I'm not sure what eating the two did to our insides but we insisted we were O.K. That was until we passed a chip shop and Dad asked if we should stop.
Yes we'd failed to reach Basingstoke, and even failed to get to Greywell, but we had done our absolute best, were muddy, knackered, but fortified with the contents of two newspaper wrapped parcels, were now plotting our triumphant return!

Our triumphant return!


An easy hole to fall down!
 Hidden from view
Little Tunnel
 
Spot the bridge!



 It was nine weeks before we could return to Broad Oak bridge, and we'd decided to keep the load on the boat as light as possible for this second leg of the journey. There was no more water than there had been when we left, and the weather didn't look too good, but we set off anyway, and were happily towing the boat along the towpath by half twelve. Our first obstacle was an overspill channel which we could step across but had to physically lift the boat over the two foot or so width. Eventually the channel cleared, and we were able to row for the first time on this second leg of the journey. It had also started to rain so we stopped for lunch near Colt hill bridge. I presume it was silly season for insects as it's noted in the diary that we were plagued by mating dragonflies. We more or less knew that the run to Greywell would be relatively straightforward slog of portage and rowing. The landmark of Odiham castle was welcome, letting us know that we were on target, pausing in the water to take a photo. The water level was generally good on the summit but a lot was rather choked with weed. Progress was pretty good, though we did get held up by a rather curious lift bridge that crossed the canal not far before the tunnel. It went too low for us to simply go under, as we had with the previous lift bridges, and also had no visible means of lifting. This was the hydraulic lift bridge of legend. We found the control box but could do absolutely nothing so we decided (rashly ) to carefully take the boat under, getting firmly stuck about two thirds of the way through. Eventually we came up with the idea of one of us shinning onto the bridge deck and pushing the bow down through the planking with a tent pole. It being the school holidays, our activity attracted the attention of a couple of girls of around thirteen, who offered to push the pole down whilst we moved the boat through. Continuing on our way we got bombed by various projectiles being chucked into the canal at us, so we kept well away from the towpath side, avoiding anything worse than a few splashes of canal water.
With the tunnel ahead, we got as close as possible, though we didn't go in in case of underwater obstructions or further bombings from above. This more or less marked the end of travel by water, and the boat was heaved onto its trolley after a short backtrack to a suitable spot. The original plan had been to use the horse path but it was far too overgrown for a boat and launching trolley so we went around the hill guided by the ordinance survey map, eventually arriving at a bridge that spanned the rather overgrown canal below. Following our plan, the boat was heaved down and towed on the old towpath as far towards the tunnel as we could get, with the rest of the distance to the portal covered on foot.
The eastern portal now has a strong metal fence around it as it is nothing more than a dangerous hole in the ground. Then it was simply a dangerous hole in the ground with an earth bar across it. We were teenagers and therefore indestructible so we had a good look around the whole structure, peering in as far as we could, which was far enough to find that it had a fantastic echo and water in the bottom. Had we fallen into that water we would probably still be there now!
We picked a suitable bridge to camp beneath for the first night of the second leg of our journey, lighting a small wood fire to dry our clothes out (which had been soaked from the things thrown into the canal at us earlier in the day), eventually retiring just after midnight. The following day was a mix of dragging the boat along the towpath wherever possible (which was not that often!) or taking it along the road to the location of each bridge before walking back down the towpath and returning by road. This way we covered a good deal of the distance, finding the famous “Little Tunnel” by itself with a short length of dry bed either side. Following the path, we took the boat on the trolley through the dry bed of the tunnel, and back to the road to continue our journey. The tunnel seemed in pretty good condition, with no more than the odd missing brick. In the area were some beautifully clear streams, the water in which looked (and probably was) good enough to drink.
In the evening, we pitched the tent in a small field, turning the boat over in case of rain. The night was bitterly cold, and we woke very early in the morning, early enough to see the sun rise! After breakfast, we set the boat the right way up, to find it full of small slugs, each of which were evicted before we moved on towards the final goal, the Terminal Basin at Basingstoke. Whatever remained of the canal was completely dry so we continued by foot, towing the boat wherever we could on the towpath or dry canal bed. The only part of the canal we were unable to go directly along was a very small section that was in the grounds of a truck depot, but (with much difficulty) we negotiated our way around the perimeter fence on what would have been one of the canal banks (not sure if it was the towpath side). This required the boat to be fully unloaded with its contents being placed (on the bottom boards) on top of a corrugated iron hut whilst we posted the craft sideways through a narrow gap. Our goal was now in sight, and after a brief lunch at the top of a cutting where the M3 ran, we continued to Basingstoke.
The terminal basin was filled in many years before our journey, but it was occupied by the bus station (which I believe is now elsewhere in the town). On arrival, we took the boat on its trolley to the information desk and asked if we could photograph it, in a suitable position, and then leave it for safe storage until we could get a lift back home. Surprisingly the answer to both requests was an enthusiastic yes!
On reading through the records of this journey, I can't help thinking how much has changed. It is of course wonderful that the canal is now largely open, but I can't help thinking that we simply would not have been able to cover what we did in today's atmosphere. People simply accepted that we were a pair of lads doing something that was probably pointless, mildly dangerous, but quite fun. The ownership of the boat was questioned only once, and the policeman was quite happy at our assurance that the craft was ours. Nobody bothered us at any of the places we stopped along the way, and people were happy to top our water carriers up when we asked. The staff of the bus station were happy that we had not packed the thing with anything dangerous and simply let us leave it by their office where it was ignored by members of the public.
We both believe that we were the first boat to Basingstoke in over 70 years though. Maybe we hadn't floated all the way there, but we had done where there was water to do so. We were also not a 70 foot cargo boat, but we were crewing a small boat and we got to our destination.
Journey's end!   This is the site of the old treminal basin of the Basingstoke canal.   The boat is tied, as close as we could be sure, to a wharf edge.   Hard work, but a good job well done in our opinions!

***New book "Nearwater" out soon! *** 
There are currently three books in the Mayfly series
Mayfly, Here we Go! and Emily's Journey.
***Check my website for details***
***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available.   Check website or Facebook. http://www.michaelnyewriter.com

Friday 22 January 2016

Keeping a Bee


***New book "Emily's Journey" out soon! *** 
***Check my website for details***

***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available.   Check website or Facebook.
http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
This post started in January.   Scroll down to find the he latest update

****POST UPDATED 12th August 2016****
(update title is "Dawn")

Apologies for the break between updates.   I have had a very busy time of late getting the new book ready to publish!

Bee 1


The one that got away (almost)
I found this photo of a once prolific style of boat on the internet.
 
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 Not long before my sixteenth birthday we were heading slowly back down the river at the end of another summer holiday and were tied up for lunch on some nondescript concrete edging at the end of which was a half sunken boat. After over forty years I can't remember where on the river we were but I do remember the 19 foot front cockpit plywood Dolphin cabin cruiser half full of water with a couple of small fish swimming around inside it. It had clearly been there for some time, and would, if nobody did anything, have sunk. The name “Willow Wisp III” was clearly visible on the bow, the steering cable, which I was able to lean over and try, was completely seized solid, as were the throttle and gear-shift. Seeing my interest, my dad suggested that I should ask the nearby boatyard if they knew anything about it. Surprisingly they knew of the owner and, better than that, they wrote a phone number down on a sheet of paper for me. In the days of mobile phones I'd have been able to ring straight away (making the assumption that I'd have been allowed to have one) and the story may have had a different outcome. As it was, I had to wait until we were back home two days layer to get in in touch with the owner. The man that answered the phone sounded a little surprised, and said that he'd lost interest in the boat for reasons he didn't want to go into, and that I was more than welcome to make him an offer for it. Twenty pounds was the sum we settled for, and the man said there was an 18 horsepower Evinrude outboard that I could have for another twenty if I got the craft back in order. I contacted the boatyard to say the deal was going ahead and they said they'd lend me a “Henderson” pump which would be more than adequate to get the water out of the thing, after which Dad said he could tow it back behind the extremely underpowered Nyzark, where it would eventually find its way onto some hard standing in Kingston Power Station's unused barge house where I could work on restoration. The whole project seemed viable as, even with my limited abilities in woodwork, I would have been able to repair and replace bits of the sheet plywood hull, and other parts, as required. Two days before the proposed expedition to raise Willow Wisp III we were contacted by someone who had kindly towed the boat in its half sunken state to the dinghy rollers alongside the weir (I'm afraid I can't remember which lock it was attached to). I wasn't too worried abut this as we were allowed access and, with the borrowed pump, set off to complete the rescue.
On arrival at the rollers we found that Willow Wisp III, having been towed without being emptied first, had finally sunk to a point that the outboard well was now underwater. Worse than that, the powerful “Henderson” pump was an old, but rather large, semi rotary hand pump. Worse still the thing didn't actually work either. We did our best to heave the craft onto the rollers but, yet again they were meant for much lighter craft, and were not in any fit state of repair either. In particular, the shallow gradient at the bottom end had at some point, snapped or sunk, to leave a step that was too much to get the water laden Willow Wisp III onto. Another tack was tried, which was to lash tarpaulin over the outboard well and manually bail the craft out. This too resulted in failure. The whole afternoon was spent in ever more futile attempts to re-float the craft, but without the cash to hire a decent petrol powered pump, and to get the outboard well even a little bit watertight we were forced to give up. I've often wondered if the boat was rescued and still regret that I wasn't able to be the person that did it. I was only sixteen and, though disappointed, accepted that the job was too big for me. I remember Dad saying that If I really wanted to own a boat, he was far more in favour of that than me owning a motorbike. I know my limitations as far as balance goes, and never really fancied the idea of hitting the ground at anything more than walking pace. I said nothing though, but was pleased that Dad wanted to help.
After looking round for some time, we found, at Thames Ditton marina, a small clinker built cabin cruiser sitting on blocks in the car park. She wasn't in the best condition and was rather expensive as part of the deal included a nearly new 7.5 horsepower Mercury outboard. A closer look revealed that the deck on top of the cabin was in a very poor state, and light was visible between the cabin front and the bow deck. We were given the phone number of the owners, and that evening I rang them. The first thing to ask was if they were willing to split the boat and motor into two separate sales, and to ascertain how negotiable they were on price. They were happy to do both, and we agreed on £150 for the boat, leaving the marina to sell the outboard. My life savings at that time were £180, which was in a building society account that I had no access to without parental permission. That night there was one of those conversations between Mum, Dad, and Granny. Dad had an uphill challenge, the clincher of which was that in just over a year I'd have been able to buy a second-hand motorbike, without permission. At that time it was permissible to ride a 125cc machine on a provisional licence which, given that I hadn't so far even ridden a push-bike, struck fear into Mum and Granny who saw the boat as a suitable money pit to keep me distracted from alcohol loose women and road going vehicles.
One condition of sale was that the owners, a retired couple, wanted to see me before they sold the boat to me. They were both canal enthusiasts, had visited several festivals and wanted the boat to go to someone that had the same enthusiasm. I must have impressed them, as, without my asking, they said that I could have the boat for £125 rather than £150. My memory of them was that they were a really nice couple. I seem to remember their name was Nicholson, but I may be wrong. I handed them a cheque, and Bee 1 was then my boat. All I had to do was get her ready for the water with very little cash. 


 And the one that didn't.
This is yours truly at age seventeen with his life savings in wooden form.



An Accident with Custard.



Here is the bright red cabin top of Bee 1 about a year after restoration.

 The following weekend, I caught the bus to Thames Ditton, walked into the car park, and couldn't quite believe what I'd done. Sitting on blocks on the hard standing with cars parked nearby was Bee 1, and I owned her. Rather than go straight to her, I went to the chandlery shop to seek permission which, given that they already knew me by association with Mum and Dad, they said I didn't need. I walked back to the boat and stood looking at her with a feeling that the situation still wasn't quite real. I owned a boat, albeit a somewhat shabby one, but I owned her outright, she was mine. I undid a few of the brass turn-buckles that secured the rather rotten canvas and found a stout looking box to use as a step. Once in the cockpit, I unlocked the cabin doors to start assessing what needed to be done. The boat had been out of the water for a long time but was still pretty well equipped for something that small. All of the contents, however, would have to be unloaded before any repairs could be done, and there were plenty required. The cabin top was probably in the poorest state and, with hindsight, it would probably have been a good idea to replace it with a new sheet of marine ply had I have had any money to do it. The worst thing was that it had been covered with a diamond patterned plastic covering that was supposed to seal it completely, which it probably did for a while, until water started to creep in from any glued edge to leave a permanently wet layer between it and the wood. Also one of the deck rails had been badly knocked, and had come away with a few layers of the plywood, leaving a small hole near the back of the cabin. There was the gap that I'd noticed between the front deck and the cabin front, through which light was visible across the whole width. Dad had suggested that canvas and old paint were the solution to my problems, and, with un-proofed cotton “Duck” being cheap, and old pain being more or less free, it seemed a good solution. I was able to set to work to get the old rails and deck covering off the craft, a task that was surprisingly easy given that the glue holding the plastic no longer had any strength whatsoever and the brass screws securing the deck rails were all pretty loose.. A tin of wood filler, which cost very little closed the small hole in the cabin roof, and, after a day sandpapering I was good to go with the paint. After a raid on the garage for old cans, plus a couple of cans showing up that were being thrown out by the marina staff, I started the job. The dried out wood soaked the paint up quicker than toilet paper, but I soon had a suitable coat of sticky gunge to lay the canvas across. Once this was done, a task that didn't take too long, it was time to stipple more paint through the canvas until it was totally saturated. I had a large tin of custard yellow gloss for this job, and all went well until I was almost finished, whereupon I dropped the tin on the top of the cabin, spilling a fair amount which proceeded to run down the side of the boat, which I had intended to keep in its original varnish finish. It now had an untidy vertical yellow stripe down it which took me longer to clean off that it has taken to do the whole of the decking! I finished the day late, covered in various colours of paint, and seriously fed up. The job was, however, done. The decks of Bee 1 were now watertight, and, as soon as they were dry, I had a tin of Royal Mail red paint to put a top coat on. Thankfully I'd learned my lesson, and was very careful not to spill this one, and it took one sunny afternoon to apply the final coat, tack the beading along the edges, and trim the canvas. I finished the weekend with yet more paint on my trousers, but a feeling of both achievement and of optimism that I could actually see the job through. I think my total spend that weekend was less than £5 which seemed, even then, to be a tiny amount for the transformation it made.


Golden Syrup

Bee 1 with her new nameboards



Having got the cabin top and front deck watertight, it was time to sort the peeling yacht varnish from the cabin sides and all the hull. I was lucky in that, along with the boat, came a reasonable amount of the stuff and other paint products that had been used for general maintenance which had been stored either in the cabin or cockpit. There wasn't quite enough varnish but I only needed a relatively small quantity to add to what I already had. First though, I had to prepare the ground. In these days of cheap Chinese made power tools I'd have risked electrocution with an unbranded mains powered sander, or explosion with a battery powered one. Then though, I only had one option. Cork block, sandpaper and elbow grease. Though tiny by cabin cruiser standards, 15ft 6 inches is a lot of boat to sand, and I also had the joy of keeping finding little bits of yellow paint that I hadn't managed to get rid of in the previous clean up. The whole job took all of my spare time for a week, at the end of which I felt that I'd made Bee 1 look a hell of a lot worse than she'd looked at the start of my effort. There was only one thing for it, start varnishing! Another bus ride, with some more paint brushes I'd purloined from the garage, and I was again ready to go. The weather was warm, and I have always found that painting is quite therapeutic, so I settled to working away, brushing the syrup coloured yacht varnish on the cabin sides and hull whilst listening to my radio which was perched inside the cockpit. The wood was quite dried out and soaked the first and second coat up with little change to its appearance. I think I put four coats on in all over the period of a week, and perhaps a fifth on the cabin sides which had been in a very poor state. One of my happy memories of the time is standing back looking at a newly varnished plank glistening in the sun and the new single by Roy Wood's Wizzard, “Angel Fingers” got its first play on Radio One.
As is the case with boats, there is always another job to be done when you think you've finished. I'd taken the name boards off in order to paper behind them, and was simply going to reattach them when the varnish was dry. Having looked at them though, I felt they were a bit too battered and decided to take them back home for a repaint. That evening I set about sanding the first, only to find that water had got behind it (where it hadn't been painted) and, as a result, it had decomposed quite badly. Checking the two, I found that one was in as poor a state, and the other wasn't so hot. The following day I managed to find a suitable piece of scrap wood that was big enough to make three new name boards. It took me quite a while to get them all the same size, and each got three coats of white paint before I started with the lettering. Using graph paper as a guide, I drew the letters out and then traced them, going over the back with a very soft pencil so that a mark would transfer over to the pristine white gloss of the boards. It took a few hours to paint the name three times over, and get each board looking the same. I used a small artists brush and black Humbrol enamel (from my Airfix kit days) for this. By the end of the week I had some quite presentable boards, which I proudly attached to the boat. I now felt I had something that looked quite presentable, and which was also beginning to feel believably mine. There was still a lot to do, including getting something to power it with. I'd been told by the previous owners that the 7.5 Mercury had been a bit of a mistake on their part when they bought it to replace an earlier outboard. It was a very well engineered machine but was a bit on the heavy side, and Bee I was overpowered with it. On the river it wasn't so bad, but on canals, on the low throttle settings, they found that it tended to run a little too cool, and, even with the 50 to 1 petrol oil mix, spark plugs used to oil up quite frequently. With this, and a budget of £30, in mind, I set about the task of finding something suitable. It was to be a long search.

I need power Scotty!

The right tool for the job, a 1968 Mercury 3.9


In the days of no Ebay or Gumtree, it was classified ads, the Exchange and Mart, and basic cycling around to every boatyard in the phonebook that was the method of searching. There were quite a lot of old outboards available, but most of them seemed to be the 1 ½ horsepower variety that wouldn't have had the punch to push the boat on the Thames, though they'd probably have been fine for canals. The first machine I remember finding was made by a company called Clinton who, I thought, made motors for lawnmowers. The thing was pretty old and battered, but had the look of a “proper” outboard. The person I spoke to at the yard said he didn't know much about it except that it made a bit of a clatter, and that he wanted £50 for it. Next in line was a 4 horsepower British Anzani which would have been suitable on power, reliability and condition. They were a simple machine, with a permanently engaged forward gear, meaning that when you started the motor, it immediately propelled the boat, and kept doing so until you stopped. O.K. for going along the river, but not so good for manoeuvring in locks etc. I would have bought this but someone wanted it for a sailing boat and offered the seller more money than I had. The same place had a 4 horsepower short shaft British Seagull for sale at a price that I could afford. Problem was that it was a short shaft, designed for either an outboard well or a sailing boat with a lower stern or motor bracket. The yard must have had the thing cluttering the place up for some time, as they offered to fabricate a bracket out of scrap steel for me as part of the deal. Feeling that this was about as good as I would get, I accepted the offer and now would be able to move Bee 1 when she eventually went in the water.

The bracket, when it did show up, was made of pretty thick steel, weighing about a quarter as much as the outboard. It was well put together and I duly attached it to the back of the boat with four large bolts. My “Jim Stratton” moment came some time later when, at the power station barge house, I attached the British Seagull, and set about pulling the starter cord. In my book, “Mayfly” Jim simply goes through the motion of starting a rather better machine on a day when nobody else seems to be around. I wasn't so lucky. The wharf area for the barge house was alongside Canbury park, and I attracted a small audience as I tried, and repeatedly failed, to get the damn motor to fire at least once. Of course, I eventually got the guy who “knew a bit about outboards” who gave me all sorts of spurious advice which resulted in the carburettor flooding and absolutely no life from the little outboard. There's something about starting recalcitrant machinery that is mildly annoying, and it gets even more so when someone keeps shouting advice through a stout iron fence. After about twenty minutes it was probably possible to cook an egg on the top of my head (though I never tried) I simply disappeared into the barge house to see if there was anyone that actually knew anything, and ask them. Thankfully by the time I returned, fuelled with the advice to simply leave it for the petrol to evaporate, put a new spark plug in (of which several were supplied in a box of bits for the motor) and then pull the cord once with choke and again without. I was also now accompanied by my dad, who had finished work for the day and was interested to see how everything went. The advice I'd been given worked, and with the motor on tickover I cast off. I got as far as Gridley Miskin's Timber yard near Kingston Bridge (no more than a couple of hundred yards) when I noticed that, instead of being perpendicular, the outboard was now leaning at quite an angle, having vibrated its clamp screws (which I had made sure were tight) to a point where I could easily have lost the thing in the river. Thankfully I was able to grab hold of a moored barge, stop the motor, re-tighten the clamp, and head back to the power station barge house. The run hadn't exactly been the success that I'd hoped and, despite encouraging words from Dad, I couldn't help feeling that I'd wasted my money. I can't remember running Bee 1 with the British Seagull again, though I may well have done, and I sold it soon after for a small profit to pay for something entirely better.

During the restoration of Bee 1, the new owners of Lady Jena, the boat Mum and Dad had bought before they got Nyzark, had decided to sell her. They'd enjoyed their time with her, but with a new baby on the way, they needed to get some money together. A buyer was soon found, but they couldn't afford the boat with the engine and, much as I had done, planned to find one when funds were available. I'd always liked the single cylinder 1968 Mercury 3.9 that had powered Lady Jena more or less since she'd sunk and been brought back to life. This now was just within the absolute limit of what I might be able to afford so I offered the owners £40 for it, thinking that it was probably worth more and fully expecting to be turned down. Thankfully they accepted and I was now the proud owner of a long shaft outboard with a real gearbox and proper remote fuel tank. I was also completely skint, but I really didn't care. With a smile on my face, and some stout plywood on the back of my bicycle, I set off to my little boat to remove the well made but rather unsightly (and now unnecessary) steel bracket. Once I'd taken it off, I reinforced the stern with plywood either side of the stern post, fixed firmly into place with the bolts from the bracket, several screws and a good dose of marine grade glue that I'd found in one of the lockers. It is the Mercury that I decided to build the opening scene of Mayfly around. The motor never really set a foot wrong, and I'd like to think that, like many of its kind, it is still around today.
 

But will it float?



With all the work done, it was time to put Bee1 back in the water. She was severely dried out, and it was suggested that I put some water in the bottom to allow the planking to take up the slack. It was a good job that I did, because there was a bit round the bow where there was quite a bad leak. Nothing too serious to fix, but sufficient to have sunk the boat overnight had she just been put in the water. As with all similar situations, suggestions as to how to fix the problem came thick and fast. In the end, someone from the yard workshops said he'd go over it with a product called “Farocaulk” which would sort things. I've never seen a tube of the stuff, and can find very little information on it other than it was well liked and had a long shelf life. It did the trick though and Bee 1 was lowered into the water on the slipway the next day. The following weekend, I reassembled the interior of the little boat, having done my best to repair items made with interior grade plywood that had separated. I also bought (with the last of my cash) a small brass bodied pump for the bilges. All was good to go. I had turned seventeen and I owned a boat. Sadly it was close to the end of the summer break and I had no money whatsoever. I did have a tank full of petrol though, so I was able to enjoy a few short runs before going to college of further education. With the Mercury outboard Bee 1 had a good turn of speed, and was easy to handle, a lot of which was down to the beautiful hull design. She did roll rather more than some boats but was a willing little craft and it was on one of the runs I made with the original tankful of petrol that I decided I was going to have my own holiday, the following summer. I sat down and worked out the cost, and whichever way I did, I came to the conclusion that I would either be able to afford food, or fuel but not both. Then petrol shot up in price. I calculated again and things did not look too good but I was still, at an age where one really wants to assert independence, determined to go. The answer was simple. Apart from the odd LP record now and again, I saved every penny I could, putting the cash either in a tin on my windowsill, which once had about £10 worth of 1971 two pence coins, and a wooden box near my bed for anything that would fold. A whole lot of that was lost on the licence, but I kept the regime, and by the end of the summer term at college of further education, instead of revising for my exams, I was busy on Bee 1 preparing for what, for me, was an epic voyage. I remember arriving by bicycle, with all I needed for the exams stuffed into the pockets of an old anorak. Actually the pockets had long worn through so I had steel rule, drawing set, slide rule etc. in the lining which amused people as I pulled the items out, appearing to lose weight as I did. A friend was filled with horror when I told him I'd put a coat of white gloss on the inside of the cabin top that afternoon when he'd had his head in a textbook the whole time. I had been warned by the tutors that I would probably get a worse mark in the exams than in the mocks mainly because of my attitude to revision. I still got a distinction though (Which is as good as you could get in City and Guilds), so I must have been doing something right.
The day finally came for that “Jim” moment. This part of it was the heading into the unknown. I am aware that many teens my age claimed to have been everywhere and done everything, which did rather belittle my talk of my own personal adventure. It was my adventure though and I was going to have it. The Mercury fired up perfectly, and I was on my way up the river Thames. Hardly uncharted territory but this was my boat, and my home for two weeks. Then it started raining and I was a sitting duck. I got soaked through, stopped at Molesey Lock, changed my clothes, put waterproofs on and continued. Then the sun came out and I started sweating like a pig. Whilst still steering, I took the waterproofs off and tossed them in the cabin. Cue another heavy shower.
By the end of the day I had been soaked to the skin and dried out several times. I also had had a splitting headache. I tied up for the night near Halliford school on the old river behind Desborough Cut. Next it was time to try my luck with the rather old and equally dangerous looking Calor gas stove.
One burner on the thing looked like a sawn off blowtorch, and the other was disk like with four vents. Both burners were quite rusty, and the knobs very stiff. The main body of the thing was made of steel, painted with faded custard yellow paint. Not feeling too hungry I decided to boil and egg, which, using the blowtorch burner, boiled too fast and exploded in the pan. The meal was not set to be a resounding success, but it was food. I was in my boat and it was my holiday and I was going to enjoy it even if it killed me!

 
Dawn.

The next day the weather was a bit more settled, and I woke up without the headache. Everything seemed fine so I had breakfast (I can't remember what it was) and then set about getting the boat ready for the day. Most things seemed neat enough, and there wasn't a lot of water in the bilge, so it was soon time to start the Mercury and head off. Bee1 was a very pleasant little boat to handle, and cut through the water without a huge wake. The outboard was pretty quiet, and I settled to the days cruising happily, hoping to get to Cookham by the evening. I'd always been told that two stroke American outboards had a tendency to be very thirsty as far as fuel was concerned, but I seemed to be getting between 4 ½ and 5 hours per gallon from the little 3.9 horsepower single. There were no issues with going through the locks, although my care with getting the boat in the right place, did get me asked to speed up a couple of times. After a few more locks though I fully got the hang of the role of the one man boater.
The meadow at Cookham was a bit packed when I arrived, but I found a space that nobody seemed to have spotted. I fount that this may have been because it had the misfortune of being something of a trap for wash from the boats still going along the river. At the time, I think the 7 knot speed limit was regarded by a lot of the more well heeled boat owners as being more of an advisory thing, and they pushed their craft well beyond it at times. This resulted in the wash hitting the bank and eroding it, but where I was it caused a lot to funnel between the bank and my boat, landing quite a good deal of it in the cockpit. Eventually I partially fitted the canvas over the back to deflect it. This was far from ideal as the cover was nothing more than that. It clipped to the cabin top with turn-buckles and sloped down to the stern, leaving pretty much no room to sit. Still, when the traffic had finally ceased, I sat out for the rest of the evening. I think there had at one time been a hard top for the cockpit but this had been removed long before I had the boat, and probably accounted for the several holes left in the cabin top before I fixed it all up. The second, and subsequent nights got better as time went on and I eventually found my way to the beautiful meadow by Halfpenny bridge in Lechlade. It had been a while since I'd been there, with the Thames being used mainly as a route to the Oxford Canal by my family for a few years. The distance had to be covered as quick as possible, with no time to spend simply dawdling. Even then the town of Lechlade was changing. The beautiful old café that was A.Smith had long gone, and the shops were just beginning to homogenise into what we have today. It was still nice to be there though, and I spent an enjoyable time browsing at some places. A trip to Park End Wharf to get a few necessities made an interesting diversion, and I eventually decided to take a look at the old Thames and Severn junction. The best way to look would have been by water, and the wharf, who used to hire small motor boats by the hour, now only had a selection of rather battered fibreglass skiffs. They had the advantage of being cheap, so I spent a little of the limited cash I had on one. The thing was in a poor state of repair, and the oars were in even worse condition. To start with they didn't match! One was about ten inches longer than the other. They didn't locate properly in the rowlocks which themselves were severely worn and malformed, being bent to a point that should have snapped any self respecting piece of cast iron. Eventually I gave up on the attempt and decided to walk instead.
When I got opposite the junction I found that the long demolished footbridge had been replaced and I spent a couple of hours doing a rather poor watercolour of the area, this being the only image I have from the holiday. I sometimes wish that I'd taken a camera with me, but with no more than the one image, I feel the memory of the holiday has stayed a lot fresher in my mind that it otherwise would have. I'd decided that if the time was to be a getaway, which was something I really needed then, that I would take a minimum of clutter with me. Following this ethos, I also left my radio and cassette recorder behind, taking a guitar, which I wasn't that good at playing instead. Although it was no more than a repeat of early family holidays, it formed a special part of my life that eventually sowed the seeds of my changing direction and going to art school. It could be argued that the two weeks were truly life changing in that respect as, when at Sunderland Polytechnic on my fine art degree course, I met someone called Janice Armstrong at someone's birthday party. The rest, as has been said so many times, is history. A year after I completed my degree, we were married in Kendal, and are now rapidly approaching our 34th anniversary. In the Mayfly books I have written a lot about the benign influence boats seem to have on the lives they touch. Maybe Bee 1 knew something that I didn't.


 http://www.michaelnyewriter.com

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