tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15977303677512998352024-02-18T18:04:28.613-08:00The Accidental WriterMichael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-8194912085971710782019-12-15T07:36:00.002-08:002021-10-29T05:19:02.843-07:00Travels in time and by Canal<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part One</h3>
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Please scroll down for parts Nine and Ten</h3>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">I
know we said we’d just carry on doing what we set out to do but
that was pretty stupid when you think about it. For a start, if you
make your living from carrying cargo, then you need a cargo to carry
and Mayfly is simply too small for most. It’s also bloody cold
and doesn’t have a toilet! Peeing in the bushes may sound
amusing, and it’s not so bad in the summer months, but they’ve
gone now and its just cold and disgusting now the novelty has worn
off a bit. It’s not that I don’t like living on Mayfly because
I do very much. She makes me feel cosy and secure but I think even
she knows that we need to hole up somewhere whilst the worst shit of
the bad weather passes over. Both Jim and I have had a really bad
cold, and I even managed to slide on some slush and fall in a lock.
Thankfully I’m still here but it could quite easily have turned out
to be my last day on this earth. I guess this makes me sound a bit
ungrateful to Jim. Before he gave me a half share in her, Mayfly
was his boat and I’d rather noisily invaded his life (which was
shitty enough for the poor guy without me stirring more dregs up).
Still we’re here now and prepared to face the future, and the
music, together. I guess that facing the music (or having to) is
ultimately part of what happens when you run away from bad things
when you are just fifteen years old. I say “just” there because
that’s what people would say. You know, “Poor thing, she was
only fifteen.” That’s as may be but it was the only option and,
apart from all the wind, snow, hail, sleet and general shit
descending from the skies at us we have actually achieved a fair bit
over the last few months. Part of that has allowed my parents to
return to the country which is why I’ll have to be facing the
music. They will probably (in equal measures) think that I am
completely feckless, irresponsible and also a bit immoral. Worse
than that they will more than likely think that Jim is some kind of
monstrous ogre that trapped me into a life of whatever they perceive
I have been doing for the last few months. They are reasonable
people though and I expect they will eventually get the fact that
when the law lets you down and the council want to run your life, you
have to take the bull by the horns and make up the rules as you go.
I can see a lot of older people tutting and saying “That way lies
anarchy!” So what if it does. It’s what we did and it bloody
well worked. We were even taken in by a community that seems to
live by having no rules whatsoever. All of which has altered the
way I see the world. In some senses I am still the convent school
privately educated daughter of a well to do family but that image no
longer fits. For a start, my parents are as broke as it gets, and
have been (predictably) rejected by those that were their friends
when they had money. Well, bollocks to that lot is all I can say!
If people only like you because you have cash then they are no
friends of mine. That’s another thing. Yes, Jim and I have had
to deal with some really nasty shits along the way but there were far
more people that helped and encouraged us for sticking by what we
were doing. And what were we doing? Living by our own rules like
a pair of “Bloody Anarchists,” I suppose. Like I said, my
former life no longer fits and I must follow the path that this odd
new one takes me. I no longer want to be the prim and marginally
spoiled brat that I may well have turned into. So, for the record,
on the shittiest of shitty days, with hardly any cash, damp and
confused, I, Amanda Donaldson, am actually pretty happy. So, we
don’t know what will happen tomorrow, nobody does. It’s not
that long since the Cuba Missile Crisis where we could all have ended
up as bloody toast. I’m happy and I’ll take all things that
life throws at me, even if that is a giant pie in the face. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">2019
Michael Nye. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span><br />
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
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</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Two</h3>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A
few weeks ago I was planning this holiday thing where I went off on a
boat and kind of didn’t come back to the same arseholes that I’ve
had to put up with for most of my life. Well, arseholes is being a
bit tough on some of the people but very generous to others so I
guess as an average, arseholes fits the bill pretty well. So, when
I said I just wanted to go away and sort my life out someone did tell
me to be careful of what I wish for because it may come true. I set
off anyway and now I’m in the middle of something that mostly I
didn’t wish for. The boat floated, and the engine ran OK, that
bit was fine, then it all became some kind of mess that I don’t
really understand. The biggest thing in all of the soup is that I’m
not alone. I’m sharing what was my space with another person.
OK a girl if you must know, and she’s kind of posh as well, not the
sort that would even say hello to me normally but here we are.
Amanda (that’s her name) is, or was very talkative but I kind of
knew she was covering up for something, or making the best of a bad
situation. In the end, I guess the situation was that bad that her
running away from it with me in a boat was the best of two bad
options. I mean I could easily be some kind of evil monster that
forces my way on… well, whatever but I guess she’s perceptive
enough to know that I’d find it hard to force the skin off a rice
pudding. I don’t like being pushy so I get pushed around instead.
She probably knows that too, but she doesn’t push me around or
hasn’t done yet. In some ways I sort of feel that I maybe should
have been sensible and gone off on my own but I can’t help liking
Amanda and I do sort of understand that, despite the posh accent and
the money she has been used to, it’s all gone now and she was more
alone that I was. We’ll have to talk about stuff I guess, but
it’s early days at the moment and I’ll wait until she’s ready
to spill the beans. There’s plenty for me to spill too but I
don’t want to load her mind up with my shit. It’s not fair on
her because her stuff is happening now and needs dealing with.
People wanted to take her into care and take her home away so I guess
this is now her home. Even with having to put up with me, and the
fear of the unknown, I do know that living on what she called a
glorified packing case is probably going to be better than being
institutionalised. That’d just knock the stuffing out of her like
it did me, except it would be worse for her because she’s used to
an easier life. I could say that it serves her right but that’d
be mean. She was born to money so she didn’t get any choice and,
she’s basically a nice person, you know, good company and all of
that. Now that the basic embarrassment of being two people of
opposite sex in a pretty small living space is over, I think we’ll
get on well enough to work stuff out. I hope so. In short, I
guess I didn’t wish for sharing my adventure but I’m now happy to
be doing just that. I’m not a miserable person but not that happy
most of the time, or at least I haven’t been. I just roll along
from day to day expecting little and getting little, then I found
Mayfly and things sort of went weird. Amanda is now a part of that
weirdness and I’d really miss her if she wasn’t here. ©2019
Michael Nye. www.michaelnyewriter.com</span><br />
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<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Three</h3>
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</h3>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">And
so this is Christmas, well, sort of. Most of you won’t have heard
from me yet, but I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m one of those
people whose life has been touched by those two nutters with a wooden
boat that that talk to. In fact I may not even exist if it wasn’t
for them. Then again my Auntie Linda seems to have stuck the boot
in somewhere along the line too. I’m here though and pretty happy
with being alive at this time of year. The house is getting ready
for Christmas, with most of the bits of engineering hardware tidied
or decorated with tinsel. The donkey engine in the garden has a
sign with the words of “Little Donkey” attached firmly to it. I
know because it was me that did it. I even stuck a few bits of
holly to the thing! In the house there is a gearbox in the hallway,
and most of a Bolinder Cub oil engine sat by the back door. Mum has
decided to drive an old Austin 7 which she bought at an auction
instead of anything sensible. I mean it’s pretty cool being
picked up from school in it but it’s also pretty cold at this time
of year. It’s also pretty cool when Dad arrives on his beautiful
old Vincent Motorbike. I sometimes think about other people at
school who say that bowls of nuts often are the first sign that
Christmas is coming. We have them all year round, but you’d break
your teeth on them if you tried eating one! Ours come in various
types like, Whitworth, B.A, Unified and even some metric ones.
They are always neatly laid out and labelled so you can at least be
sure of what you are attempting to eat if you are stupid enough to
attempt it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">As
the day really begins to approach, Mum starts making bad jokes about
her cooking, which actually is a team effort between her and dad, who
makes enough bad jokes about his own abilities. It’s true that
they have had some disasters, like when the pastry caught fire on
some concoction they were doing as a centrepiece. After it was
hacked away, the filling was sort of solid enough to stand for itself
though and was really quite nice. Then there was the skin on Dad’s
special recipe gravy which he reckoned was good enough to make
bicycle tyre patches out of. Again though, once it had been removed
in one rubbery disc, the gravy underneath it was pretty tasty. The
main thing is that we always end up with a Christmas dinner and have
a load of laughs getting to the point where it is served. A lot of
people don’t get anything close and that makes me sad, but also
appreciative of the two complete nutters that are my Mum and Dad.
In spite of their almost obsessive interest in all things made of
metal, they always put my brother and I first and I also know that a
lot of kids would love that bit too. I guess that, even though I
curse the stubbing of my toe on canal boat engines, and not being
able to get to my school shoes because there is a gearbox in the way,
I’m pretty lucky in the grander scheme of things so in a lot of
ways life is pretty good even if the lot at school that keep trying
to get me to make out that I’m neglected in some way. They are
wrong, but when I tell them that I sort of get sent to the head to be
told off which is a pain in the bum. O.K. so we don’t get the
poshest presents on the planet but at least Mum and Dad think about
what we may want and pretty much always get things right. ©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></div>
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<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Four</h3>
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</h3>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">They
played that bloody song on the radio again. I can just about
remember it from the radio when I was a kid but even then it was
probably and oldie. Each verse ends with the line “And then he
kissed me.” That’s kind of OK but a bit sort of sloppy but they
played it the day after the canal festival and now I can’t get it
out of my head. I mean, one minute we’re looking at a certificate
and a little brass plaque and the next… Well, I don’t know what
happened except suddenly I’m kissing someone that I hardly know.
OK so we bonded over painting a little two stroke boat engine, or
that’s what my brother said happened, but I don’t kiss girls. I
don’t kiss anyone because it’s daft. Thing is I kissed her, or
she kissed me, or we kissed each other and it’s got right under my
skin.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> I
wrote that in what passes for a diary a couple of days after the
festival and then hid it at the bottom of a drawer like I wanted to
file it out of the way, only they kept playing that bloody song (or
it kept going through my head) so in the end my brother told me to
write her a letter. That’d be fine but I didn’t really know
where she lived. Thanks to her friends it got there and then the
whole year kind of blew its stack. She wrote back, I went and saw
her and now she’s coming up after Christmas. I mean right after
Christmas! Not some fixed date but for the days in between it and
new year. We talked about all the sloppy stuff and Romeo and Juliet
shit when I was down on a school trip, and then things kind of got
screwed over a bit by one of the others on the trip who keeps getting
shit from her parents. Things there are sort of OK now in that
department but it’s still all temporary. I hope things do sort
out because nobody should ever be treated like that. So I guess
it’s pretty selfish of me to be shitting bricks because someone who
isn’t my girlfriend, or at least I’m not sure what she is, is
coming up to spend a few days with my family. I mean I’ve seen
her house and it’s massive compared to Mum and Dad’s and I know
she speaks really posh which will probably annoy the crap out of both
of them but she’s basically a solid person. She just likes
messing with bits of engineering stuff which is kind of boys
territory I guess. I can’t see anything much wrong with it, and
she’s bloody good at it too. I’ve tried to keep my mind off of
all of this, but now people at school know, they keep asking stuff
that I can’t answer. Mostly it’s all good though because a few
of them met her and, despite the posh accent, they kind of just
accepted her as one of us which is good in its way. I’m looking
forward to Christmas, but I’m actually looking forward to meeting
up again and just talking and all the other stuff friends do. ©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></div>
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<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Five</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
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<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="">If
midsummers day (the solstice) is kind of all bound up with me, then
so is the winter solstice. I'd have been six months old when I saw
my first one. I was held as a baby as the sun came up, and again as
it went down. I remember absolutely nothing, nor will little Joshie
here. I offered to take him for a walk whilst I thought things
through. I know I wanted to be alone, but the little lad talks to
me in a way that someone that actually has language can't. I look
at him and his big blue eyes look back. There's all these
expressions he has that let me know that he sort of knows exactly how
I'm feeling. Like when his mum had the baby blues a bit on the
heavy side, he somehow got that I was looking after him so that she
could get herself into the right head space. I guess he managed to
get the message to his mum that I wasn't taking him away too. Right
now he seems to be just looking at me as though he wants to know
something. I'm pretty sure it's not about his parents and, even if
I look away, he still gets my attention. I mean who'd want to look
away from such a beautiful little face anyway. What I want to tell
him is that things work out, but when I form the words in my head to
actually say anything he just looks back and sort of fires the same
back at me. He's telling me that things in my life will work out.
I mean, how can he know so much when he's only been in the world for
half a year. He has no concept of Christmas, birthday, spring or
anything much else. He can't write anything and, according to the
health visitor, he isn't even that aware that he's an individual
human being. Well Joshie, all of that's a load of old cobblers
isn't it. Yes, I know I'm from the north and we don't do rhyming
slang but it's cobblers anyway. You know far more than anybody
thinks you do. Well, apart from your mum and dad, and me of course.
We know that what's going on in that little head of yours is kind
of pretty awesome. It doesn't matter that you can't walk or feed
yourself. It doesn't matter if you pee yourself (and us) or even if
your shit stinks (which it doesn't.... Well, not too much and I'll
let you off for any bad smells anyway).</span></span></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""> Anybody
walking past might think I was talking a load of shit into mid air as
Josh is in a baby sling under my coat. Thing is I'm not actually
speaking in words. This is all going between him and me as he
snuggles up to me. I love moments like this, you know, just
wandering along the towpath then standing on top of the bridge
looking out along the canal. I could stand here for hours today but
I know Josh is either going to pee himself, do a poo, or start
dropping rather heavy hints that he wants a feed. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
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</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Six</h3>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">There
are a lot of things you can decide are your first memory, like
falling over on a path, or being greeted by a stranger. I have a
few like that, little flashes of stuff that whiz through your mind
and are gone in a split second. Instead of these fleeting glances,
what I attribute to being my very first recollection was when I was
around three years old. I just about remember having lived in
France but that’s more because of my having been told it so many
times. This one is as clear as a film playing through my mind. Of
course, like all memories, it merges with others to form a kind of
narrative that eventually made my life make sense. I remember well
being told that we were going back home, which seemed strange because
I was already at home. I don’t remember the journey, or the hotel
room when we arrived back “home.” What is burned indelibly in
my mind is the first time I saw my brother. There was an instant
connection that made it feel like a missing piece of a jigsaw had
finally been put into place. Of course that was at a time that I
would have been more than likely to try and eat the said jigsaw piece
than to actually place it correctly.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> My
brother is around twenty years older than me but that didn’t
matter, the bond was there and I ran across the hotel lounge towards
him only to be caught by him when I tripped up. Here he was, my
absolute hero of all time, but that was not all. He had a lady with
him. I say lady because that was they way I would have referred to
her then,. Anyone female was either a girl or a lady in my simple
vocabulary. When she was introduced as my sister in law I decided
that whatever or whoever she was, all I knew was that she meant a lot
to my brother and therefore meant the same to me. I was then told
that I was going to be an uncle! I was just three and I remember it
as well as if it had happened half an hour ago.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Time
seemed to fly and this new brother and his wife were busy making a
new home for themselves out of a long derelict lock house. Then the
word Christmas was mentioned. The thought of spending the season in
the half finished project was suggested and that was it. They were
that impetuous so, with what encouragement a three year old could
give, the plans were made and things progressed at a crazy pace.
This was a time that changed mine along with a good few other lives
and soon I was sitting in the shabby kitchen of what was their new
home, eating some toast on Christmas eve. I knew I was in the right
place and that my father and mother were keen to make up whatever had
got between them and their first born. I also knew that I never
wanted to be far from my brother and my sister in thingy (as I called
her then, because she was far more than an ordinary “Lady”) and
that I would love the baby that would eventually arrive whether it
was a boy, a girl or a gibbon. I was where I wanted to be and the
world was all new. Every time I think of that first Christmas in
this country, I smile. I always will do. </span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span></div>
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</h3>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Seven</h3>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
are a lot of times that I can remember about my little room above the
shoe shop, my first Christmas away from the orphanage being one of
them. I'd seen decorations go up in the shops, enjoyed
conversations as I wandered about the place, and was generally quite
happy. I knew that at the orphanage there would be preparations
under way to give us poor unfortunates a good time. It usually was
quite fun, but I had turned my back on it and faced the day alone.
I can't say that I was that worried at the prospect, and was
determined not to feel nostalgic for a place that I disliked when I
lived there. With that in mind, I set off to Woolworths and bought
some of the cheap but pretty decorations, along with a small
artificial tree and fairy lights. With everything up it looked
quite festive, and, given that I would not be getting anything from
my non existent family, I bought and wrapped some perfume and other
toiletries. My next problem was getting something for my mentor and
good friend Gerald. I had decided on a bottle of good whisky, and a
box of nice cigars, but there was the issue of my age going against
me. Thankfully the owner of the shoe shop understood my problem and
took an hour out of his day to go with me to the necessary shops to
buy the items. He also trusted me to keep them in my room until I
took them across to the car lot, nicely wrapped and labelled for the
man. I wrote plenty of cards and sent them off to the people I
knew, giving a wad to Ellen for the orphanage (all of which were
signed by my newly invented alter ego Rebecca Smith.)</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Gerald
was quite surprised when I turned up on the last day before the
festive break with his gift, and he accepted it with a smile, placing
it on top of his filing cabinet.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Wouldn't
do to open it before the big day,” he smiled.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> That
was it. I would go home and have a pleasant day by myself, cooking
a small version of the big dinner and lazing around. At least that
was my vision of how it would be. At about eleven in the morning,
the bell went and I set off down to the back door to find Gerald
standing there.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “This
ain't nothing funny,” he said. “You know I wouldn't don't you
lass.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I
knew what he was getting at and, of course, trusted him far more than
he probably thought he deserved. I never knew much of the man
beyond the workplace, and suddenly realised that we'd never really
spoken much about it. I thought there would be a Mrs. Gerald, and
some minor ones.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Got
some stuff in the car,” he smiled. “Can't 'ave you spendin'
your first Christmas of freedom all alone.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “What
about your family?” I asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Confirmed
bachelor,” he smiled back. “Now let's get this stuff in and
have a right good time of it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I
was intending on doing a few preparations then opening my present to
myself. Here was my employer with the gift I'd given him plus
another parcel which contained his present to me. A really pretty
radio, in a small wooden cabinet. This wasn't something cheap, or
second-hand but one of the latest ones he could find on sale and such
items then were very much a luxury. I protested that it was too
much, but he'd have none of it and shrugged off anything I said.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “What's
life without a bit of music lass,” he smiled.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He
was equally delighted with the rather good Scotch and nice cigars I'd
got him, and it was then my turn to shrug anything he said off.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I'm
only really returning what I took,” I said meekly.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “You
returned that on the day, with interest,” he laughed. “Then I
made you clean the results up didn’t I.”</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I
will always remember the shade of green I probably turned. I also
remember being told that it was a hard lesson, but one that I
wouldn’t forget. I guess he could have taken advantage then, but
he didn’t.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In
all, my first Christmas in the real world was a beautiful time and,
after dinner, a few of my friends from the orphanage, who had escaped
for a couple of hours, came to see me. When they'd spent too much
time with me for them to get back on time, Gerald whisked them away
in his car, turning up at their home telling them of how they'd
helped him out after some invented misfortune which, with his gift of
good sales patter, they of course believed. He then returned to
spend a good part of the evening with me before returning to his own
home. That was Christmas. Magical as it should have been. I sat
and stayed up far too late in my little room by the light of the
fairy lights and the warm glow of the tuning dial on my new radio
which played dance music into the night. I couldn't help looking at
the beautiful little highly polished wooden box that bore the name
“Defiant.” Gerald said he thought of me when he saw it in the
shop window and thought it was pretty apt, buying the thing on the
spot and sorting a radio licence for me as well which in itself
wasn't that cheap.</span></span></div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Eight</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
</div>
<div align="justify" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
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<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I
shouldn’t say or write this, but I sort of have to so that I remind
myself of my new years resolution. It came to me when I heard an
oldie played on Rosie’s radio. We’re sort of not allowed stuff
like that but she’s an absolute whiz ad hiding all kinds of things from them. In her dorm
there’s a kettle, radio, record player and all sorts of bits and pieces they
smuggled in which I think is pretty cool of them. They even let me
stop with them sometimes, like when someone does a runner for a day
or so. I’ll miss all of that when I go but I won’t miss all of
the other stuff that happens like calling me by a name that I don’t
like answering to, or bad mouthing my dad. I miss him more every
day and wish things hadn’t ended the way they did. I was just
taken away, and nobody, not since I was nine, has ever explained why.
I was happy and safe where I was. I was well fed, and looked
after. I hate this place though, I mean I really hate it. This
year I just upended my Christmas dinner on the table and walked out
of the hall. Sounds like a waste of food but all they serve is puke
anyway. Of course I got talked to but I just shut down on them all.
For that I was told that I couldn’t go to the New Year party
which is no bad thing because I didn’t want to go. So I made up a
dummy out of my clothes and left it in my bed then sneaked up the
back stairs to Rosie’s dorm. It was just before midnight that I
heard the record, “We gotta get out of this place.” That was
it. I knew I could and I know I will. The time will come right
and I’ll go. I’ve said it before though and said each time that
I really will but this year seems a bit different. If I don’t go
then what happens to me? I get more of the same shit and I may even
get shot full of drugs to make me more normal. I’ve heard that it
happened and the result isn’t nice at all. So, what is it that
makes this year different from the rest? It sounds daft but if I
say there’s someone here that only I ever talk to you’d think I’m
mad, and maybe I am but I have spoken to her and she’s as real as I
am. It’s not that she said anything to me on New Year either,
well, I don’t think she did, but I felt something when, as I looked
at my watch go past midnight. It was like a positive “Yes. You
can do this and you will do.” Like the watch, I have no idea
where the thought came from. It just appeared. The thought was
obviously in my head, but the watch was under my pillow on the day I
turned thirteen, wound up and ticking. There was a message for me
inside it too. Another positive one. It’s like the time is
coming, not here yet but coming fast. I hope I will know when it’s
right because I don’t want to miss the boat that’s all.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Nine</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
</h3>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “I'd
sort of feel a bit like we were wimps normally,” Christie said,
warming her hands on the mug. “But, well it is cold, not as bad
as last year. You know my wellies sprang a leak about halfway
through. I must have caught a flint or something, but the water
came up and slowly filled the left one.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="">It
was pretty crazy,” Don laughed. “I wonder what anyone would
have thought of us if they'd seen.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “I
couldn't imagine explaining that one to Lonnie the perv,” Christie
said, also laughing. “I mean they'd get him in to counsel us, you
could guarantee it.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “Hmm,
now, Christie, take your time, now, could you tell me how it felt to
be forced to watch a model boat in a flooded river? I can
understand how this has traumatised you and given you this awful wood
fetish,” Don frowned.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “I'm
truly and deeply ashamed,” Christie said calmly. “I thought I
could handle it. I mean, it was just a small piece of wood, and I
thought it didn't matter. It felt good in my hand, but then before
I knew it I was turning it into a hanger for Mum and Dad's car keys.
That would have been O.K. but suddenly, when I finished, I caught my
sleeve on it!”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “I
see,” Don replied seriously. “You were hooked.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> Seeing
his face, Christie exploded into a fit of schoolgirlish giggles, and
was joined soon after by her brother.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “You
two are as nuts as the rest of us,” Ian smiled, savouring his soup.
“You'd make a good double act, you really would. Do you think
we should shift the big version of Jason's boat?” he added.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “River
is a bit on the high side,” Jim agreed. “Mand and I were
thinking of getting her down to the yard between now and New Year in
case it goes over.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “How
about we all make a day of it then” Ian smiled. “There's
nothing forecast for tonight so we could do a Christmas run down to
the yard tomorrow.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> With
all agreed, the family group reformed the following morning to turn
Mayfly around and take her on the 3 hour run back to the boatyard.
The river was higher, and turning the little boat was harder than
normal, but the extra hands made the job easier. Soon Amanda, Jim,
Don and Christie were heading down the canal at a steady walking pace
through the winter scenery, as the little motor pattered away on the
stern of Mayfly. Ian and May had headed off to the yard in
readiness for the return journey.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “People
do miss a load sometimes,” Chris smiled, looking through the
leafless branches. “But I bet it was crap to be heaving huge
loads in this weather.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""> “We
always felt a bit guilty about that,” Amanda replied. “But Fly
is what we had, and we kind of just did what we did. None of the
old boaters ever saw anything wrong with that so I guess we got used
to it.” </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
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</h3>
<div align="justify" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div align="justify" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Musing on a Dreary Day</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The thoughts of Amanda, Jim and others.</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Part Ten</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">If
you want the truth, Christmas were a bit shite this year. Not as
shite as other years and it would have been better if I’d not gone
off to extent the hand of goodwill to my folks. They extended
theirs first so I got a right shiner for my trouble. I’ve not
been living far off but I’d seen nothing of them since I left and
after that little greeting I decided to keep it that way. Working
for my room in a guest house was doing the trick though until this
person I’d spoken to a few times on the phone arrives as a
chaperone to her friend who is soft on some lad she met in the
summer. I guess that’s when everything changed and I at least
realised that I weren’t alone.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> So,
this morning I wake up in the middle of a house full of people that
are all friends and the world is a different place. It’s
somewhere that people just ignore all of what we’re told are the
rules we should live by. And no, it weren’t some kind of orgy or
love in or any shite like that, it were just good company, food and
being with friends as we stood behind a pub as we counted the new
year in. More than any time in my life I knew that this were it.
I’m done with what were happening and that’s because someone had
the guts to rescue my new friend, the lass that came up as chaperone,
from the shite she was putting up with. I don’t mean she was
living in some hovel, no,, it were a dead posh house with old stables
and a big car with parents that were rich enough to afford that and
more if they wanted. So why they spent their time making her life
hell on earth I have no bloody idea at all but they still did.
Anyhow there’s this little lad that adopts the pair of us when we
land here and says that we’re both his aunties. I swore then that
if I ever have a kid I’d never lay so much as a finger on them. A
look at Masie told me she were thinking exactly the same. How does
anybody, how can anybody, raise their hand to a little scrap of a
thing that loves and wants to be loved in equal measures. There’s
no reason for it. None, and it ain’t happening to either of us
again.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> So
I wake up and hear a song on the radio that says even the bad times
are good, and I know that’s the message for the rest of whatever.
I know there’s a load of stuff to do and work through but we’ll
both get there in some way shape or form and we’ll both be stronger
for it. It’s a new year, I’ve made the resolution and I’m
bloody well sticking by it. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©2019
Michael Nye. </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang=""><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">www.michaelnyewriter.com</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /></div>
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Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-13236510769107750492018-06-19T03:05:00.001-07:002019-05-05T05:31:16.486-07:00Water and String<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<h2>
Next entry is here. Scroll down to part 9.</h2>
<h2>
*****Here is a cautionary warning. Copy and paste this link into your browser to see what happens if you start messing with guitars at the age of 15!*****</h2>
<h2>
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPW8IFPJzog&feature=youtu.be</h2>
<h2>
Part 1</h2>
Most of my posts on
this blog have been of a watery nature, but that's not all of me.
Long before I'd ever set foot in a boat, I'd been aware of something
that would be with me for the whole of my life (up to now). I'm
talking about music.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I was a kid there
was no radio or record player in the house for quite a long time, so
the only access to music was the school orchestra or the television.
The school orchestra at Buckland infants school comprised of one
teacher playing the piano, about five girls with recorders and the
rest of the class with either castanets or triangles. I was given a
triangle for a while, and then it was swapped to a school castanet
(just the one). The school castanets differed from the ones that
flamenco dancers have, and tourists bring back from Spain. The real
ones don't have a handle!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There I was as
umpteenth castanet listening to “Time and Tune” or one of the
other broacdasts that were pelted at us from the Clarke and Smith
school radio. We had to count and then at the right time do a quick
clack on the castanet. All very interesting, and not even slightly
musical. I was still interested though, and I spent the time when I
wasn't clacking (which was most of it) inspecting the “musical”
instrument. Then disaster struck! I missed my clack! Worse
still, the teacher somehow spotted it and was stood behind me as she
let loose her venom. How dare I look at the treasury tag that
she'd just spent several seconds attaching the clacky bits back to
the castanet with! This was a crime punishable surely by death!
She certainly scared my halfway there, and I would have wet myself
had I had any head of steam to do so. Result was I was summarily
drummed out of the school orchestra (Or I would have been if they had
any drums!).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
None of this mattered
though because on television that afternoon after school I saw the
first of my two heroes, Wally Whyton. Along with Five o'clock Club,
this guy singing with his acoustic folk guitar (which from an old
photo looks to be some form of Martin) was a must. He was, though I
didn't know it at the time, something of the acceptable face of the
early sixties folk revival and he'd sing a number of simple
traditional songs live on air. I was hooked and, though I didn't
know it at the time, he was my introduction to the great Woody
Guthrie. Wally was, also unbeknown to me, a well established and
respected performer and had released a number of records before his
stint on children's television. He was also responsible for
introducing some co presenters in the form of Pussycat Willum, Fred
Barker and Ollie Beak. Of course these puppets got more fan mail
than him but he didn't mind. Nor did I for that matter. It was
the music that got me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Part 2 </span>
</h3>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The second of my early
heroes was the sharply dressed Bert Weedon and his beautiful Hofner
semi acoustic electric guitar. The twangy sound of the instrument
again got my attention as he also played it live on air. This all
sounded new and futuristic to my young ears and I wanted more, which
came in the form of the Shadows with their close formation stage
“dance” and that twangy sound again! I was hooked sufficiently
to never want to be unhooked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The final early
influence on my life was the railway track that ran, on an
embankment, behind the school playground. Often small steam
shunting locos would run along the track pulling a few coal wagons.
I never knew where they went or came from, because the sum total of
my knowledge of railways was that few yards of track, and the small
train set that I shared with my brother. Whenever a loco went past
during school playtime the kids' including me all used to beg the
driver to blow the whistle (which they usually obliged us with after
sufficient commotion). Now of course they'd probably be sacked for
paying us any attention, but the result then was that pretty much all
of us (girls included) wanted to be engine drivers when we grew up.
I was, along with the rest, desirous of that career, but I also
wanted to be Bert Weedon and Wally Whyton too. A mix of the three
would come out somewhere in Joe Brown territory, and I started
pestering that I wanted a guitar. I mean the five year old me
really really wanted a guitar. I was nothing if not persistent in
my pester power and for Christmas that year I got a shiny new....
ukulele!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Over the years I have
made a good few disparaging remarks about the things but, to my five
year old eyes, here was a real musical instrument. It even looked
like a guitar. I can now see the logic Mum and Dad had was multi
faceted. The early sixties were not a time of cheap Chinese made
items, so their choices of instrument would have been somewhat
limited. They could have got me a plastic toy guitar but I assume
that, probably in their view, they may have thought this would be
patronising even to a five year old. So, probably from Bell's music
in Surbiton or Hand's in Kingston on Thames, the nice varnished wood
ukulele was purchased and, when I opened the parcel, I was well
pleased. That's when I made a big discovery. You have to learn to
play a musical instument otherwise the sound from it is anything but
musical! </div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Part 3</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This is where Mum
stepped into the breach. Despite being (self confessed) tone deaf,
and as able to play the uke as me, she read through the book and
offered such instruction as she could. To be fair, I did learn a
few chords and could eventually plunk my way through Swannee River.
At least I knew the chords, but, having never actually heard the song
I couldn't do any of the rhythm or melody. There was no record
player either, and certainly no Google! I felt I'd achieved
something though.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When school chose to do
some kind of concert (I think it may have been their rather ill fated
“West Indian Jamboree”) I was asked to come in with said ukulele
and do an audition. I took the box (Cardboard nicely covered with
sticky backed woodgrain effect plastic) into school and showed the
instrument off. I'm still rather surprised that anyone was
impressed, but some were. On cue I stood up to play, and went
through the chord sequence of Swannee River with no tempo, or idea of
the tune. To her credit the teacher stepped in and played the
melody (which I'd never heard before) on the piano. That just
confused me and I stood there, played one chord and just stopped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the “West Indian
Jamboree,” (which had nothing whatsoever to do with the area
whatsoever) I played the part of the orderly in the class performance
of “The King's Breakfast” by A.A. Milne. I stood on stage and
eventually got to say;</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd better tell
his majesty that many people nowadays like marmalade instead.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Actually I think the
cow was supposed to say it but I wasn't the producer or director.</div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Part 4</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> </b>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum was happy with the
idea that I was still a musical child. In fact, despite not letting
me sing in the choir (Apparently, I had a voice like a cement mixer.
Thank you to my teacher Mrs. Mason for telling me that one.) the
school was of the of the opinion that I was, as Mum said, musical.
If the ukulele wasn't my forte then maybe another instrument was.
Somewhere someone had the bright idea that I joined the recorder
band.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now, anybody that was
in primary school in the mid sixties will remember the clusters of
girls walking home after school playing rounds on their recorders as
they walked. In some ways it was quite nice to hear, if a little
repetitive, there being only so many times you can hear “London's
Burning, <i><span style="font-style: normal;">Frère Jacques, or
London Bridge is Falling Down</span></i> before you went looking for
cotton wool to stuff your ears with. The main thing to a mid
sixties boy was that the group was exclusively female, and there were
clear demarcation lines within schools at the time. I got given a
recorder but couldn't play the thing even if my life depended on it.
It squeaked, the fingering was awkward and I did my best to hide the
fact that I was trying to learn. In short I was crap at the thing
so I was never let into the recorder group. I was still thought of
as musical though. I certainly liked music, and wanted to hear
more. It took a hell of a lot of campaigning before I was allowed
my own radio, a 6 transistor pocket sized medium wave thing with a 2
inch speaker.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One of the oddities I
remember of listening to music was that I had more or less been told
that I didn't like pop music. There were not many chances (pre
radio) to hear any as the only other radio in the house was owned by
my granny who disliked all pop music as, in her opinion, all of these
so called musicians were plagiarising the Beatles. She liked the
Beatles, until they started taking drugs that is (which they promptly
did). So, in the intervening period between that and the radio I
got about ten minutes of Top of the Pops each week (unless there was
any form of tennis on the television). I remember well things like
Procol Harum with the projected Lissajous figure as a backdrop,
Arthur Brown with his head on fire, and the Animals (who my granny
absolutely hated) doing House of the Rising Sun. I still officially
didn't like pop though, even though (when I did get a radio) I
listened to the pirate radio stations, and radio Luxembourg under the
sheets with a tinny earphone. I felt it better to keep the image up
at school, where I was seen as weird as a result. It was worth it
though as it meant I could keep listening at home. So, from then
until the early seventies I became a closet pop fan. </div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br />
<b>Part 5</b><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> </b> </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In 1971, Lindisfarne
released the single “Meet Me on the Corner.” Although not a
true pop song, it hit number 5 in the charts and I saw it on Top of
the Pops. I'd also saved my pennies and bought a Fidelity Rad 12
radio that had medium and long wave and a good deal better sound for
the £9.50 I paid for it. The previous year (with some birthday
money, and Christmas cash) spent £15 on a portable record player
which, up until that fateful day, I used to play the selection of
discarded Marble Arch easy listening records dad had given me. I
can't remember the day exactly, but for me it was probably the most
radical thing I'd done. I went out one lunchtime at school and
actually bought “Meet Me on the Corner!” I had actually gone
and bought a chart single. I played it when I got home, and there
were no comments (Mainly because I kept the volume so low that nobody
else heard it).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As a piece of youth
rebellion, going and buying a folksy single by a relatively obscure
band from Newcastle was not on a par with smoking dope and going on
the hippie trail (I was still 14 remember!) but it didn't half feel
good. It did two things. Firstly it opened the floodgate and I'd
listen to anything. I bought ex jukebox singles, bootlegged stuff
from the radio (when I bought a very cheap and tinny cassette
recorder) and generally realised that it was better not to conceal
that, all along, I had loved the music that my family really would
prefer that I did not. The second was that it rekindled my desire
to make my own music.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At the age of fifteen,
another momentous event happened. I became the proud owner of a
guitar. It was second hand and rather too obviously was an unwanted
holiday souvenir from either Spain or Gibraltar. It was made by a
company called Roca, had nylon strings an uneven fretboard and bent
tuning machines. Hardly rock and roll, but this time I was going to
learn to play it! My first attempt at tuning it resulted in a
broken bottom E string and a rather embarrassing trip to a music
shop.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can I have a steel
string for a guitar please.” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What gauge do you
want?” the assistant asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's the lowest
one,” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But what gauge,
what sort of guitar,” the assistant asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's an acoustic,”
I offered.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually I was sold a
medium gauge steel Rotosound bottom e, which (as I remember) was a steel
wrapped electric string, and about as unsuitable for the guitar as it could be.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Part 6</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>
</b></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With the help of a
neighbour's piano (which was probably a bit out of tune) and a
beginners guitar book I had the thing in tune. Next. My first
chord. C.... then G7, then G. To be honest they weren't too bad.
It took some weeks but I managed to get something.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then came F. Aptly
named for the guitar. What an absolute PIG! Try as I might I
couldn't get it. It took months and, had I had any lighter fuel I
might just have done a Jimmy Hendrix with the damnable thing. (I
mean smashing it and setting it on fire, not actually playing it
properly.) So, in the absence of means of creating fire, I
persevered. After about three months I could do about three chords
(G and G7 in my mind kind of count as one). I could even have a go
at simple songs from the book. After six I'd bought a couple of
song books (Bob Dylan and Donovan).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A year later I finally
bought a proper set of nylon strings after I'd noticed that the steel
string had cracked the woodwork on the bridge. After fixing it with
Araldite I put the strings on and retuned the thing. The new
strings made a difference, and the guitar actually sounded
reasonable, but it wasn't steel strung, so it was time to save my
pennies up again.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I had a habit then of
spending just about every penny I had (apart from my slowly growing
collection of 1971 two pence coins that sat on my bedroom windowsill)
and had, at the age of sixteen, spent every one (£115) on a small
boat (the story of which is elsewhere in this blog, entitled “Keeping
a Bee”. Boats are a great way of ensuring a state of permanent
skintness, but they have their charm. One thing that had been a
nuisance was having to pay a bus fare every time I wanted to go and
work on the boat, so the next purchase I decided on was a bicycle.
I had just enough (£12) to get a relic of an old green Raliegh,
complete with an enclosed chain and a lot of rust. Now, usually
when you buy a bike, the assumption is that you can ride the thing.
That was something that (even at the ripe old age of 18) I had not
yet mastered. I could just about manage a straight line for about
50 yards, and it was like this that I rode home. No surprise then
that the thing (and almost me) met its end on the front of a Triumph
Herald about 3 weeks later. I flew over the handlebars and landed
in the road by the driver's door, out of which stepped the rather
annoyed driver.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You silly boy,”
she shouted. “What on earth were you doing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think I was
falling off my bike,” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She wasn't too amused
at the result of one of us cutting a corner and the other going wide.
Surprisingly though, the bike was still rideable (despite a
severely bent frame and a pedal crank that now hit the back fork of
the thing). It clunked until I got to a bike shop, who bent the
crank a bit and offered me a trade in which I couldn't afford there
and then.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Part 7 </b><br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sadly the guitar would
have to wait and I saved a bit more before returning to the bike
shop.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Remember me?” I
smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, we
straightened your bike a bit,” the guy said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is there still a
trade in?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The cheapest new
bike we have is a Hercules, but it's £30,” he replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With £8 trade in I
rode off on the new Hercules for just £22. It was a lot nicer than
the Raliegh but it did have a habit of the chain coming off once a
week. Several changes of sprocket and chain eventually fixed this
(under the warranty) and I did a lot of learning to ride on it.
Perhaps my finest achievement was to come home with an 88 key Hohner
reed organ on the handlebars. I'd always fancied playing keyboards
and this plywood thing really looked nice (and it was rather cheap).
It was French polished, and packed neatly into a trunk sized
suitcase. I set off from Bells in Surbiton with 3 ½ stone of the
thing perched on the handlebar. Mostly the run was O.K. but I was
limited to straight lines only. A left turn led to severe
imbalance, and a right one caused the keyboard (which only wanted to
go in a straight line) to jam my thumb on the brake lever (which hurt
rather a lot). The thing sounded like a maltuned harmonium powered
by a low grade vacuum cleaner.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jumping forward a
moment. When talking to our local vicar some years back, Janice (my
wife) and I complimented the rather nice harmonium he had in his
study.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's actually not a
true harmonium,” he replied with a knowledgeable smile. “It's
actually an American organ.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, one of us had to
ask so it was me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's the
difference?” I smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well,” the vicar
said. “Harmoniums blow, and American organs suck.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure they
aren't that bad,” Janice replied before realising she was in a
vicarage.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thankfully the vicar
had a good sense of humour.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back to the Hohner.
Whether it blew or sucked, it sucked in a big way, but I learned a
few bits of keyboard with it, so I guess it wasn't a total waste of
cash.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After yet more saving,
a visit to a second hand shop got me a rather nice looking Kay jumbo
which had beautiful gold scroll work on the (Batwing style) scratch
plates. It also had beautiful multi coloured veneer on the sides
and back of the body. Visually then it was fine. Shame about the
action and sound though, and it would have helped if someone had
bothered to glue the thing together properly. In short, it was a
piece of crap. I persevered though. I lowered the action, applied
lots of Araldite to various bits of the body that was slowly
disintegrating, stuck a pack of cotton wool and a rather plush
dressing gown cord in the sound box to mellow it a bit. It did the
job for a while at least. The “gold” kept rubbing off the
scratchplates, so I kept adding more with Humbrol enamel paint left
over from my Airfix kit building days.<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Part 8</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b> </b></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was now fed up with
working in an electronics factory, had done my City and Guilds and
wanted to do my version of dropping out, so I became an art student.
Well, I did evening classes in art and English language as a
starter. It was whilst doing these that I decided to have a go at
being a real student, and managed to get an interview at Epsom school
of art and design for the foundation course. Feeling I'd stand a
better chance if I told a couple of porkies I said I wanted to do
industrial design (which I had no intention of doing.) I was pretty
surprised to be accepted, and even more so to pass the O.levels in
art and English. I now had enough (if I chose to) to actually get
to a polytechnic after the foundation year!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At Epsom there were a
few musicians (people that could play more than one chord on a
battered Egmond guitar) and I soon realised both how crap I was, and
how rubbish my Kay guitar was. It was around then that Eko
(remember them) had adverts in the music papers (I used to buy Melody
Maker) suggesting that you buy your second guitar first. I thought
it a bit dumb but it had my interest. I had some cash saved from
work so, yet again one Saturday, I cycled to Hands music centre in
Kingston to look at guitars. My preference was for a Kimbara, but
when I tried it, I really didn't like it. I tried a couple and then
I was handed an Eko Navajo which was quite nice. Next came the
Ranger 6. That was nice in a big way so I put my prejudices aside
and tried to work out how I could afford it. I tried a Yamaha
(costing 3 times as much as the Eko) as I thought, and came to the
conclusion that the Eko was the better sounding instrument. After
sorting out a trade in on the Hohner reed organ, and the Kay
(complete with cotton wool and pyjama cord) I put a deposit down and
returned with said items (thanks to my dad for the lift) and the deal
was done.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whilst Eko guitars were
not really revered by anybody, I was quite happy with the thing.
The action was adjustable with two stout screws on the sides of the
alloy bridge mount, it had an electric style bolt on neck and it was
built like a brick outhouse. Comparing it to the Kay would be a bit
of an insult but I'll try anyway.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Eko was what they
Kay would have liked to be. It was about the same size, far less
decorated, and had a very good sound straight out of the box. In
short, it was pretty good. I later found that the top of the range
Kay (which I didn't have) was made by Eko to a lower spec than their
own range. The Kay version had a single piece neck made of inferior
wood (the Eko had a three piece laminate neck that is beautiful to
look at and easy to play. The Kay had the variety of tuners that
came as three on a strip, and were a bit graunchy. The Eko ones
were separate open ones and not too bad. On each count the Kay had
corners cut to make a budget version of the Eko that wasn't worth
buying.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've since found out
that, as well as making one instrument for Kay, Eko made the famous
Vox teardrop guitars and various other items for other people. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2018
Michael Nye</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Part 9</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's been a bit of
a gap here! Probably because I have written two books in the
interim. I only intended to write one over a couple of years, but
you can't stop when you get the bit between your teeth. You can
call this gap a representation of the years that I have owned that
Eko Ranger Six (which I still have as my most often played
instrument).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After over 40 years of
continuous use, it still tunes up well (though I have had to replace
the tuners due to hairline cracks in the plastic keys). Due to fret
wear I have carefully re-profiled the most worn of the frets so that
it still plays well, and, as an additional modification, I placed a
piece of black felt between the zero fret and the nut. This
corrected some odd string buzzes that only I appear to have been able
to hear. That's more or less it. The instrument has mellowed over
time, is in good condition and still plays really well. I like the
adjustable bridge, which can be tweaked to give exactly the right
string height. Most of all I like the fact hat the thing was built
to last. Plywood it may well be but it's good plywood, all joints
are well glued, and the bolt on neck mounts onto a massive chunk of
wood which is probably strong enough to make the guitar a reasonable
substitute for a cricket bat (don't try that one at home... or
anywhere). In all it was £52 well spent! <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2019
Michael Nye</span></div>
</div>
<br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
</div>
Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-14143926038055984552017-11-07T04:32:00.001-08:002018-03-21T05:31:42.499-07:00Alma (copyright 2017 Michael Nye)<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com </b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
One</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Scroll down for Part Twenty</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(recently added) </b></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My given
name is Alma and, like all people, I came into existence as a result
of human activity. I am not human though, nor even, in the minds of
a lot of humans, am I alive at all. I am a little over twenty feet
in length, and about four feet across the middle. I am made from
tropical hardwood, and am older than any human being has so far
managed to live, unless of course you include <i><span style="font-style: normal;">Methuselah
in your list</span></i>. I have spent time in the company of both
good and bad people, and been treated kindly and deplorably. It is
no great achievement of mine that I am still here, rather it has been
either the kindness of others or their desire to exploit me for
money. When you have been in existence since the spring of 1880 it
cannot be any surprise that you will encounter many types of people.
The family that originally gave me the name lived in a big house
near the river. They wanted to be seen on the water in as stylish a
manner as was possible and, to my luck, they specified that the
finest materials should be used in my creation. This simple act of
either ego or selflessness has been a major contributor in my
longevity and whatever the motive of this family, it is my decision
to be grateful for the choices they made.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
remember the day I arrived well. As I sat in the water, all
pristine varnish, white cotton ropework and the best of brass
fittings that shone like gold. The family thought much of me, and
with Mother steering, and daughter set beside her on the large seat,
Father and son set about rowing me into mid river to be seen at my
best. A picnic had been packed into baskets ready for our stop at
one of the islands that sit here and there in the river. The day
was sunny, and I believe the daughter entered the event in her diary
as being one of the times that “A good time was had by all.” My
first trip had been successful and I had done my duty, which, as much
as it could, pleased me. On our return I found that my home was to
be a small boathouse at the end of the family garden. The place was
pleasant, though an easy one for my existence to be ignored or
overlooked. That summer however, I was a novelty, and several trips
were taken, each with its associated picnics, each entered dutifully
as good times had by all. The river then, where I was, was a pretty
quiet place, with the odd barge going past carrying a cargo through
the countryside. Most pleasure boats were similar to me. Small,
light in weight and out on the water in large numbers when the
weather was right.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">
2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
Two</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There
are, when you are basically part of a hedonistic existence, periods
of inactivity, such as the winter when my company was a member of
the household staff who made sure I was available should the need
arise, which, of course, it never did. These times are not as sad
as one might expect as the river, when it enters the time that
holidaymakers see as the off season has a new beauty to it. Frost
on the trees, the higher current, even the floods that are not
infrequent. Then comes the spring again and colourfully clad women
being rowed by dapper gents who sometimes have less than honourable
intentions. Such it was that one day the girl of the house, who had
blossomed as the years went by, was escorted on the river in an
unplanned trip, the purpose of which she was fully complicit in.
The afternoon was quiet in the early spring, a time that the season
had not got fully under way and the beau, though I would not call him
that, had rowed some way deciding that, under the shelter of some
willows that grew on an island backwater, it was time to claim what
he saw as his own. The fool had not thought that, in the early
spring, the soil would be, due to recent flooding, quite muddy, so
that an assignation beneath the trees on dry land was out of the
question. His decision to have his way whilst afloat was something
of a mistake too as both parties soon found out. Things went well
for them at first, but the movement caused the mooring line to
dislodge, and we slowly drifted together into the main river. The
realisation that the daughter of the house could now clearly see the
sky brought forth panic from both occupants and their further
movements were simply too much as I pitched sideways and landed two
partially clad, and no longer respectable, people into the cold water
of the river, nearly sinking myself in the process. Various
explanations were given, mainly that the clothing was impeding the
ability to swim, and these were only marginally accepted by the
family who banished the blaggard from the house, an arrangement that
was adhered to until the following summer when the couple eloped to
Gretna Green. My part in the sad affair was not really noted,
though for the rest of that summer, I was left to myself in the
boathouse.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After the
eloping of their daughter, the family lost all interest in the
property and it was sold, along with a lot of its contents, to
another family who were somewhat more progressive in their thinking.
They were not generally received well in the local community, their
money being rather too new for most people's tastes. Worse that
that, they made a show of having it, purchasing not one, but two
cars, and a steam launch. For the first of many times in my life, I
was redundant and, in order to make space for me, I was
unceremoniously lifted from the water and put at the back of one of
the large garden sheds. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
Three</b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was a
peaceful existence for the next two years and, though I was
continually threatened with the indignity of being turned into a
quaint garden feature by being filled with soil and used as a flower
bed. Thankfully the gardener thought this was in hideously poor
taste, and deliberately never got around to doing the job until one
day he was ordered to, on pain of being sacked. I remember well
that he actually apologised to me for what he was about to do. I
was taken from my place at the back of the shed, polished up, and
paraded around the garden until the lady of the house deemed I was
suitably located. The gardener marked the spot and I was again put
back in the shed whilst a carpenter was contacted to build a suitable
cradle for me to sit in. The man was about to deliver the finished
work when two men called at the house to arrange the day of the
auction of both it, and all its contents due to the bankruptcy of the
owners. That was it! I was free of the horrible fate that I
thought was mine. Being filled with soil would have caused rot to
set in very quickly and I would have been ruined. A pleasant
feature in a forgotten garden that two years later would very likely
have seen me burned on a bonfire.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The day
of the auction came, and the steam launch attracted a lot of
interest, being bought by a wealthy couple who intended to take it by
train to the north as a pleasure boat on one of the lakes. I was
bought by a hirer of small boats a short way down the river. I felt
like I'd been sold into some kind of white slavery. Though I'd see
a lot more of the river, I knew that hired boats, let out by the hour
were, like me, bought cheaply and worked hard. Thankfully I was
still in pristine condition (albeit under a goodly layer of dust) and
commanded a slightly higher price than the less fortunate vessels.
All the time though, I could see my fate. Peeling varnish, scraped
woodwork, dulled brass. This was all coming my way. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span>
</div>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Four</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>
</b></span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There are
people who think boats have a soul, and those who see them as simple
assemblies of wood and metal. I have known several people who
choose to talk to me, one being the gardener of my second owner, who
was a kind person. Whatever your personal view is, I can say that
my time as a hire boat was not either without event or enjoyment.
It would be akin to living alone, or a sort of communal lifestyle.
I was not unhappy in the boathouse, or even in the shed, but I did
enjoy my days on the river in the company of others of my kind.
Here I was then, in a crowd, left out in the open to be propelled on
the river by whomsoever chose to do so.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
One
occasion that I remember well was the time that an unfortunate person
fell into the river. She was clearly, by the way she was dressed,
the daughter of a farm worker and had been enjoying a pleasant stroll
along the far bank when, for whatever reason, she was pushed in, and
had hit her head on the way down. There she was, floating in the
water, and would have found her way to the weir and certain death,
had the lad that looks after the boats not spotted her. Summoning
two of the older men that worked in the workshop he suggested that I,
as the swiftest boat they had (most of their craft only having one
rowing position available) be used to rescue the poor unfortunate.
I moved faster on that day than I have ever done, and, with the lad
steering, the girl was pulled from the river and, coughing some
water, she was revived by the two men, and rowed back to safety.
Once unloaded, the elder of the two rowers set off to the local inn
to purchase a quantity of brandy, calling at his home to bring his
wife so that the girl could be looked after by someone of her own
sex. There was much fuss that I was not party to, but there were
two things that happened that were directly attributable to that
incident. The first was that the girl, Mary Williams, took
something of a shine to the younger of the two rowers, and he to her.
They were married within the year, and I was borrowed for a brief
holiday that they took on the river. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Five</b></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
owners of the boatyard were kind people, and the story of the rescue
of Mary had, when reported, resulted in an increase in business for
them. The second thing was that their rivalry with another yard
close by resulted in a challenge. As a swift craft, and with a
regatta upcoming, the arrangement was made to stage a race between
myself and the best that the other yard could offer. Wagers were
made and my obvious crew, the team that rescued Mary, were allowed
time to prepare both themselves and me for the big event. I was
carefully taken up the rollers and into the work shed, where I was
sandpapered, and re-varnished, with all my brass-work polished to its
original shine. By the time they'd finished with me, I probably
looked better than the day I was delivered to my first owners.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
regatta course was a few miles up-river, and to protect my looks, and
freshly waxed underside, I was loaded onto a barge that was carrying
a cargo in that direction. My two oarsmen, the lad, and Mary were
each allowed to have train tickets, and a room at one of the better
inns so that they were ready for the big day. The owners of the
yard travelled up for the event, and promised to make sure Mary would
get a good and safe view of her husband of less than a year as he
helped propel me to what they felt was a certain victory. I
definitely felt the part, with all my brasswork shining in the sun,
new white cotton ropes, freshly varnished and waxed oars, and a neat
pennant embroidered by Mary on my bow. The craft fielded by our
rivals was newer and sleeker than me, having been paid for by someone
with a vested interest in winning the bet. This was not seen as
particularly sporting, and their newly drafted crew, two university
students, added to the feeling that we may, or very likely would,
lose. I remember my crew saying they would give their best, and
that the co-opting of people that didn't know which way up to hold a
spokeshave wasn't in the spirit of things. There we were though,
with a measured mile ahead of us, something of a sideshow, though due
to the rescue of poor Mary (who by all counts hadn't done too badly
from her encounter) we had attracted rather more interest that we
otherwise would have. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Six</b></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Teamwork
can be a great thing however, and as we lined up at the start I did
wonder to what degree the opposition actually were a team. The boat
was certainly newer, and probably of a better design, though I would
never hold that against her. The crew, I felt maybe had decided
rather too firmly that the win was theirs, and all they had to do was
row quickly, like they had done in the single skulls. Their cox, or
steerer (We chose to call our lad the helmsman) was a petulant little
brat of indeterminate years chosen presumably for his lightness, and
certainly not for his personality. He had assumed the role of
captain, commander in chief, and admiral of the fleet. Had it not
been treason to do so I am sure he may have laid claim to the throne
as well. As silence fell before the starting pistol was fired, I
heard Mary's husband say that we'd “Row like buggery.” and for
the lad to do his best to keep us straight.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There
was a bang, and indeed they rowed as they said. I was moving at a
far greater pace than I had since the rescue of Mary, and was soon
even eclipsing that speed. The competitors got off quicker than us
due to their lighter weight, but the barking of contradictory orders
from the cox, who seemed to know absolutely nothing, soon began to
take its toll. Eventually one of the crew said something that I
would rather not repeat, and the cox fell silent. For our part, the
lad steering kept us straight, and had taken to tapping his foot to
keep the oarsmen in time. The sound, though scarcely audible, was
enough to keep everything going smoothly and, with pennant flying
from the short mast on the bow, we kept cutting though the water.
The problem was that the newer craft cut through it rather better
than we did and were again about half a length ahead of us. Our two
crewmen signalled to our helmsman that they had more in them, and he
responded by slowly increasing the pace of his foot tapping. I
could feel that they were giving everything to the task, and we
slowly started gaining. By comparison to our neat rowing, there was
quite a lot of splashing from the other crew, and they even clashed
their oars in an uncoordinated attempt to row quicker. Seeing this,
our helmsman again slowly increased his speed of tapping and, for the
first time we inched ahead with a few hundred yards left of the
course. Another clash of oars from our competitors saw clear water
between the boats, though only a couple of feet of it. On
realisation of this, the crew managed to get back into an even rhythm
and were gaining on us, albeit slowly.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When we
did cross the line, there was less than six inches of clear water
between myself and the competing craft, but we were ahead! We had
won, and our perspiring crew were greeted as the heroes they were by
the owners of the yard, and the organisers of the regatta. Mary, of
course had a far greater preference for one member of the crew, but
that was to be expected. Though no prizes, other than a trophy,
were given, much ale was paid for by the management, and Mary saw to
it that her husband had plenty to celebrate. Nine months later she
gave birth to a healthy baby boy whom they named Albert. It is said
there was an obvious royal connection to their choice but I like to
think about the similarity to my given name. The crew of our
competitors, so I understand, were not so sporting as to accept
defeat too magnanimously. They shook the hands of my crew briefly,
then left, being taken into police custody some time later after
their instigation of a pub brawl that started with them arguing
amongst themselves. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Seven</b></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After the
regatta my status was somewhat changed. I was now not a mere hire
boat, though there is no shame in being one. As the winner of the
regatta race, one for which a re-match was arranged for the next
year, I was kept in the best of condition and only loaned to some of
the more discerning of people. I'm not exactly sure how the
discerning people were selected, but some of them weren't pleasant at
all and, had I the power to do so, I'd have happily pitched them into
the river. Good clothes and money are no substitute for kindness
and an empathy with the environment you are in, and, whilst some were
happy to paddle off to a backwater get drunk and paddle back, leaving
their bottles and litter behind, there were others who were content
to amble along the river, taking in the sights and sounds as they
presented themselves. One of these regulars was an artist. He
wasn't well dressed, but was known to the proprietors of the yard,
and they were happy to rent me to him. Every now and then he would
arrive with his paraphernalia, which was stowed neatly, and a model,
who was generally the same person, who would steer. He would arrive
early and return just before dusk, with sketches and completed works
that would eventually find themselves on sale in some of the local
shops that dealt with the ever growing tourist trade. His works
were not what some would call great art, but they were pleasing to
see. I featured in quite a few of them, one I remember involved the
appearance of me floating free in the water, with the model sat
sunning herself on the seat. Attempts had been made on getting the
scene correct on several occasions, but these were often marred by
wind or bad light. Then one day, after a period of rain which had
increased the flow of the river significantly, he toiled upstream to
one of the many islands. The weather had returned to calmness and
bright sun. Once on the island the model posed on my seat and I was
let out on a long line downstream. The lack of wind, and the
increased flow allowed me to stay in the place that the artist chose,
and with very small movements, the model was able to keep my position
as lined up by two canes that the artist had tapped into the ground
alongside him. The resultant work was one of his best, and was
eventually purchased by a family that lives some miles away and had
come to the area by rail for a holiday.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For the
following three years, I was rowed to successive victories in the
regatta after which the rival team rather lost interest, as did
members of the public. I again became a hired boat, and remained as
such for well over a decade by which time I looked much like the
others of the fleet. Weathered timber, broken fittings and dull
metalwork. It wasn't as bad a time as it seemed, as I enjoyed
sharing the pleasure of the river with each family or couple that
hired me. Several of them came back more than once in a holiday,
others hired me for short camping trips, each of which had its charm
and I have many fond memories of that period. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Eight</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In a life
as long as mine it would be surprising if I went through it
unscathed. I had many scrapes, most of which were insignificant,
but two incidents stick in whatever you would call my mind. One
year, not long after I had been retired from the hiring business due
to ill repair, I was sitting on the slipway on the night when the
river rose to what seemed unprecedented levels. Given that I was on
land, I had not been secured, so, as soon as I floated free I was
taken by the swift current downstream for a good distance before
having the good fortune the become entangled in the branches of a a
very large weeping willow that was now partially submerged. The
waters stayed high for some time, but eventually subsided, allowing
the owners of the yard to return and assess any damage. The fact
that I was missing wasn't something that worried them due to my now
being nothing but a piece of clutter that was due to be scrapped
anyway. I'd languished hidden in the tree until the haymaking time
of the late summer the following year when I was discovered by a
courting couple. Their finding me did somewhat distract them from
the original purpose of their visit as both set about freeing me from
the entanglement of the foliage, after which I was loaded onto one of
the carts and taken back to the barn as something that may come in
useful at some time.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I lived
in the barn for over a decade, and saw the courting couple married
and running the farm before I was again discovered when one of the
new farm dogs, a border collie pup, went missing and somehow got
himself lodged in a nook near me. The summer was pleasant enough
and the father of the house who, having passed most of the business
on to his son, was looking for something interesting to do. In my
state of glorious dilapidation, he recognised the name. He had
placed a wager on me many years previously and won a handsome sum
when I won that first race. I was taken to an outbuilding that had
the room and over the space of two years the man set about reversing
any damage that had been done to me by hirers, the flood and a good
part of a year in a weeping willow. My planking was carefully
inspected, various pieces of brass removed for cleaning, and all the
varnish was scraped and sanded back to the original wood. By the
time he'd finished, I again looked as good as I ever had done. A
set of four oars were purchased second-hand from a local boatyard,
and it was time again for me to return to the water. The day was
beautiful and the labour of love that I appeared to be was given to
the courting couple (now married with two young children) to be taken
on what was regarded as a maiden voyage. Again a picnic was packed,
Mother steered, son and daughter sat either side of her whilst Father
and Grandfather propelled me at a decent pace upriver.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All felt
new, though I was in the summer of my fortieth year. Many boats
like me had gone, but plenty had survived, and we enjoyed the day
together. For myself, I liked being on the water again, I of course
enjoyed my being owned by people that cared and genuinely had a feel
for their surroundings. The family were pleasant people, easy going
by nature, and if it were possible I'd have smiled on that day. It
was good too to see some of my former stable-mates out on the water
being piloted with various degrees of ineptitude by their hirers.<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> ©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Nine</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
During
the day I heard much talk of the awfulness that was “The War.”
I'd heard nothing of it before, having spent the time behind mounds
of hay bales and suchlike. Nobody saw fit to tell me of the four
years of madness that swept across humanity sending so many young men
to unnecessary death in the trenches. Why would they? After all I
am nothing more than a collection of pieces of wood held together by
glue and rivets. I still felt pangs of guilt that there was
absolutely nothing I could do to stop such a horrible waste of life
from happening. I was created for enjoyment of the river, and
nothing more. The scrollwork on my large back seat gives this away
clearly. I was never destined to be a work boat of any kind though
somehow I know that, as well as the lighters, barges and other craft,
far more fearful vessels have been constructed. They were armed
with guns and set to destroy life and each other in order to settle
disputes that people could not resolve amicably. It is always the
case, it seems, that others pay the price for the mistakes of those
that set themselves above, and see themselves fit to rule. As a
construction of planks I had existed for four decades, but those
planks were made from a tree that was over a century old. It was
taken from a tropical country, itself taken by the might of military
force. The wood was shipped across to a port in this country. It
was cut into planks and eventually part of that tree became me. As
a tree I could well have seen some of the atrocities that were
committed in the name of “Civilisation” that was no more than
empire building on a grand scale. As a tree, and a source of timber
I could well, no doubt, have been fashioned into a different kind of
craft and spent a different life to the one I have. I was built as
I was, I had no control over that and I have survived thus far as a
result of my own good fortune. Maybe at times I do have bouts of
gazing into my own non-existent belly button in search of reason, but
they seldom last long, and it was a bright day. The war had been
over for some time, and the music from the wind-up gramophone
brightened the afternoon as the picnic was set near to where I was
moored. </div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> Part Ten</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The time
that I was now a part of was bright and hopeful. I think a lot of
people were of a mind to believe that they had seen the last of this
kind of bloodshed, and came to regard the conflict as being a war to
end all wars. Given that I am made of timber which sees so many
things happening the residue of which exists in the growth rings of
the tree, I maybe had a different perspective on the situation though
nobody has asked my opinion, which of course I don't have because I
am a twenty foot long skiff. Moods changed though, and there was
talk of trouble ahead. I'd heard snippets that it would again all
be over very quickly. I think Christmas was suggested for the
previous four year conflict. The next turmoil lasted a deal longer
and, with the seemingly unstoppable motion of progress, better
machines had been invented that could destroy more efficiently and at
a longer range. I returned to the back of the barn where I
languished for another five years or more. This time though, I was
far more aware of the troubles that touched everybody. Aeroplanes
flew over the barn from the nearby airfield. Others flew towards it
in a vain attempt to destroy it. Madness seemed to be everywhere.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
One
night, I remember a crashing sound, as though a tree had fallen onto
the barn that housed me. Then there was flame, not of the sort
caused by a discarded cigarette that starts slowly. This began
straight after the crash and was violent in its appearance and rapid
in its spread. We were lucky to have an irrigation pump and it was
this that saved the day. A pipe was dropped into the river, and the
pump set into motion. The usual slow plod of the single cylinder
petrol motor was pushed to a violent knocking sound as the last bit
of power was pulled from it. The pertol tanks of the farmer's car
and the farm tractor were siphoned to keep the pump working.
Eventually a fire appliance arrived and took the job over,
extinguishing the flames that the people at the farm had successfully
contained. The barn was badly damaged, but could be saved, and over
the weeks, much scrap material was dragged from storage to make good
the structure so that it would be ready for the harvest. It was
during this time, not long after one of the major air battles, that I
was found at the back of the building. I was dusted off, and the
idea came to show the enemy that our spirit was not broken. I was
put into the water, and rowed downstream for a picnic. The fare was
more meagre than before, but it was a good day all the same, or it
would have been had just one enemy aircraft not seen us on the move.
With us being in mid river, on our return, the air raid siren meant
that all we could do was to head for a clump of trees on an island
that was a few hundred yards away. The plane, either off course, or
damaged crossed the river at a lower height than it should. Low
enough for us to be clearly spotted, and spotted we were. After
having time to turn, he was back, and we were sitting ducks to a hail
of machine gun fire. We were also closing rapidly with the island
and a kind of refuge. His second run saw him come closer to target
and two bullets hit us. One took a chunk out of one of the oars,
but the other caught one of the oarsmen and also holed me just below
the waterline. We reached the island, and again I was let out on a
long leash, filled with a few items of spare clothing and I slowly
sank, spreading my contents on the water as the wounded oarsman was
attended. The airman, on his third pass, seemed satisfied that the
family had probably been shot and killed, either that or he was short
of fuel and didn't wish to land in the sea. Whatever, the all clear
was sounded, and I was slowly pulled back to the island where, after
about an hour, I was dragged ashore. The offending bullet had gone
straight through a plank, splintering it a bit and of course making
the hole that sank me. Three pairs of socks were sufficient to form
a suitable plug for me, and a torn petticoat made a temporary repair
for the poor oarsman. We both leaked a little but, with nobody
badly injured, a small cake tin was used to bail, and we all got back
to the relative safety of the farm, where I was stashed in the barn
for later repair. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
Eleven</b></span><br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There I
stayed for another ten years, at which point the barn was cleared,
and I was sold to a local man who wanted to use me as a fishing boat.
I think the idea was that he was a would be poacher. The hole was
patched rather poorly, and I was painted black all over. I said he
was a would be poacher because he was caught on his first sortie. I
was left loosely tied at the side of the river and went unnoticed
when the man was apprehended. After a week I gently slipped my
mooring and, half full of water, I drifted slowly down the river and,
had I done this at night, would have broken up on one of the weirs.
It was a sunny day, and I was spotted by one of the workers at a
local yard who, with a new motor launch, towed me back to the place,
where I spent a few years as a hired boat. Instead of cleaning off
the black paint to reveal my my original name, which had been covered
by the poacher, I was called “River Maiden” and painted bright
yellow. I felt that I looked like a floating banana! The livery
didn't do much for my prestige, and I was hired to pretty much
anybody. After all I'd cost nothing so there was no real investment
to protect. Several couples managed to do what threw the daughter
of my original original owner into the river, after which I was
generally rowed in an erratic manner back to the yard, where I was
scraped along the concrete edging to the river as the “lovers”
disembarked. I managed to survive hitting almost all of the bridges
on the stretch of water that was my home, either as a result of
terminal ineptitude or drunken stupor on the part of those in charge
of me for whichever hour I was working.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whilst
debilitating, hard use wasn't going to see an end to me, of that I
was determined, though at any time I could have been retired against
my will and broken up. No, the thing that has done the most damage,
is a plastic compound. Epoxy resin, and glass fibres could be made
into all sorts of shapes, including boat hulls! These started to
appear in small numbers in my middle years but have since blossomed
to be the standard for most people, apart that is on the canals where
steel is the favoured material. I have nothing against either
really, but the existence of a plastic hull that needed very little
maintenance was popular with anybody hiring boats. Much more so
when the prices started to drop. I continued life as a hire boat
though for some time, eventually losing my bright yellow livery to a
disgusting green that I can only imagine was bought as some kind of
job lot. Every surface at the yard, and all the boats were daubed
with the same offence to eyesight. I was hit on several more
bridges, other boats and sundry items, copulated upon and vomited in
until one day at the beginning of the season I was judged as just too
shabby when compared to the new fibreglass motor boats they had just
taken delivery of. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
Twelve</b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Another
period of dormancy in the yard shed followed after which, in a year
of great optimism for the nation, I was auctioned in a sale of sundry
items and bought by a lady who wanted me as a display stand for
potted plants in her garden which bordered the river. Humiliation
had finally come my way, I was a blasted pot stand and at the time
would far rather have been firewood. I spent what was possibly the
worst summer of my existence sitting on a couple of overly ornate
wrought iron cradles whilst being stuffed with prize geraniums, roses
and other crap (yes there were even garden gnomes!). I secretly
prayed for a flood to take me away from it all and sweep me over a
weir.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That
winter, it started raining, and it continued seemingly endlessly to
do so until the flood I had prayed for lifted me from my cradle and
took me, floating low in the water, still further down the river. I
may well have gone over a weir, though I think I'd have sustained
rather more major damage if I had have done. When the waters did
recede I found myself in a small area of waste ground where some
particularly rough looking youths looked like they were going to
finish me off for good and all. Whilst the devil may well make work
for idle hands, he obviously can't swim, and had stayed well clear of
this group who, deciding that finders were keepers, upended me and
tipped the debris of my time as a pot stand onto the land. After
this they picked me up to take me to a shed where they spent some
time, rather ineptly, restoring me. Green and yellow paint were
scraped and sanded, to be replaced by far too much of a kind of
varnish that I later learned was destined for the electronics
industry to impregnate mains transformers. It's slightly reddish
tinge of brown wasn't unpleasant and, when suitably refurbished I was
renamed “Water Scout V.” I have to say I became quite fond of
my rescuers and was willing to forgive any damage they did to me.
After all they knew no better, and were full to the brim with
enthusiasm. My original oars were now long gone, and there was some
debate as to how to obtain a set. A lot of time passed until one
day an ill matched pair of oars, that I'd have been ashamed to be
seen with in different times, arrived with one of the lads. They
had been found propping the roof of an allotment shed, and purchased
from their owner for a few shillings. Quite what props it up now is
something I often wonder about, and also something I'll probably
never know. I remember well though the day I was re-launched in my
new livery, and bearing the new name. The lads spent a lot of time
that summer, and the one after enjoying being out and about, with the
extra kudos of being boat owners. The local Boy Scouts had tried at
first to recruit them and, having failed, took to making complaints
and generally hindering them at every possible chance. Eventually
the police were called and, as ownership was not provable I was
confiscated and stored at the local police station until further
notice.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That
notice came when a new member of staff who had various stripes and
other insignia on his dress uniform, decided that I would make a good
little boat on which he could spend weekends fishing. I was
dispatched to another department where I was re-varnished (on top of
the transformer lacquer) with something that most of the station
woodwork was covered in. This gave my hull a rich dark colour that
was nothing like the original, but was deemed splendid by my new
owner. I say owner here rather loosely. That the lads had no real
claim to me is true, but had they not intervened I'd have been
cleared up with all the other debris from the flood and dumped.
This person had plucked me from storage after I had been taken from
people who I was fond of, and given a coat of varnish that, unlike
the transformer lacquer, was definitely not supposed to be used for a
private project. Now I was “Lady Jenny” a name I have always
hated. I was loaded with fishing tackle and, well, the guy was no
trawlerman. I can't remember him landing so much as a minnow in the
three summers he worked in the area, after which I was put back into
police storage until I was again auctioned with a pile of useless
junk. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part
Thirteen</b></span><br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It goes
without saying that I have never seen any of the output of any film
studio. Who, after all, would let a boat into a cinema even if it
did have tickets! As “Lady Jenny” though, my next stint of
activity was to be in the hands of a small film production company.
I have to say that I did quite enjoy that time, though as a prop, I
never really did much that was too distinguished. My first role was
for an advertisement for chocolate. This involved me being taken
off to a weed infested part of a disused canal that still had water
in it. The journey there was on an ill fitting trailer, with
several stops being made to make sure I hadn't dropped off the back.
Once we had arrived, I was surprised to find that the area they had
selected was pretty wide, more of a lake really. On one side there
were the hulks of two derelict narrowboats which the crew spent a
couple of hours covering with camouflage netting and various bits of
vegetation. I felt that it looked more like a salad than scenery
but who am I to comment. With everything set up I was pushed into
mid stream with a scantily clad Elizabeth Siddal lookalike who
proceeded to stuff her face with chocolate whilst they filmed her.
Given the time limitation she had been given a whole box of the stuff
that had been secreted under the seat so that she wouldn't have to be
dragged back between takes with the long and rather tatty rope that
secured me to the bank. Now I don't know much about the
Pre-Raphaelites, but they did favour the pale “English rose” as a
model of female beauty. My charge certainly had that look, but she
took a long time to satisfy the crew with their image of a mix of
desire for chocolate and mild eroticism. I think she had eaten most
of the box by the time the advert was “In the can” as these
people say. The original idea was that she should spit the mouthful
into the canal as each shot was completed, but this started to
attract ducks, so it was decided that she had to actually eat it.
By the final shot she had the colour that would have melted the
hearts of the whole Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. This was when
disaster struck. The line that was there to pull her in to the bank
snagged on an underwater obstruction. Worse than that, it broke
when pulled harder. Still worse, the only serviceable boat on the
scene was me. Miss Siddal's stand in may have looked the epitome of
purity, but she certainly possessed a foul mouth, and I will not
repeat what she called the film crew before she was rather violently
sick into the canal. After an hour, a small dinghy was borrowed,
and a rescue was carried out. Once back in the van the star of the
advert had some special words, mostly obscene, to say to the person
who forgot to bring a set of oars. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Fourteen</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My next
adventure in film was scarcely more distinguished. A manufacturer
that saw a business opportunity for high grade dog foods had decided
that they should do a double take on the ancient Egyptian worship of
cats. The film was to be split into two parts, and I was to be
decorated as a state barge. The first part was to have the barge
(me) with two cats sitting haughtily on the back seat as the dogs
appeared to row. The second scene was designed to have the dogs and
cats transposed. For the commercial much expense was spared. I
was decorated with some discontinued dado wallpaper that, though
ornate, was made (as its name implies) of paper. To add to the
ornate look parts of me were gilded with a substitute for gold leaf,
which was basically coloured aluminium foil. I have to admit that,
given their limited resources, the film company made a reasonable
job. I was set to be towed across a shallow pond by a length of
fishing line with the cats and dogs assuming their roles.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now I
may only be a less than elaborate arrangement of wood and rivets, but
even I know that dogs and cats have never really hit it off as best
friends, so the first few takes saw an animal brawl being towed
across the shot. By take three, the cats had abandoned ship and
swam for it, leaving the dogs with little else but copulation for
their entertainment. The situation, becoming desperate, required
desperate measures so, in the spirit of the times all the animal
actors were fed on their favourite food, which had been generously
laced with something (that was not tobacco) that the film crew had
hoped to smoke after the job was done. The next three takes saw the
cats become ever more drowsy, ending up as no more than a pile of fur
on the seat, and even the dogs tiring of the slaking of their lust.
One did attempt to make advances to a rather stoned kitty, but was
met with drawn claws, which he accepted with as good a grace as he
could summon. Throughout the shooting, my decorations (which were
stuck on with wallpaper paste) had become ever more soggy and by the
end were forming a trail behind me as I was repeatedly dragged across
the wretched pond with my cargo of stoned fur and blubber. If I
possessed a voice I, by the end of proceedings, would have chosen to
use it to utter similar words to the starlet that appeared in the
chocolate advert.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I assume
that the film shot on that day made somewhat unsatisfactory viewing
as, the following weekend, I was taken back to the pond. In the
meantime the company, after salvaging what they could of the original
footage, had paid a visit to the local taxidermist and hired stuffed
animals of similar appearance as stand ins for some of the shots. I
doubt that they'd have done a quick job with some sage and onion and
the stoned mutts and kittys from the week before. To be truthful,
by that time I'd have gladly paid for the film crew to receive the
same treatment. The shooting went ahead and I was dragged across
the pond about twenty times before my state barge decorations turned
to papier-mache and fell off. It was a wrap, as they said, placing
me and my morbid cargo onto the trailer and heading off at rather too
high a speed through the lanes to get the stuffed props back to the
taxidermist to avoid paying another days rental. They'd learned
their lesson though, at least in part, so I was well secured to the
trailer and therefore in no danger of breaking free. The same could
not be said of my cargo of rather moth-eaten felines and canines who
spent the journey sloshing around on my bottom boards along with a
little bilgewater, and such parts of the wallpaper as could be
recovered. Eventually, on a bend with a rather deceptive layby that
was hidden by bushes, the inevitable happened and the mass of
deceased animal, straw, bilgewater and puréed wallpaper rolled
across the widest part of me, up the side, and out, disappearing over
the bushes, unseen by the film crew. On arrival at the taxidermist,
who was quite a large man with several tattoos, a sum of far more
than the animals were worth was paid to avoid any unpleasantness.
I've often wondered what the courting couple that I'd spotted thought
as, mid clinch, in their open top sports car, they were bombarded
with a hail of soggy, long dead stuffed animals. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Fifteen</b></span></div>
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<br /></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a
few more commercial shootings, the small film company were somewhat
strapped for cash, and accepted any money offered to them. Thus
came my minor claim to fame when an historical drama was being made
by a much larger company. I was to play the part of a rowing boat
that took some prospective courtiers across to meet their monarch.
The fact that I am the wrong kind of craft for this kind of work (my
design dating from two to three hundred years later) was overlooked
and I was rather roughly sanded and varnished so that I looked the
part. The scene was shot in two takes as I ferried two actresses,
dressed in all their finery, across the river, piloted by an extra
that was dressed in what they deemed a boatman of the time would be
wearing. That was it. I got a new coat of varnish and found out
later that, although the film was a disastrous flop, one of the two
women went on to a very distinguished career in cinema, winning
several awards along the way. Again I sometimes wonder if she ever
remembers her first role, being rowed across a river in the dusk, on
an old, mis-named, and historically inappropriate skiff.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Suffice
to say the film company that owned me went bankrupt soon afterwards
and I was again sold at auction along with another load of junk which
included several metal pontoon like craft that were to have been used
for a wartime drama that never happened. The lot was bought by a
company that were based on a small industrial estate, who has seen
the value of these ex bridging pontoons for the emergent
do-it-yourself canal enthusiasts who wanted to get afloat for as
little money as possible. These sold well, but nobody really wanted
a battered wooden skiff, and I had the embarrassment of being given
away for nothing with the last of the pontoons, so that the owner
could row across to an old wharf where he could work on his pride and
joy. With each trip, various pieces of woodwork were taken across
and assembled onto the pontoon in what looked like a random fashion,
though I dare say there must have been some logic to it all. As it
approached completion I could see that the reclaimed materials that
were being used only fitted in a certain way, like an anarchic jigsaw
of styles, resulting in an appearance that, though strange, was quite
pleasing. On completion, I wished the little craft well in her new
life, though I doubted I'd ever see her again and was towed back
across the river before the owner and his family set off on holiday
in their strange looking, and even more strangely named craft.
Having served my purpose I was sold via the small ads of a local
paper, after which I spent a few years at the bottom of a garden,
before being taken to a local boatyard where the family had decided I
should have work done on me. I was, however, pretty much abandoned
there, and sat on blocks alongside one of the sheds for a long time.
It wasn't unpleasant though, as the comings and goings of a boatyard
are interesting in their own right. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Sixteen </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>
</b></span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One of my
clearest and fondest memories of the time was when a small girl took
a liking to me. Her parents often visited by water and whilst
liking the lifestyle the girl, as youngsters often do, wanted to
wander. Boatyards are far from safe places especially for small
children, whether or not they can swim, and it was one of the long
standing craftsmen that kept an eye on her as she explored.
Eventually she came across me sat neatly where I'd been left and,
after walking around several times, tried climbing aboard. This was
the cue for the man to intervene. He never spoke sharply, but
simply was there, asking her if she minded him lifting her aboard.
The smile he got as a reply needed no words and the young lady took
up her position on my ornate back seat to think her thoughts. Far
from being a one off, this was repeated many times over several
years. I watched her grow from the pre-school age of that first day
through to adulthood. I soon got the impression that this was a
deep thinker who lacked confidence to allow her true self to the
surface. There was nothing I could say (I'm made of wood and can't
therefore speak) but I was always happy to provide her with a seat to
sit and think upon and she seemed to accept my unspoken offer with
good grace. Often, whilst sitting, she would become absorbed in
drawing or working on watercolour sketches. This made me think back
to my early days when the daughter of the household would sit, before
the picnic was served, on the same seat and also draw.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So much
of my life is nuance, the spotting of the little things that people,
in their world of noisy communication, often miss completely. It's
sometimes wrong to compare things and people, but I find myself
unable not to. Back in my first years the sketches, though
competent, were no more than a pastime. She liked to draw but it
meant nothing to her and this came across to me in the movements she
made and time she spent working. One who is not totally absorbed in
what they are doing will fidget, they will be easily distracted, and
will not mind leaving a work at an unfinished stage, never to reach
completion. Several decades later, this new daughter with her
slightly timid nature, was vastly different. Timid she was, but
that hid a fire in her soul. There was passion about her, and she
would become so absorbed in what she was doing that time passed
without her noticing. She could work both calmly and frantically
but it was an unwise person that tried distracting her. There were
many days that her parents simply allowed her to complete the task
she'd set herself, no doubt causing the family to be late for
whatever they'd got planned next. They were understanding though
and, whilst not spoiling the girl, were happy to give her space to
work things out for herself. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Seventeen </b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I said
earlier that I saw the girl grow until early adulthood, which is
true. Her visits became infrequent in these later years, and
eventually dwindled to the point that I thought I'd seen the last of
her. There followed a period of idleness for me which was broken by
what I saw as another tidying up session before I'd either be sold or
used for hire again. The decision had been made to take every coat
of paint and varnish off until bare wood was reached. Having paint,
varnish, and those wretched (and by now illegible) name boards
removed was not an unpleasant experience. With each layer I felt a
bit better, much like a sheep having the winter coat of wool removed.
These layers were like memories in some way, but they were also
baggage from the bad times and I was glad to see them gone. After a
week, there was nothing but the bare wood to be seen. I was naked
and every scar I had was on show. I waited as I was walked around
and gently prodded at, hearing muttering and seeing either frowns or
smiles as the very thorough inspection continued. The plank that
had been replaced where I'd been holed was in good condition and made
of very similar wood to the rest of me. Some of my metal work was
in a rather poor state but most was recoverable, and I began to look
forward to being my former self. Maybe I would be sold to someone
wealthy who would maintain me properly, but then the chance was that
I could just as easily find myself in the care of someone that didn't
care at all. The work continued though, and I began to feel better
and better. I was more than happy when my original name was
discovered, carved into the woodwork of my bows and stern in
beautiful sinuous lettering that had, when I was first built, been
picked out in real gold leaf. I was, as I have always been, Alma
and if it were possible for me to do so, I'd have smiled.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
restoration took several months, being done whenever time permitted,
and seemed to be being carried out with such attention to detail that
surely no profit could be made when I was eventually sold. I began
to wonder what purpose this meticulous work served, other than to
occupy the restorers who were thoroughly enjoying themselves as they
sanded, varnished and generally spruced. I was happy that I was
going to look my best again after over a century of being in
existence. </div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Eighteen </b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One
morning, as the newly applied gold leaf of my restored lettering
caught the sun, I was carefully lifted onto the back of a truck and
secured firmly, with much padding, before I was driven away from the
yard where I'd enjoyed many summers. Clearly I'd been sold, but to
whom I had no idea. The truck left the motorway and trundled
through the lanes after which I was carefully unloaded and placed in
a barn, where a ribbon was tied in a rather fetching bow across my
back seat. Two more were tied to the two sets of antique oars, that
were a very close match to the first ones I was paired with, and then
I was left to my own devices in the dark. What on earth was all
this fuss about? I hadn't the first clue, but I felt that it was
something of a major change in my life. Ever since that day in 1880
my general condition had worsened with each change of ownership.
Here I was though, in the dark, and looking as good as, if not better
than, that first day when I was put in the water.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The
following morning I knew something was afoot. Preparations for
something I knew nothing about had been ongoing for some time, but
the level of activity had increased to almost fever pitch. I still
hadn't a clue, until some hours later, when the barn doors were
opened and I was greeted by a face I knew well. The girl who used
to sit on the shabby and unloved me, the only person that properly
felt something for me, came in to the barn, dressed in white and
accompanied by a young man who, by then I'd worked out, was her
husband of a little over an hour. I was a wedding present, and she
seemed as pleased to see me as she was about her new status as a
married woman. I had experienced many things over my century on the
planet but in all that time nobody had ever kissed me. She was the
first and, so far, the only person to do so. For my part I was glad
to see that the little girl that had befriended me years previously
had found what looked to be her ideal partner. Both were radiantly
happy, though each also had that slight distance to their expression
that told me there were unresolved issues in their lives. I felt
sure that they were more than capable of supporting each other
though, and I would now be there to give them respite from the real
world on quiet afternoons when all they felt like was spending time
together on the water. It is, after all, my reason to exist. I am
a boat. <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Nineteen </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>
</b></span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My time
with these people has been interesting, and, some years back the
family grew, first with a son, and then a daughter. I gather there
were complications around the birth of the latter, but eventually all
came good, and the family took their first outing on the small river
with me. Whilst mother and baby were doing well, mother was a
little on the frail side, and I couldn't help but to worry about her
health even if these worries did prove to be unfounded. Some days
later she came and sat with me, her children busy being adored by
doting relatives and friends. She was only there for a quarter of
an hour or so but I could tell her mind was in a turmoil. It was
then that she spoke directly to me about her near death experience.
She had seen things she didn't understand, and people that she knew
but had never met. She was confused and worried that she should do
something, but neither knew what to do or how to do it. I'm a piece
of wood, and cannot speak, yet she asked my thoughts. After a
period of silence lasting some minutes she smiled.
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank
you,” she said as she got up to head back to the house.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't
really know what I had done, other than to be there, to warrant
gratitude but she'd made the decision to be bold and do something.
That I was sure of.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Some
time later the family had a guest. She was pleasant enough and she
seemed to make everyone else a lot happier too. Something told me
there was a connection between her and the one way conversation I'd
had, and that she was one of the people from the near death
experience. Quite where the connection lay, I do not know, but the
happiness of whatever kind of reunion it was seemed to have had a
permanent effect, and some of that far away look has gone, hopefully
permanently. If I was in any was influential in the decision to
find her then I am glad, as always, to have been of service.
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Come
back for the next episode.</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; page-break-before: always;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Alma</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>(a
tale by Michael Nye)</b></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>http://www.michaelnyewriter.com
</b></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Part Twenty</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>
</b></span><div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Life can
always hold its surprises. Not, of course, that I am in any way
technically alive, but it is the best way that I can describe my
existence. I arrived in this world over a century ago, and have
experienced a lot of things. Then, I was built and maintained by
craftsmen, the object word here being men. It was men that cut the
trees, men that worked the wood, men that made and fitted the copper
rivets. Now I find that it is a female hand that maintains me. I
would say a woman but this person is no more than a girl. She has
the same determined look that her mother and grandmother possess,
plus a good part of the laid back temperament of her father and
grandfather. I am aware that she occasionally has bouts of
conscience and soul searching that her coming into the world almost
took her mother out of it. She'll always feel that, it can't be
helped, but she is also aware that the worst never happened. She
and her elder brother were born to two of the most caring people that
I have been in the care of.</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now
maybe, with my being older than any living human being, I can be a
bit set in my ways, and I have to admit that I thought it would be
the boy, rather than his younger sister, that would have been
interested in woodwork. With her delicate hands, and lightness of
touch though, his sister has the makings of one who will become a
master of her calling and I, for one, trust her with my very
existence at the level of skill she currently has. More than being
good with wood, she seems to understand the meaning of possessing a
soul whether the possessor is human, animal or, like myself, an
inanimate object. Can a piece of wood feel love? There's a
question for you. She cares for me, and I care for both her and the
rest of her family. I would hate to be the cause of injury to any
of them, and hope that I can present any flaws in my structure so
clearly that they would not put me into the water before repairs were
effected. I think on the balance, I would have to say that I do my
best to return the love shown to me, to be a positive part of the
lives that I am touching, and simply to be there when required, and
not demand attention when not. Is that love? I hope so. </div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">©</span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">2017 Michael Nye</span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-87947832798691321682016-10-05T07:23:00.002-07:002017-06-15T04:22:10.411-07:00Where is all the water?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>***New book "Nearwater" out soon! *** </b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>There are currently three books in the Mayfly series</b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mayfly, Here we Go! and Emily's Journey. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>***Check my website for details***</b></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available. Check website or Facebook.</b></span></b><b> </b><br />
<b>Look out for me at the Burscough Heritage weekend. </b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a></b><b> </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This post started in October 2016. Scroll down to find the he latest update</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b></div>
<b>****POST UPDATED 15th June 2017****</b><br />
(update title is "<b>Our Triumphant return!</b>")<br />
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Basingstoke or bust.</b></div>
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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 22<sup>nd</sup>
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.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>Making a Start.</b><br />
<br />
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<b>First lock of the day</b><br />
<br />
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<b>Looking back down the canal.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b> The lock chamber from above.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Pretty much what it said.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Making a start.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Save this canal.”</div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Here are a few more photos from our first day's travel.</b><br />
<b>(the black and white one is from an ealier visit by car)</b><br />
<b>Quite why I chose to hold onto the rope whilst the photo was taken is anybody's guess.</b><br />
<b>The boat was hardly going to blow away! </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>The wilds of (wait for
it!) Woking.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is this boat
yours?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Where are you
going?” was rather easier to answer.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Basingstoke,” we
both said, in all seriousness.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>And a few more photos.</b><br />
<b>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.</b><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Onwards and upwards.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.<br />
<br />
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<b>Two views of Greatbottom Flash</b> <br />
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<b>Section of dry canal bed </b> <br />
<br />
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<b>This view of the famous breach hardly </b><br />
<b>does it justice. </b> <br />
<br />
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<b>The boat with a full load halfway up a flight.</b><br />
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<b>The campsite after a bad day.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Good and bad.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You knackered
lads?” he said. “You want to do what we've just done.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjy9SSPqLQayf9Jqgr16ejIHYdDQTqYtooh0xH08q74EGtl-UiFhQRJZ7krRQ-vsRsOwG1ZHde-o9Mmh784NkXB8RviSUhlcZoU56aCUupGLr1fpbxzD18jlcqlIIohSA7dyXFxZJQjqp/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjy9SSPqLQayf9Jqgr16ejIHYdDQTqYtooh0xH08q74EGtl-UiFhQRJZ7krRQ-vsRsOwG1ZHde-o9Mmh784NkXB8RviSUhlcZoU56aCUupGLr1fpbxzD18jlcqlIIohSA7dyXFxZJQjqp/s320/003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>And on to Basingstoke?</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
</div>
<br />
<b>Our triumphant return!</b><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Fvla96JUXuyfEsS_ZHQ3oV3Lgs2lumzorw0abAYAG2IwdvfY96hjCwvH88-oXxmGx1zcrOxHK-o2_o-kwFRHkobrp_Th_nYUqZa_soUXwUmQ6OnT0qR7L7kg9Xx05Ga_kVAglLKHRB4s/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1511" data-original-width="1600" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Fvla96JUXuyfEsS_ZHQ3oV3Lgs2lumzorw0abAYAG2IwdvfY96hjCwvH88-oXxmGx1zcrOxHK-o2_o-kwFRHkobrp_Th_nYUqZa_soUXwUmQ6OnT0qR7L7kg9Xx05Ga_kVAglLKHRB4s/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>An easy hole to fall down!</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTcIJoZCK8cOmKgxQewA7Au8y38lycp1-Csx6fLW_BRCJEKh1mMQGNEke4nf0ykEj8vfdcc3uMEpyUWUUEaDLw49PdncSfCOe3Hvs_C7UdI43eT-kk-51VTd2KUVhklTYVZpkG609E1hN/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1511" data-original-width="1600" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlTcIJoZCK8cOmKgxQewA7Au8y38lycp1-Csx6fLW_BRCJEKh1mMQGNEke4nf0ykEj8vfdcc3uMEpyUWUUEaDLw49PdncSfCOe3Hvs_C7UdI43eT-kk-51VTd2KUVhklTYVZpkG609E1hN/s320/005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> Hidden from view</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitX03uH5FEZesj9t4f96Z9qSHGyE6cwGvOGcqCN_e_fMh4KSDOLB82CWzS5PYcSZFb7oh7r_vlMKZYNWOmxR31fNqx2yICL_wTzlxZ1uZ1soxwa93TUxJEXnU2kPn0kBqer9SAWx_1OTHk/s1600/006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="1600" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitX03uH5FEZesj9t4f96Z9qSHGyE6cwGvOGcqCN_e_fMh4KSDOLB82CWzS5PYcSZFb7oh7r_vlMKZYNWOmxR31fNqx2yICL_wTzlxZ1uZ1soxwa93TUxJEXnU2kPn0kBqer9SAWx_1OTHk/s320/006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>Little Tunnel</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1Ax1fda1CHfli3-6SAnSDJliPRbYZXYmbxL6e6n9CkKvz55D82-sRvbOjKdj7bS3oKO5IECkICuQFCw9srS0dDYhdEnkD0k3gnm1BRkGvO3rY1JHxjGkkSS1J5weH6SjSNP3mBAfVGCV/s1600/007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1580" data-original-width="1600" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO1Ax1fda1CHfli3-6SAnSDJliPRbYZXYmbxL6e6n9CkKvz55D82-sRvbOjKdj7bS3oKO5IECkICuQFCw9srS0dDYhdEnkD0k3gnm1BRkGvO3rY1JHxjGkkSS1J5weH6SjSNP3mBAfVGCV/s320/007.JPG" width="320" /></a><b> </b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Spot the bridge!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<b> </b>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.<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-NMCMAJEJqslUbyupjxccY2HOMO7VpxHRzHmt904pfahKUx4_hHaqcnoGNmWka2iC0jH5mSnWQP1ZCdUarJq6PpbbuMZAQJF1HOLikh6KqbrpnYv2emgGUj4WUB6Aj8z3VUvsKeWh5181/s1600/012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1493" data-original-width="1600" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-NMCMAJEJqslUbyupjxccY2HOMO7VpxHRzHmt904pfahKUx4_hHaqcnoGNmWka2iC0jH5mSnWQP1ZCdUarJq6PpbbuMZAQJF1HOLikh6KqbrpnYv2emgGUj4WUB6Aj8z3VUvsKeWh5181/s320/012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>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!</b><br /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>***New book "Nearwater" out soon! *** </b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>There are currently three books in the Mayfly series</b></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mayfly, Here we Go! and Emily's Journey. </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>***Check my website for details***</b></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: small;"><b>***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available. Check website or Facebook. </b></span></b><b>
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a></b><b> </b></div>
</div>
</div>
Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-45824094679489329932016-01-22T09:05:00.001-08:002016-08-12T12:45:02.113-07:00Keeping a Bee<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>***New book "Emily's Journey" out soon! *** </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>***Check my website for details***</b></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>***New short story "A Pause for Thought" available. Check website or Facebook. </b></span><br />
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a><br />
</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This post started in January. Scroll down to find the he latest update</b><br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>****POST UPDATED 12th August 2016****</b><br />
(update title is "Dawn")<br />
<br />
<b>Apologies for the break between updates. I have had a very busy time of late getting the new book ready to publish! </b><br />
<br />
<b>Bee 1</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmN37uEWZ1qhraKVUuUT5KzPbR3aZviW1oKgfDWUExPBM7n-wcGd1vmlw50ILzJnm7dMIWpGWh4Kylj1ANXTTb7qM8Vm8HO51IFsz8mrthHWoDQJ5Qggx7dA-_y9osflprI8fr4HoYfeq/s1600/BLUETIT003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmN37uEWZ1qhraKVUuUT5KzPbR3aZviW1oKgfDWUExPBM7n-wcGd1vmlw50ILzJnm7dMIWpGWh4Kylj1ANXTTb7qM8Vm8HO51IFsz8mrthHWoDQJ5Qggx7dA-_y9osflprI8fr4HoYfeq/s320/BLUETIT003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>The one that got away (almost)</b></div>
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<b>I found this photo of a once prolific style of boat on the internet.</b></div>
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<b> </b></div>
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<b>***If you would be kind enough to like my Mayfly Page on Facebook I'd be much obliged.***</b><br />
<b>The google shortcode below will take you there </b><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://goo.gl/NU6jy7">https://goo.gl/NU6jy7</a></span></span></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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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.
</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfuZCFa06X9SqtdUS5Su9nnEf39pJzWTXXrCX4-zpUEMVDHuTSdlrXUhzn3L9u_rq8YWRgJNHBcPcRUwq9TRj5UbPoEm6DkfBF3BcbFdevP8DKH3wd_3VRxwaQeS4AhL-NirjVocqnTov/s1600/PICT0304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfuZCFa06X9SqtdUS5Su9nnEf39pJzWTXXrCX4-zpUEMVDHuTSdlrXUhzn3L9u_rq8YWRgJNHBcPcRUwq9TRj5UbPoEm6DkfBF3BcbFdevP8DKH3wd_3VRxwaQeS4AhL-NirjVocqnTov/s320/PICT0304.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<b></b><br />
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<b>And the one that didn't.</b></div>
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<b>This is yours truly at age seventeen with his life savings in wooden form.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<b>An Accident with Custard.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
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<b>Here is the bright red cabin top of Bee 1 about a year after restoration.</b><br />
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br />
<br />
<b>Golden Syrup</b><br />
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<b>Bee 1 with her new nameboards</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
<br />
<b>I need power Scotty!</b><br />
<br />
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<b>The right tool for the job, a 1968 Mercury 3.9</b></div>
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</div>
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</div>
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</div>
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<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
<b> </b> <br />
<br />
<b>But will it float?</b><br />
<br />
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<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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!</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<b> </b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Dawn.</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> 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 34</span><sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">
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.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a><br />
<br />
Mayfly series Facebook page<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://goo.gl/NU6jy7">https://goo.gl/NU6jy7</a></span></span></div>
Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-64187075675287831902015-08-03T04:01:00.000-07:002015-12-09T07:03:40.640-08:00The Birth of Nyzark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<b>A simple little ceremony on the day belied the task ahead.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>***New book "Here we go!" out now! *** </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>***Check my website for details*** </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This post started in August. Scroll down to find the he latest update</b><br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>****POST UPDATED 5th October 2015****</b><br />
(update title is "Elvis has left the building")<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>***If you would be kind enough to like my Mayfly Page on Facebook I'd be much obliged.***</b><br />
<b>The google shortcode below will take you there </b><br />
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://goo.gl/NU6jy7">https://goo.gl/NU6jy7</a></span></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<b>From Plywood to Steel</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Full Steam Ahead.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Sorry that I don't have a photo for this post. We were a bit too busy to take pictures.</b><br />
<br />
<b>This link will be interesting though.</b><br />
<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="http://www.steamboat.org.uk/user.php?id=61373">http://www.steamboat.org.uk/user.php?id=61373</a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> </b>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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“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.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
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<b>Here is the Vauxhall Cresta that lugged the Yanmar home</b></div>
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<b>
This is the earlest photo I can find of the completed Nyzark</b></div>
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<b>This is around the same time, with headlamp (which came from a scrapyard at Kidlington)</b></div>
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<b>From left to right. Me, Granny, my brother John, and Mum.</b></div>
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<b>Same year, on the return home at Caversham.</b></div>
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<b>Left to right My brother, Granny, Auntie Olive, Mum, Me, and Uncle John. </b><br />
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<b>Good To Go</b><br />
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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).
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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.</div>
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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.
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
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<b>Here is a very similar motor to the Yanmar that first powered Nyzark.</b><br />
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<b>As time went by, the interior of Nyzark got a lot more homely.</b><br />
<b>This photo was taken the year the plywood panneling went in.</b><br />
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<b>Springers were solid enough, if a bit rough and ready (like the man himself)</b><br />
<b>Note the Crittall windows and unground welding.</b><br />
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<b>Ready or not, here we come! </b><br />
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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.
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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!</div>
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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.<br />
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<b>"Doing" the Avon ring.</b></div>
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<b>Here we are on a later holiday by one of the beautiful lock cottages on the Stratford-on-Avon canal</b></div>
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<b>Left to right</b><br />
<b>Mum Granddad Nye (then in his early 90's) my brother John, Granny (on Mum's side) and a very sullen looking teenage me.</b><br />
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<b>Edstone Aqueduct, scene of the famous non-suicide leap.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b><b>Things are getting better.... (sort of)</b><br />
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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.</div>
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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!<br />
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<b>Here are Mum and Granny with the new Nyzark in the background.</b><br />
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<b></b><b>The Summer of 1965 was the only other waterways holiday that Granny came with us on.</b><br />
<b>Here she is in the cockpit of the "River Rose" hired from TW Allen and sons.</b><br />
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<b>Granny Mum and Auntie Winnie enjoy the spartan comfort of the early Nyzark cabin.</b></div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b> 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.</b></div>
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<b>And here she is again, looking somewhat bewildered at the helm of the very stationary Lady Jena.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Gladys Amelia Gout (prnounced Goo) A truly magnificent lady.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Granny.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then there was the
crash near Fenny Compton “tunnel” in the summer of 1973 not long
before my 17<sup>th</sup> 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
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know it's been
raining, but your father isn't that wet.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, but he didn't
just fall in the canal did he.” I replied flatly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<b>No need to explain this one.</b><br />
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<br />
<b> </b> <br />
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<b>Here are a few photos from the year we "did" The Avon ring.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<br />
<br />
<b>The Avon Ring</b><br />
<br />
<b>
</b>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why don't you do
some evening classes,” he said, adding, “You can draw so why not
try art.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“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.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I waited for
condemnation of my choice but got none.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“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.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.
</div>
<b> </b> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0JbUp5V5EDL089OC6jwqoWj-HCHCXOsXWXeqwBydfIQiV4_sIXw5wD1zuskN-EtRhturIEnPUwRgaUhZeHktl2bSOqhszI4kslrs9uTlfyLzcQOFZU2qotyakWjjMK63CY0UbgObiaeG/s1600/PICT0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0JbUp5V5EDL089OC6jwqoWj-HCHCXOsXWXeqwBydfIQiV4_sIXw5wD1zuskN-EtRhturIEnPUwRgaUhZeHktl2bSOqhszI4kslrs9uTlfyLzcQOFZU2qotyakWjjMK63CY0UbgObiaeG/s320/PICT0033.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Here are Mum and Dad, with Nyzark still in her original bright green with name painted by me</b><br />
<br />
<b>Below are views of the newly (1975) panelled cabin. </b><br />
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<b> </b> <br />
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<b><br /></b><br />
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<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Elvis has left the
building.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">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 17</span><sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">th</span></sup><span style="font-weight: normal;">
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.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
problem, it's just a knack,” we were told. “I'll come down on
Saturday and show you how to start it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Simple,”
he smiled. “Drop this lever, then one, two, three.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Must
be a bit cold. I'll give her a few more swings,” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“May
be a little bit of dirt in the filter,” he smiled, red faced and
perspiring. “We'll have it right.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a><br />
<br />
Mayfly series Facebook page<br />
<div class="western" lang="en-GB" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://goo.gl/NU6jy7">https://goo.gl/NU6jy7</a></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Michael Nye: Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125605895252492963noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1597730367751299835.post-44264077398003487342015-01-23T11:32:00.002-08:002016-08-12T12:48:23.632-07:00You have to start somewhere.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The l0 year old me trying to look professional on our first canal holiday.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.michaelnyewriter.com/">http://www.michaelnyewriter.com</a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>So it started on July 28th</b></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Recently I found a
small blue book which, in the summer of 1967, I'd taken with me on
the family holiday. Because I would be doing the “Eleven Plus”
exam some time during the following academic year, the teacher of the
top class (year 6) said we should all keep a diary of our holiday, to
improve the quality of our English. They never told you when the
exam was coming, so that you could enjoy the luxury of being on edge
until the thing appeared, then enjoy wondering if you had passed or
not. Passing or failing the “Eleven Plus” was, at the time,
about the most important thing in my life, as it was for most ten
year olds, so I kept the diary through from the 28<sup>th</sup> July
until the 18<sup>th</sup> of August 1967. It took some prompting
from my parents to do it, and sometimes I hated it. I hated the
fact that when I went back, feeling I'd really achieved something by
writing the thing every day during the holiday, and bringing an
envelope full of my holiday snaps too, the teacher had forgotten
she'd set the task! Worse than that, nobody else had bothered to do
it! With that sort of commitment, you'd think I'd have passed the
dreaded exam with more marks than anyone. In truth, I didn't even
get the chance to sit it! I wasn't privy to the reasons, apart from
me knowing that I'd got so wound up about it that I was staying awake
most nights, and couldn't answer simple questions that I would have
had no trouble with a year earlier.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's life though,
and the eleven plus actually means nothing to me now, apart from my
being vehemently opposed to any sort of selective exam that
segregates children at such an early age. I do have the diary
though, and reading it does remind me of the summers spent on the
inland waterways with my mum, dad and brother. The first of these
was in 1964, and was the first family holiday since my mum had been
very ill with virus pneumonia, which had associated complications.
She recovered, but, from the photos of the time, she did look very
thin, and it was Dad's suggestion that hiring a boat on the Thames
may be something she'd enjoy. She did, and so did we, so the
formula was repeated the next year, but instead of hiring the “River
Gypsy” a 22foot Freeman Sports cruiser (which looked a bit like a
malformed Tupperware box), we hired the “River Rose” a rather
bigger wood boat that handled rather badly and leaked a lot. When
we had a small windfall in the form of some money that had come from
a house in Greece that my Grandmother had owned, but had to leave due
to family reasons. The house survived the second world war, and
remained occupied, though for some reason it could not be sold, and
no money from rent could leave Greece. Eventually a resolution to
the situation was worked on over about two or three years and some
cash came to the family, part of which was used to buy the Lady Jena.
Although it's a grand name, the boat was far from grand, it being a
sixteen foot DIY built cabin cruiser with a rather less than reliable
Swedish petrol motor, and various soft spots in the hull. It was
designed for two people, but fitted the four of us at a squeeze (my
Granny having, I think, been less than impressed with the waterways)
for our 1966 holiday which, much to my brothers disgust, meant that
we listened to the England winning the world cup final on a Ferguson
transistor radio rather than our 405 line television.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following year, by
calling in some favours at work, my Dad was able to get a bit over
three weeks concurrent holiday and we were able, for the first time,
to explore the canals. It being the first sortie onto the system,
we hedged our bets and included the almost customary annual run to
Lechlade in Gloucestershire as well.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So it was that I, aged
ten (almost eleven) arrived back from school, and changed from my
uniform into normal clothes and waited until just after five when my
dad arrived back from Kingston Power Station where he worked as a
charge-hand instrument mechanic. Hearing the familiar three beeps
of the horn as he arrived, the holiday seemed to have officially
started. Mum, being the organiser she was, had made sure everything
was packed, and that it would fit into the family car, a yellow 1960
Triumph Herald, with a black stripe that ran either side from
headlamp to tail of the vehicle. With all packed, the last item was
the family pet, a banded cinnamon hamster called Cheeky.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Mum Granny and me aboard Lady Jena at Thames Ditton Marina 1966/7</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>The Art of Getting Underway.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm not entirely sure
quite how we fitted five people, a hamster and all our stuff for the
holiday into a Triumph Herald saloon, but we did, and fairly quickly
too. My Granny had opted to stay with her sister and her daughter
(my Aunties Helen and Thetis) in Surbiton, so we paused the run for a
brief visit, after which we finally arrived in the car park of the
Thames Ditton Marina, which occupied a no longer used part of the
water works on Portsmouth Road in the district known as Seething
Wells. I'm not sure what function it performed but was told it was
a reservoir, though it may well have also been a filter bed. Either
way, an enterprising person, presumably not long after the second
world war, bought the place and knocked through into the river. The
atmosphere was always friendly, as it still seems to be, and was then
owned by the Pearce family, namely John Pearce, and his father (a
member of the Thames Conservancy) was known to the lock keepers as
Nobby. Lady Jena was not the only small boat run on an even smaller
budget there, but there were also a number of rather larger craft.
Having no perception of class, and being a talkative ten year old, I
was happy to chat with people on the site, and felt the place to be a
kind of refuge, hidden away from Surbiton, school and the rest of the
world by the high boundary created by the (reservoir?) walls. I
still have very happy memories of the marina, and really enjoyed
restoring a boat that I bought with money I'd been saving for a
moped, some years later. That boat, a clinker built plywood cabin
cruiser which measured just fifteen foot six in length, was called
Bee 1 and had been owned by a very nice couple of canal enthusiasts.
When writing Mayfly, I used Bee 1 as the craft that is rescued and
forms the spine of the story. Back in 1967, I do remember seeing
Bee 1 tied up not far from Lady Jena as we took the stuff from the
car, and stowing it around carefully. For some reason best known to
her, my mum decided to take all the milk for the holiday with us in
the form of a crate of crown corked bottles of the sterilised
version, which was ordered specially from the milkman the week
before.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I remember there
was a chip shop that used to be called Jimmy Riddle's on Brighton
Road, which we used to eat at regularly as a Saturday lunchtime treat
up until I was around six years old when, for whatever reason, we
stopped going. When I was six we had a red Reliant van which, like
the Albin motor of Lady Jena, was rather less than reliable, the van
was replaced by a green Ford Squire (which disintegrated), and then
by the yellow Herald. The chip shop is still there if my reading of
Google Maps, and my memory, are both correct, though now the shop is
simply called Surbiton Fish and Chips. Though I don't really
remember, it's more than likely that Dad revisited the place to get
our tea
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After the evening
meal, it was time for bed, something of a performance with four
people occupying a space meant for two. Lady Jena went through
various permutations of sleeping arrangements, and this, was a good
first attempt. My brother had flatly refused to sleep on anything
other than one of the two proper bunks. Mum occupied the other, and
Dad slept across the widest point of the cabin on a home made plywood
construction that had to be assembled each night. That left me,
who, as the shortest and lightest member of the family, slept on a
piece of wood that slotted onto the back deck and projected into the
cockpit, supported on a metal “T” bar. This was also the table,
when we chose to use it. At the time the boat had one of those
covers that pulled over the whole cockpit in the same way as the hood
of a sports car. I forget if I slept with head to the back (and
face over the petrol tank filler), or the other way round. I know I
fell off the thing a few times, but at least it was a bit private and
rather more airy than the cabin.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Saturday, we got up
rather early for what was supposed to be a holiday. I remember it
was a feature of the early part of the journey most years that we did
a sort of route-march until we got to Caversham where we would meet
my Uncle John and Auntie Olive. It's in my diary that when I went
to wash, I found someone had left a rather expensive looking watch on
top of the electric water heater. At that time in the morning,
there weren't many people awake so it was fairly easy finding the
owner, who was just about to set off downriver and was very thankful
that I'd taken the trouble to return it to him. The boat was one of
the larger ones at the marina, and the owner felt the need to reward
me, and insisted on giving me half a crown for being honest. That's
a whole 12 ½ pence in today's money!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our target for the day
was Cookham, which was about as far as it was possible to get, so,
after hand starting the motor (something that only Dad could do) we
were finally off.<br />
<br />
<br />
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This is a very similar motor to the less than reliable one in Lady Jena.<br />
I'm sure they were generally dependable, but ours wasn't. <br />
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The famous Amphicar. Described by one owner as "Not a good car, and not a<br />
good boat either"<br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Caversham, our goal for the day. Not sure if this photo is from 1967 </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But it's one that I took. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Caversham or Bust!</b> </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The lower reaches of
the Thames are pretty wide, and go through places that, although
close to home, were somehow changed by water travel, and I'd guess
from the diary that we were making what we must have thought was good
progress, as we stopped for lunch in Staines. It would have more
than likely been something made aboard as the only local fare was
described by Mum as “Donkey Sandwiches”. In the light of the
recent food scandals these may or may not have tasted O.K. but the
expression of Mum's voice told me that they were best avoided.
After lunch, it rained, and everything slowed down. I would also
guess that we had some kind of engine trouble too. We seemed to
have plenty of that, though I never noted it in my diary. The Albin
twin cylinder motor was Swedish, and when running, it's solid plod of
an exhaust note drew quite a few admirers and sounded the sort of
thing that, once started, would run forever. The problem was that
it seldom did. The best you could expect was a day or two without
failure. You knew that trouble was on the way when it began to
misfire, intermittently making a small click instead of the usual
thump escalating to the point that the thing would either peter out
in mid river, or simply refuse to start when it was time to leave a
lock. It had no electric starter, so my poor dad had to kneel in
the cabin and swing a cast iron starting handle which, if the motor
was in a bad mood and kicked back at him, often resulted in him
skinning his knuckles on the drip tray that sat underneath it in the
bilges. If we had a spate of bad trouble, dad would spend an hour
or so trying to fix the thing by dismantling various parts, cleaning
and reassembling them. The carburettor and magneto (no electronic
ignition then) were favourites for this attention, and usually the
motor was coaxed back into life. Then there was the rain. Small
boats are very much like mobile tents in that when it rains, however
you try and cover up, everything gets wet. Lady Jena did have a
folding fabric cover for the cockpit, complete with side screens, but
this only seemed to seal the water in and get in the way through
locks. Hence, the combination of the two resulted in us not
arriving at Cookham until the last lock of the day, and finding the
usual mooring, a large high banked meadow, was full. The decision
was made to push on until we found something suitable, which in this
case was a small riverside hotel at Bourne End. It was late, and we
were tired, so Dad made the decision to see what was on offer at the
place. I seem to remember us being allowed to go in (minors were
not usually allowed in pubs under any circumstance) to the restaurant
area. Mixed grills at the time were pretty popular, and consisted
of pretty much anything they establishment chose to fry or grill.
They were eclipsed some time in the seventies by chicken in a basket,
or gammon stake with a tinned pineapple ring dumped on it. They
could have served us all with a reject school dinner and we'd have
happily eaten it by that time. I noted in the diary that we didn't
eat until ten in the evening, which is pretty late for a ten year
old. One thing I do remember (though yet again I chose not to
mention it in the diary) was that there was some entertainment in the
form of a female singer, who, accompanied by her guitar, gave us
renditions of various popular songs and, as I remember, was pretty
good. For me, the place was pretty memorable, but when I asked if
we could stop there again, Mum and Dad looked at each other with one
of those parental no-verbal communicative looks and I was told that
it was a bit of “One of those places” in their opinion. I asked
what they meant, but got nothing by way of explanation, and we never
stopped there again on any of our waterways holidays. Some years
later, when I was in my late teens, and had got my own boat (Bee 1)
into a good enough state, I put what money I had saved into a short
holiday on my own, which, due to the rise in petrol price, was run on
far more of a shoestring than I'd planned. I had half a mind to
visit the hotel again, but when I passed, It was clear that the place
had changed hands (possibly more than once) and name. Worse than
that, it had gone up-market, and the cruisers there looked like
they'd use my little boat as a dinghy, probably (and pretentiously)
called a tender to whatever posh lump of plastic the owner had
bought.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was very late (for
a ten year old) when we went to bed, which probably accounts for the
fact that it was twenty to twelve in the morning before we set off on
the second leg of the dash to Caversham. The weather was better,
and I noted that we overtook two cars on the way. These were red
Amphicars, which I remember from then, didn't look that safe in the
water. We tied up for lunch at Hobbs boatyard in Henley-on-Thames,
one of the many places that hired small day boats powered by 6
horsepower outboards by the hour. Hobbs has at some time decided
that wood or GRP was not tough enough so their fleet were made of
Aluminium. A couple of years later, one of these caught the port
side of Lady Jena amidships, and just above the waterline, making a
hole that you could (if stupid enough) put your head through. I
remember Dad leaning over the side to patch the hole with a piece of
plywood given to us by Hobbs (who were most apologetic and helpful)
as the rest of us counterbalanced him on the other side of the boat.
With the repair done, that holiday was able to continue, and the
patch remained until the side of the boat (that had a few soft spots
already) finally gave out one winter when a bolt on the jetty worked
its way though and Lady Jena sank. She was pumped out though, and
took us on several more holidays and river trips with the offending
sheet of plywood replaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The diary mentions
nothing of the rest of the afternoon, lunchtime having been three in
the afternoon, and we arrived at Caversham that evening.<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />
When I was at primary school I made a model of the Kon Tiki out of balsa. This is a larger version that went by when we were moored for the night "enjoying" our home cooking. Another photo from the old Ilford camera.<br />
<br />
<b> The day before I discvered Canals</b> <br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once at Caversham we
would normally arrange to meet my Uncle John and Auntie Olive who
lived in the town. I notes in the diary that we went to phone my
Granny that evening, and we'd probably have phoned my Uncle and
Auntie at the time, to arrange a meet up for the following day. My
brother managed to twist his ankle somewhere along the way to, or
back from, the phone box that sat outside of the Thames Concervancy's
building on Vastern Road, just over the bridge. This wouldn't have
stopped him enjoying the feast from Joe Eighteen's chip shop, which
was a regular feature of our early stops in the town. The shop was
very much in the old style, and served a number of things, the most
famous of these being the battered sausages which (in my
non-vegetarian days) I, and the rest of the family often ordered in
preference to (and sometimes alongside) the more traditional fish.
The “sausages” were a large glob of sausage meat, shovelled
directly into the batter, and then fried. How on earth a ten year
old could eat two of these plus chips, baffles me. I remember on
one holiday one of us jokingly asked for seconds. Somehow a look
was passed around the boat, and Dad duly dispatched to get extra
(rather smaller) portions, which were enjoyed the more for them
having the feel of being in some way illicit in nature. Joe retired
a year or two later, and the recipe for battered sausages did not get
transferred to the new owner, who's fare was nowhere near as good as
Joe's. After the meal, we all felt suitably jovial, and it is noted
that we sang songs. I'm not sure quite what this would have sounded
like to any passers by, but the form of communal singing was a
feature of our early holidays before, on becoming teenagers, my
brother and I became far too “sophisticated” to indulge. Mostly
the songs were corrupted versions of Adge Cutler's best offerings,
with some names and places and activities suitably (or unsuitably)
altered to where we were and what we'd done that day. No doubt they
were pretty unpoetic and tuneless, but they were also one of the more
enjoyable aspects of the holiday.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following day we
spent some time tidying and generally sprucing up the boat ready for
my Uncle John and Auntie Olive to visit us, but, after a long wait,
Dad went off to the phone box and found out that Uncle John had woken
up feeling groggy enough for them to call the doctor who had just
been (doctors used to do home visits as standard then) and diagnosed
chickenpox. Quite how he'd managed to avoid that one as a child is
a mystery as most childhood diseases were generally shared in the
school environment. My tally consists of measles (never got the
German variety), mumps, chickenpox, and suspected whooping cough (I
don't remember that one) so when I had kids I was at least immune to
those favourites.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually, with the
Lady Jena all spruced, we set off again, stopping at Pangbourne
meadow for lunch. The weather had picked up, and I noted in the
diary that I went for a swim after lunch. This was something of an
exaggeration as I could not, and so far have never been able to,
swim. What I referred to as swimming would have been paddling, or,
with the aid of life-jacket and other means of flotation, simply
floated in the river, tethered by a line to the boat. Wallingford
was where we tied up for the night. It was never a favourite spot
but had the advantage of being a good staging post for us getting
onto the Oxford canal the next day. After the previous evening's
feast we'd more than likely made our own tea that night. To say
cooking facilities on Lady Jena were primitive is something of an
understatement. We had a “Desca” methylated spirit stove made
(rather poorly) in East Germany and a “Kubex Wonder oven” which
was pretty similar to a large biscuit tin in construction with a vent
at the bottom to let the heat (and fumes) in. We did cook in it
though, even if the Fray Bentos steak and kidney pie was no more than
luke warm, with pastry almost raw in the middle, and scorched at the
edges. It also tasted (like the toast made on the tinplate
“Pyramid” toaster) quite strongly of meths.<br />
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This is the Abingdon Boat Centre (probably snapped by me) <br />
<br />
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These Ceremonial barges sat in a row close to the Uni Boathouses (Photo by Dad)<br />
<br />
<b> Last leg before uncharted territory.</b><br />
(With guts still intact.....Almost)<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having survived the pie
with it's strange overtone of stove fuel, we set off the next day,
with the aim of getting onto the Oxford Canal. The decision to use
Duke's Cut, near to King's lock, was a wise one on the part of Mum
and Dad. It would have been quicker to go through the “Sheepwash
Channel” in Oxford itself, but there had been a little pre-warning
on the state of the waterway there. Some years later (after the
fiasco that was the “Ocean 4 plus” outboard) we used the channel
by way of a change, and regretted it. I used this experience when I
wrote “Mayfly” and can still remember the sport that was had at
our expense by the operators of the now defunct electric lift bridge
that served a local factory.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The diary mentions
Whittenham clump, which no doubt may have been pointed out to me,
though it's more likely that I was told to mention it to bulk the
page out. I do remember us stopping at Abingdon for lunch. It was
and is a pretty looking town, and was often a night time mooring
spot, though, due to a newish hotel on the opposite bank, it became
rather noisy. The continual reprise of “March of the Mods”
played on an electric organ with drums as an accompaniment was a
little wearing one year, and forms another lifted experience that I
grafted into “Mayfly” when I wrote it. I also borrowed the café
that we visited in the town have another “Mixed grill” for lunch.
It's doubtful that they would have served vegetarian food in the
sixties, but I bent the rules slightly as small places are often more
than obliging and they'd no doubt have done their best had Amanda or
Jim (the two main characters in Mayfly) actually walked into the
place. What sticks in my memory of the day was the tinned button
mushrooms that were served with the meal. They were something of a
conversion on the road to Damascus for my brotherwho, up to that
point, was vociferously opposed to the eating of mushrooms. I
remember him on several occasions saying “I'm not eating <i>fungus!</i>”
Tinned button mushrooms bear only a passing similarity to the real
thing, and he (at 12) didn't recognise them as the processed fungus
that they were. Dad suggested he tried one, and, when he did, the
conversion was complete. John, from that point on was a mushroom
fan. I sometimes wonder if my dad felt just a slight pang of guilt
at the deception. I remember a story he told us of the same trick
being pulled on him with eels. Dad was as disgusted by eels when he
was a child as John was by the idea of eating mushrooms. When he'd
been fed sufficient eel for Nana and Granddad Nye to be satisfied
that he probably liked them, they asked for confirmation of the fact.
When he said he did, they told him that he'd just eaten eel. The
result being that, in Dad's words, he was, “As sick as a dog.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After lunch we headed
off up river, going through Sandford lock, (noted in the diary as the
deepest on the Thames and on towards Osney lock. The area around
Oxford at that time largely ignored the river, but places of note
were the bridge (the lowest on the river) and the famous “goalposts”
at the island occupied largely by Salter Brothers, who ran the
pleasure steamers that regularly plied the river and could (if you
had time) be used as a bus route. The island had once been the site
of a lock, and the main channel of the river was the old weir stream.
When the lock was taken out (many years before) the central section
of the weir was (according to Dad) blown up. Two wooden piles were
driven into the river bed and the notice on each which said “Pass
between piles” was definitely to be heeded. There was only one
time that I saw the consequence of not doing as told, when a
“Bermuda” style hire boat decided to go their way. The type of
craft was very wide, and had a cabin that ran the length of the craft
which was about 45 feet. Unlike most boats, the cockpit was at the
front, and the boat was “Driven” from a car style steering wheel
with little rear visibility. As a result they were ungainly, and
best avoided. They were also (unusually for a hire boat) rather
overpowered. On this occasion we were overtaken by one of the
things, and we could see the course they were taking. There was no
way we could get their attention, and the inevitable happened.
There was a sickening crunch as the boat stopped dead in the water,
rising about ten inches at the bow as it took water on through what
was probably a sizeable hole created by the remains of the weir.
Help (I think from Salter brothers, who, I think hired the craft) was
soon at hand, and I never got to find out what happened after.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back in 1967, we acted
as an unofficial pilot, allowing a rather nervous first time hirer to
follow us closely though the piles, and under the low Osney bridge
before we headed on towards our destination. As I remember, the
only other features that really stood out in a positive way were the
university boathouses, mostly because of their clean modernity, and
the ceremonial barges which looked rather forlorn. Some were
actually rather derelict in appearance. I also remember a long
corrugated iron fence which had a lot of daubed images of a tortoise,
and a selection of political slogans on it. The fence ran alongside
the river for some distance and behind it was a terrace of what was
probably low grade student lets. There were two more locks until we
turned off into Wolvercote Mill Stream and then Duke's cut.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is what I remember as Shttleworth's Lock (1975 Shell guide gives it this name too)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Bradshaw's (1904) refers to it as Duke's Lock</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Modern guides call it Duke's Cut Lock.</div>
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(I leave you to take your pick. But the fingerprint on the slide will be Dad's)</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is Lady Jena going through a drawbridge in the Summer of 1967</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the left are John (my brother) and I sitting on the balance beams.</div>
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Clearly we shared this one!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Into a Different World</b></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The weir stream above
King's lock had been a favourite tie up spot, more often than not for
lunch, but I do remember stopping overnight there a couple of times.
It sticks in my memory in particular as being the site of the only
tree in the world that I have ever been able to climb. The main
reason for this was that it came out of the ground at a sufficiently
shallow angle for me to walk along the trunk until it split into a V,
which made a rather pleasant place to sit. On this occasion though
we went past it and onto the Oxford canal via Duke's cut. I have
mentioned in the diary that we went through Shuttleworth's lock,
which all maps and guides now refer to as Duke's Cut lock.
Bradshaw's guide of 1904 refers to it as Duke's Lock, and what is now
Duke's lock on the canal itself as Shuttleworth's, but the Shell
guide to canals from 1975 goes the other way. The lock (which I
choose to remember as Shuttleworth's, and I think had a BWB sign to
declare it as such) was situated under a railway bridge, had a very
shallow drop, and space for a second set of gates (these were present
in 1904 according to Bradshaw's) so that it would have been able to
work both ways. The paddle gear is noted as being quite unique.
It was a sizeable chunk of cast iron with a fully enclosed mechanism
which, because of the shallowness of the lock and the low gearing,
was very easy to operate. Looking on the internet, there are still
several photos showing the thing still in place and (hopefully) in
use. It looked like it has been there since the lock was originally
built, and it would be a shame to see it removed to a museum.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My first impression of
the canals was one of complete contrast to the Thames, which, even at
King's lock, was still quite wide by comparison. In 1967 canals
were still a very undervalued amenity and one which, in my view, the
government of the time would quite happily have liked to forget
about. The Oxford Canal was narrow, quite shallow, and not in the
best of condition. I remember walking along the towpath after
Duke's lock, and it was at best narrow, and in parts almost non
existent. Anyone trying to tow a horse drawn narrowboat would have
needed an very emaciated animal for it to balance. I loved the age
of things that made them almost timeless, and it was hard for me as a
ten year old to think that it had all been dug out by men with picks
and shovels and was as artificial as a road. Later on, when I read
the stories of other canals, I realised how they were as much of a
modernisation as HS2 is now. I can remember explaining the basic
simplicity of it all to my children when they were young. A horse
could pull a relatively small cart over the rough mud roads of the
time, or the same animal could pull a narrowboat laden with 25 tons
with rather less effort.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We stopped for the
night at Dukes Lock (on the canal proper) and didn't leave until
midday the following day, when we stopped just below Northbrook lock.
I made several notes of water voles crossing the canal in front of
us, and one of passing so close to a moorhen's nest in the prolific
reeds that the clucth of eggs was clearly on view. It still
confuses me slightly that a watercourse seeming so natural was
man-made.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On our first full day
of canal travel we also encountered an Oxford canal curiosity, this
being the drawbridge. In an effort to save money (probably) a there
were a lot of these wooden structures which lifted by means of two
balance beams that stuck up ad 45 degrees and which pivoted by means
of two short cast iron gear tracks with corresponding geared sectors
on the bridge deck. They were fun to open, and I used to enjoy
jumping to grab the chain that dangled just out of reach, and hanging
from it to allow my bodyweight to do the lifting. Once open, you
sat on the beam, or the bridge would close again. The enjoyment of
bridge opening was shared by my brother, and a system of taking turns
was soon instigated by Mum and Dad.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My brother and I got
on reasonably well most of the time, and he, being two years older,
was allowed to help Dad operate the stiff paddle gear. I was told I
might get a hernia if I tried. That may well have been something to
fear if I'd actually known what one was. More effective in
preventing my brother and I doing dangerous things was Dad telling us
that we'd bust our gazoynk if we did. Neither of us knew what one
of them was either, but it sounded like something we didn't want to
risk breaking.<br />
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
Top photo is Mum and Dad crewing Lady Jena through a lock</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
Bottom one is the long since demolished Shipton Weir Lock house. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Weed, Deserted buildings and Superslosh</b> </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following day it
looks like we had our first encounter with what was a perennial
problem on the canals, water weed and other debris fouling the
propeller. Most purpose built narrowboat style cruisers have a
small hatch somewhere that you can access the prop from inside the
boat, but Lady Jena being a small cabin cruiser did not have this
feature so, when our progress was halted by a fouled prop, we had to
tie up at the side of the canal at an odd angle so that Dad could
reach under the back of the boat to disentangle things. The process
was repeated several times throughout our week on the Oxford Canal,
and Dad became quite skilled at removing pretty much anything.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually, after the
sinking I referred to earlier in the blog, Lady Jena was converted to
outboard power, which allowed obstructions to be removed by tipping
the prop out of the water. I remember the first outboard being
delivered to our home where it sat in the hallway until the boat was
ready to receive it. The device, an “Ocean 4 plus,” boasted a
host of features in the publicity material. It was made in England,
had a full forward-neutral-reverse gear-shift, a four stroke power
unit, came with an alternator built in, remote controls and the
option of an electric starter (we didn't pay the extra so ours had
the pull cord). This all came for less cost than a very basic
American motor, and didn't it show! When it arrived we should have
realised that it wasn't quite as good quality as advertised, but,
we'd paid for it and it was guaranteed. The box of accessories that
came had the remote fuel tank, which was a round can similar to those
that contained bulk cooking oil, onto which a nozzle and clear
plastic tube had been pushed. The other end was a push fit to the
fuel pump. The charge regulator was a couple of cheap looking
electronic components and a sheet of aluminium for a heat sink.
Once on the boat, the motor was extremely noisy and rather
underpowered. The gearbox made an alarming crunching sound when
either forward or reverse were being engaged, and the control cables
kept on flying off, leaving us stuck in gear or unable to select one.
Once on the canal we found another annoyance, this being that the
prop moved forwards and back as the gears were selected, meaning that
when in reverse there was a cavity behind it that had a habit of
packing itself with water weed and any other debris preventing you
from disengaging the gear until the cavity had been cleaned out. By
that time we'd also found that the fuel pump had a habit of sucking
so much air in that we had to hang the tank higher than the outboard
and let gravity take charge. Then the whole thing seized up about
two miles from Kidlington, never to run again. Thankfully it was
under warranty and we insisted on getting our money back which we
spent on a “Last years model” Mercury 3.9 outboard which was a
little gem of a machine. It was quiet, reliable, powerful (for its
size) and had the added feature of a weed free prop which did exactly
as quoted. I later used my memory of this motor as the power unit
of Mayfly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back on the canal in
1967, it still surprises me that canal-side houses, particularly
those on the sides of locks, were in such a poor state. The house
at Shipton Weir Lock was empty, with holes in the roof, and another
at Hardwick lock was no more than a shell. Both of these are long
gone, though others such as Kings Sutton and Nell Bridge are now
highly sought after homes. I remember having something of a soft
spot at the time for the house at Shipton Weir, and was shocked a
year or two later to find that it had been demolished.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The canal was also
ignored largely through Banbury, where we stopped to do some
shopping. The town itself was quite pretty, though somewhat
rubbished in LTC Rolt's account, and we enjoyed wandering around
being typical tourists. When my Dad told one of the sales people
that we'd come by canal, he was pretty surprised to find that,
despite only being a few hundred yards from it, the person was
completely unaware of its existence.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We tied up for the
night, according to my account, at the bottom of the Claydon Flight
of locks, ready to cross the winding ten mile summit pound the next
day. Our evening meal may well have been a favourite concoction
which we'd christened “Superslosh.” Given that we had a single
burner spirit stove, most of our meals were of the one pot variety,
and Superslosh was one of these. It was typical camp-site fare
comprising of just about anything we could tip from a can or dried
pack into the camping pan, the handle for which we'd left at home.
The result was interesting, and I am still alive, so probably not
poisonous. In lieu of a handle Dad substituted a pair of spring
loaded “Mole” grips which on more than one occasion released
themselves, and in so doing, landed in the meal we were cooking.
Undaunted, we simply called it “Mole wrench flavour Superslosh,”
and ate it anyway. As I said, I'm still alive.<br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The tunnel that isn't.<br />
This is one of Dad's photos of Fenny Compton "Tunnel"<br />
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This is one of my photos (from the time) of the old<br />
Engine house arm close to where we moored at Napton<br />
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And here is Mum with some vital supplies and a hopeful<br />
looking farm dog.<br />
<br />
<b>To Napton on the Hill.</b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>
</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
It took around an hour
the following morning to ascend the flight of five locks, and then we
were on the ten mile summit pound. The Oxford canal being built to
follow contours in the landscape, in order to avoid major engineering
works wherever possible, winds around and can often take several
miles to cover no more then two or three. This makes it
picturesque to the tourist, but I must have been something of a
nightmare to working boaters. The pound, as I remember it, seemed
to go on forever, and there was a certain bleakness to it despite it
being in rural Oxfordshire. It seemed to avoid habitation, the only
major feature being the tunnel that is nothing of the sort at Fenny
Compton. Fenny Compton tunnel was never far beneath the surface
and, more than 90 years before our holiday, had been opened out into
a cutting. Presumably this was to avoid roof falls and make it
easier for boaters to get through. The canal kept to the width of
the original tunnel and had the luxury of a towpath, which at the
time of our holiday was just a little bit overgrown. With a length
of around two thirds of a mile, it seemed yet again like another
world, with banks so close that you could, at a stretch, have touched
either side. It says in my diary that I saw a yellowhammer
fluttering in the bushes, but I never had any recollection of it at
the time, and was probably told it was there as something to put in
the book to flesh it out. What I do remember is one of the hazards
that we often encountered. The 70 foot ex work-boat hired out to a
pack of Boy Scouts. The Willow Wren Canal Carrying Company, were
making the transition between cargo carrying and holiday hire with
such success that they are still in existence now. They had several
ex work-boats and hired them as “Camping craft” usually, because
of their size, to youth groups. Under the control of a good group,
these were a pleasant sight, but every now and then, you would come
upon the Scout Master who would declare that “Everything is under
control” usually before hitting a bridge or running aground. Of
course, we met one coming in the opposite direction in the infamous
tunnel. It almost seemed to have a homing device targeted on our
little plywood cabin cruiser, and could easily have sunk us had any
heavy contact been made. Thankfully, it missed, the Scout Master or
Akela waving pleasantly to my dad, who was furious at having had to
take refuge by running into the shallows and getting weed on the
propeller in the process.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
After some more time,
we got to the other end and the Napton flight of locks. There was a
good mooring near a farm a couple of locks up the flight, and this is
where we decided to spend the night, buying some ready made food from
the nearby farm shop. The mooring became a favourite with us and
other boats, and canal related business at the farm has grown over
the years. Napton was the limit of our first sortie onto the canal
system and, the following day, we completed the flight, going on to
Napton junction, where we turned and came back to the same mooring as
the previous day.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
The sixties were still
a time where holiday souvenirs were something of a boom industry,
usually consisting of small, mass produced, pottery items with with
whatever town they were being sold in printed on the base. As a
family on holiday, near a souvenir shop, we, of course, entered into
the spirit of things. I remember getting a “Wade” pottery
narrowboat, in a dull red/brown colour, and my brother getting the
same in a dullish olive green, as well as a couple of canal related
books. When it was time to pack things away, (for some reason, Mum
always insisted that souvenirs were packed up, to be reopened on our
return home) there was something of an altercation between my brother
and me about whose boat was which. It was easy so far as I was
concerned. Mine was the brown one. I didn't know at the time that
my brother had inherited the colour blindness gene from my maternal
grandfather and saw both boats as pretty much the same colour. Mum
eventually sorted things by repeatedly showing each boat until John
was sure which was his. Thankfully he picked the green one each
time and a very uneasy truce was achieved. This at least answered
the aged question as to why he thought my painting of our previous
pet hamster (Butch), which was put up on my classroom wall, was
green. I thought he was simply jealous, and my pride was duly
injured as this was one of the few paintings of mine that was deemed
good enough for the honour of a public display. The uneasy truce of
the evening in Napton was eventually overcome by what seemed the
mother of all thunderstorms. It was pretty late, and John and I had
argued over just about everything you could think of to argue about
(and a good few wildcards that nobody would have come up with). The
first flash was met with stony silence, and when it was followed by a
few more, and what sounded like rather a lot of TNT being detonated
close by that I heard
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
“Michael, are you
O.K?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
John knew that I hated
thunderstorms, and, as is the duty of elder brother, was big enough
to set the arguments of the day aside. We ended up in a bit of an
impromptu sing song, with brief intermissions as we pushed toilet
paper into the various leaks that the pelting rain had found in the
plywood cabin. Needless to say that for the next few days at least,
John and I were the best of friends again.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Heading back</b> </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having gone as far as
we could on the Oxford canal in the allotted time, we set off back
the way we had come, after spending a day at Napton. It's one of my
memories of the river and canal holidays that we rarely strayed from
the immediate area of whichever waterway we were on, despite there
often being things worth seeing in the area. We'd visit the towns
along the way when we needed provisions, but never really did the
tourist thing. I have absolutely no idea as to whether this was
normal practice or not, though I have to say that I did find the
whole process of moving on the water so thoroughly absorbing at the
time that I neither minded nor noticed much. I liked the sound of
the motor (when it chose to run reliably) and watching the scenery
slowly roll by. I also fond the paddle gear on the locks quite
fascinating though, yet again, I don't seem to have mentioned it in
the 1967 diary. The Oxford canal had quite a selection ranging from
the basic rack and pinion, which was stiff and lumpy to operate, to
the more common type of gearing which, though still basic, had two
rows of gear teeth on the rack, offset so that a gap in one side
corresponded with a tooth in the other. These were still still
stiff, but at least they ran a bit smoother. There were also some
that employed reduction gears, some of which were quite intricate
and, if well greased, a lot easier to work. On a later trip we
found that some of the antique paddle gear had been replaced by a
windlass operated hydraulic system which was appalling. It was
still quite stiff, looked ugly (not having the timeless simplicity of
the cast iron gearing) and, worse than that, would not allow the
paddles to be closed by gravity in case of an emergency. Instead
had to be wound back down, which was about as stiff and long winded
as winding them up thus giving any unfortunate that fell into an
emptying or filling lock a good deal more time to drown. Of course
“crashing” of the paddle gear had always been regarded as a
cardinal sin as it could damage the gearing, but in an emergency, a
split second could save a life. On my first encounter with the
hydraulic system I thought of the wide locks on the Grand Union canal
which employed an enclosed gearing system that used a screw thread
and bevel gear. Though the locks were larger, the paddles were easy
to work, and could be released to let gravity do its job in an
emergency. They'd even been fitted with rubber bump stops to
prevent damage. All of this was done when the refurbishment of the
canal took place in the thirties! There's progress for you!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The return run was
pretty much the reverse of the trip up the canal, with the odd
observation on birds and other wildlife that I may or may not have
seen added to the diary. Cropredy sticks out in my mind as a
favourite place, and features (though not by name) in my fictional
writings. I remember that on the way up, Dad went off to the Red
Lion to book a table in their restaurant. Mum and Dad's wedding
anniversary fell during the holiday, and we were to celebrate with a
family meal there. I'm not absolutely sure how, but, Dad managed to
get permission for John and I to be allowed into the restaurant
(which was definitely not child friendly). After some persuasion
John, who had said he did not want to go, changed his mind, and we
headed off at the allotted time for our meal. I was fascinated by
the place, as I was by any new environment, in particular as to how
the coffee maker worked. I have no idea why it took my interest,
but spent a lot of time during the meal looking at the thing and
trying to work out how the person in charge of it was making it work.
The meal itself was one that I wouldn't enjoy now (as a vegetarian
of over nearly 40 years). The starter was either a prawn cocktail
or smoked salmon. It was that distinguished in flavour that I
really can't remember which I ended up with. Then there was the
main meal which was a steak. I'd never had steak in a restaurant
before so I had little to compare it with. Thinking back I could
have exchanged the thing with the souls of my shoes (which were made
of vulcanised rubber) and there probably would have been no
perceptible difference. It was hard to cut, and almost impossible
to chew, but I got through it on the promise of Black Forest Gateau
for dessert. That I could eat, and (showing my age) still quite
like the idea of. Maybe the experience of the steak on my
impressionable mind set me off in the direction of vegetarianism, but
it would be a good few years before that happened.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whilst at Cropredy,
Dad took an interest in the church there, with its rather annoying
chiming clock, and the tradition of tolling a bell at certain times
in memory of some unfortunate soul that got lost in the fields a
couple or so centuries back. The vicar there was an interesting
character and clearly quite happy that someone had taken an interest
in the place. He showed us all round, even allowing us up the badly
worn stone spiral staircase into the bell tower and onto the roof.
Dad had it in mind to write a travelogue beginning with this holiday,
and I still have some of his writing, though he never got anywhere
near completion with it. At some point I will add his writings here
in another post.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Along the Thames</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next couple of days
were spent on the slow return to the river, the only minor
interruption being some maintenance work that the BWB were carrying
out on the lock at Banbury. The repair was presumably something to
do with paddle gear as we were not held up. All the locks on the
Oxford Canal have two sets of paddles either end and it would appear
that we were allowed to go through, despite the repair not being
complete, using just the one. Kings Sutton lock was our stopping
point for the night. As I have already mentioned, the lock cottages
of the Oxford (an many other canals) were not as valued as they are
today. Having looked on Google, I find the property and those
similar to it worth a cool half million. Kings Sutton was occupied,
but, as I remember, was off the national grid, and its owner had a
generator in one of the outbuildings powered by the engine out of an
old Ford Cortina. The building is now grade 2 listed, which is a
good thing, but I do feel sad for those houses (particularly the
rather pretty bungalow at Shipton Weir) that didn't make it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following day the
weather turned to a mix of sun and very heavy showers, necessitating
us running with the hood up. When we bought her, Lady Jena had a
“Sports car” style windscreen and a plastic coated canvas cover
that normally sat folded around the back deck of the boat. Onto
this were clip on side-screens of the same type of fabric. It was
relatively good at keeping the water out, and there was a reasonable
amount of visibility provided by the plastic windows. It did make
the boat rather prone to side-winds though, and it was during a
squally and very heavy thunderstorm, that the boat was shifted a few
inches sideways and caught a bridge with the top of the hood. The
bridge won, and we got through to the other side with a good sized
rip in one of the seams. Undaunted by the thunder, Mum set about
sewing the cover back together as we continued on our way. As she'd
expected at some point to be patching either John's or my clothes and
not a canvas cover, the sewing needles were better suited to this
sort of repair, and the thread was standard “Sylko” from the
local shop. With a good few flashes of lightning, and an even
better soaking from the rain Mum continued to stitch and re-stitch
the seam until it was more or less waterproof again. I can't
remember any other repair work being done on it, until the fabric
eventually wore out and the assembly was replaced by a fixed cover.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Lechlade was easily
within a day's run from Kiddlington, where we'd tied up after a
couple of days of non-eventful cruising. Throughout the days on the
canal I'd had mixed feelings about it, and canals in general. The
Oxford must have worked its magic as, 48 years later, I'm enjoying
re-living the holiday though this blog. All things come to an end
though, and we were soon back on the more familiar territory of the
upper reaches of the Thames. Lady Jena being a lightweight and
small craft drew very little water, and was not as likely to fall
foul of the shoals that existed on the meanders of the river. Hire
cruisers however, were built more for luxury interiors which required
a rather larger hull. It wasn't uncommon to see one of these stuck
firmly on the mud, employing any tactic possible to get back off it
again. Most had taken the bends too fast and tight, resulting in
their grounding with some force. In some cases they crew decided to
push the motor to its limit and plough their way through, whilst
others pushed the same power into reverse to dislodge themselves.
Eventually they would work themselves free and be seen coming in to
moor at the meadow near Halfpenny bridge shortly after the last
manned operation of St. John's lock. It was at this lock that dad
had the misfortune of landing himself in the water. Thames locks
all have flights of steps cut into the side, and Dad had been
stepping off onto one of these when he lost his footing. It was all
over quite quickly and, as I'd been looking at Canada geese on the
other side of the lock, I managed to miss it, thinking that the
boathook or some other item had gone into the water. Dad was none
the worse for the incident, and, once in a clean and dry set of
clothes, was happy to make a joke of the whole thing.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The beautiful little cafe in Lechlade, now long gone where we were regular customers over the years.</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>We never went to the source of the Thames, but here is my Uncle sitting in it.</b></div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Here is the entrance to the Thames and Severn blown up from a photo I took.</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<b>Into the Unknown... Again</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just below Halfpenny
bridge, which is the official limit of navigation on the Thames, is a
large meadow with free moorings. This has been the goal of holiday
makers on the river for many years, and we had visited the place
since our first river holiday in 1964. Though larger than most,
Lechlade still retained a lot of the charm of many Cotswold stone
villages and, at that time, had not yet succumbed to commuters and
holiday home buyers pushing property prices beyond the reach of the
locals. There were several shops we returned to, all of which have
long since changed ownership. The Black Cat as I remember was a
shop where you could buy just about anything, including souvenirs,
toys and some groceries. The name still exists today but it is now
a well presented tea room. Another place for souvenir buying was
the Studio Pottery, who sold some ceramics that looked (but were not)
locally made, along with transfer printed wares by Wade and other
mass manufacturers. They also did some of their own work, but this
I would guess, was too expensive for us. Of the many souvenirs
bought over the years, I still have an egg cup with a transfer of
Halfpenny bridge which I think I bought on our first visit in 1964.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When in Lechlade we
invariably had lunch in the town at a beautiful old café run by two
old gentlemen who looked well beyond retirement age even on our first
visit. The place had a simple frontage bearing the name A. Smith.
The proprietors were two of the most pleasant and helpful people you
could wish to meet, and spoke in the local accent as they took our
orders for roast beef or whatever we had chosen onto small pads.
The food was always well cooked, and clearly (thinking of our limited
funds) inexpensive. When I returned to the town in my own boat in
the mid seventies, the café was already long gone and is now, having
traced it on Google Maps, a well respected Indian Restaurant. One
thing I will always remember was a framed sign with the letters
“YCWCYTFTB” written in faded gold on a dark ground. John and I
had wondered for a few holidays what the sign meant, and eventually
one of us asked. One of the gentlemen smiled and, with a glint in
his eye said “Your curiosity will cost you thruppence for the
blind.” Given that we'd all been wondering, it was deemed well
worth the shilling we paid for the information. I'd like to think
that the old sign has managed to survive, but I rather doubt it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Beyond the head of
navigation lies the junction with the long abandoned Thames and
Severn Canal. Given the history, and that our funds must have still
been buoyant, dad decided to hire a small motor boat the next day so
that we could go a bit further up the river and see the canal
entrance, and the associated roundhouse. Park End Wharf, which was
just over Halfpenny bridge (both of which have strong connections
with the canal) hired glass fibre dinghies fitted with 1½ hp Stuart
Turner motors, and it was in one of these that we set off exploring
the upper reaches, going just beyond the canal junction. I took a
few photos and was rather disappointed when they came out that the
roundhouse didn't show up too well. These days I could have zoomed
in on it but the simple 120 format camera I had was devoid of just
about any feature beyond the shutter button. The experience stayed
in my mind though, and started what is an on-and-off lifelong
interest in disused waterways.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After several visits
to the town, and many hours of playing in the meadows and flying the
“Kiel Kraft” rubber band powered balsa aeroplanes we'd bought
from the Black Cat, it was eventually time to head back down river.
Lechlade (although now not the target for our holiday) was still, in
my mind, a turning point and meant that the holiday would soon be
over. Although I didn't know it, it was also the last time we went
there as a family on a boating holiday. I have been there twice
since, the first time was on my boat, Bee 1 (the boat which Mayfly is
based on) and the second in 1988 on a camping holiday with Janice.
The place still had a charm then and, if Google street view isn't
telling lies, is well worth a visit today.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The air of anticlimax
was more apparent on the day we actually turned to set off back down
the river. Though we were still in the lovely meandering top
section, we also knew that, in less than a week we'd be back home,
and then soon afterwards it would be back to school. Then the “Back
to school” offers didn't appear in the shops until the last couple
of weeks of the summer holidays. These days such pointers can be
largely ignored because many offers actually start before the summer
holiday begins. The next school year for me, of course, would have
the dreaded eleven plus exam. It was still a distance away though
and, by the time we'd paused for lunch at Radcot, the enjoyment of
being on holiday had more or less fully returned. Radcot bridge,
which seemed to be very narrow and low on the way up the river, now
seemed to be an outsize copy of the little hump backed bridges on the
Oxford canal. The afternoon run took us back to the mooring behind
King's lock and the much loved tree. This time I was able to enjoy
climbing the thing, which I generally did by walking along the
shallow slope of the trunk. On John's suggestion that I should be a
little bit more adventurous and climb properly by adopting more of a
crawling stance to get further up the tree, I decided to have a go.
About thirty seconds later I lost my footing and fell out of the
thing, landing on my back and winding myself by way of reward. I
can't remember there being much by way of worry about this and I was
soon back up, sitting in the forked branches nursing no more than a
graze and a couple of decent bruises.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next day took us
down to Abingdon, where there was some sort of problem with the lock
gates. It must have been in some way serious as it warranted a
diver to be called, complete with film-set style round brass
port-holed helmet. Along with several other people, I took a photo
of the event, but just one as I was slowly running out of the second
roll of film I'd got for the holiday. It seems strange in the days
of digital imaging that you'd record a whole 3 week trip using just
24 shots. The Ilford camera I had used 120 format film, as did a
lot of point and shoot cameras in the days when the cassette loading
“Instamatic” was beginning to take hold. A lot of Dad's photos
were taken on 35mm, but even he limited himself to just one 36 shot
roll. Mum did her bit of recording, and I still have several reels
of rather grainy standard 8 cine which she shot on a Bolex wind up
camera. By contrast, on one of our more recent family holidays, my
son shot well over 100 photos in a day. Given that we were in no
particular hurry, we moored for the night at another favourite spot
near Abingdon Bridge, going up to the town to replenish such supplies
as we needed for the next couple of days.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The day after is the
only one where I recorded an engine breakdown which, as I have
already mentioned, wasn't uncommon with the Albin. The motor failed
at Shiplake lock. As I remember, there had been a queue for the
lock so we'd tied up at the bollards provided for the purpose and
stopped the engine, which then flatly refused to start. The magneto
was taken apart and cleaned and Dad tested it by turning the starting
handle with both ignition leads disconnected, so that he could pull a
spark from the lead ends to the engine block. Next in line was the
carburettor, a brass thing made by Solex. It was easy to dismantle
(if you were Dad) and soon it was in pieces as he set about cleaning
it, a process which filled the boat with a heady aroma of switch
cleaner and petrol. Both Mum and Dad were quite heavy smokers but I
think they must have abstained during this process, though I wouldn't
actually put money on it. Eventually a tiny orange fragment of some
fabric, or other material was found to be blocking the jet. The
colour made it difficult to see against the brass but, once removed
and with the carburettor reassembled, a couple of attempts at
starting saw us on out way again.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We continued to Henley
on Thames, which was a rather grander place than we normally stopped
at. I never really thought of it as grand at the time, but I was
only ten, and things do look different at that age. At the mooring
site, we met some people who were members of “The Small Boat Club”
which was, and still is, based at Stephen's Eyot (which now seems to
be Stevens Ait) a club which Dad joined on buying Lady Jena. We
remained members for a few years until the Kingston Power Station
Sports and Social Club formed their own boat club and we relocated
from Thames Ditton Marina to the free moorings provided in the
disused barge house at the power station. The idea of getting
further than our usual mooring at Caversham was to allow us a
leisurely run back home, though I do wonder if, with the engine
running well again, whether we took the chance of pushing on as far
as we could in case of further breakdowns along the way.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The run from
Henley-on-Thames to Cookham was not eventful and, given that I noted
a very early arrival, the engine must have run smoothly after the
failure of the previous day. Cookham is another place with a good
(and very popular) mooring spot alongside a meadow with quite a high
bank. It was a bit of a climb out of the boat but there was plenty
of space for my brother and I to enjoy a kickabout with a football.
One of the other boats had brought a rather large dog with them, but
the animal (a brown Chow) was more than amiable, and liked attention
from anybody that would give it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cookham was the last
stop that had a true holiday atmosphere, as the next night time stop
at Runnymede was only a relatively short run away from home. The
weather seemed to know things were winding up and rain persisted,
giving Dad a notable soaking when we moored for the evening. The
site wasn't noisy but was far from ideal too. I remember there
being some wooden railings that we were able to tie up to which,
though saving the necessity of banging mooring stakes into the
ground, made the end of the holiday seem a little more real by its
underlining that Dad had already hammered the things in for the last
time that holiday when we were at Cookham the night before. Because
of the weather we stayed aboard for the evening in the rather
confined space afforded by a 16 foot boat containing a family of
four.</div>
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After a reasonably
early start (probably up at 8.00 A.M. To set off at 9.00) we set off
to catch the first lock of the day. The motor again seemed to
behave itself, and our progress was pretty much as planned, covering
what was now increasingly home territory. However much you tried to
think you were still on holiday, you knew you weren't really any
more. By about midday we turned into the gated gap in the
embankment, with its flimsy looking bridge, that is the entrance to
Thames Ditton Marina where we had lunch before starting the task of
getting everything from the boat back into the car and then returning
home with it all. At the time Dad had a yellow Triumph Herald with
a distinctive black stripe running from headlamp to tail along each
side. Having been left for the holiday it was a little reluctant to
start, but did so. On another holiday where we used the battery
aboard, given that the new “Ocean 4 plus” outboard motor had a
generator which would keep it topped up whilst it provided us with a
power source for lighting, it took well over two hours to start the
car. Like most things about the outboard, the generator didn't
actually work. We found this the hard way shortly after the motor
had seized up at Kidlington on the Oxford Canal. That evening the
battery (which should have been receiving a charge for the better
part of a week) went totally flat, and remained that way for the rest
of the holiday. We probably could have found a garage to charge it,
but we were on holiday and didn't really want to waste the time. To
be honest, I don't really know why the thing wasn't charged, but the
result was several futile attempts at bump and tow starting the
Triumph, all to no avail. The car did eventually go though, but how
that was achieved I'm not sure. I do remember the holiday mood was
rather stifled by the time it did. In 1967 though, it all fared a
bit better and we were all too soon on our way back to Chessington
and our home on Chantry Road. The diary doesn't mention picking my
Granny up from Surbiton on the way, which points to her having gone
to stay in Caversham after Uncle John's bout of chickenpox. Though
she was based in Chessington, Granny would spend several months of
the year at Caversham, bringing back stories of the places she'd been
and instilling a mild bout of sibling rivalry in Mum.</div>
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On arrival home it took
some time to get used to the sound of the house which, though not
big, always seemed to have acquired something of an echo. The
familiar home smell was reassuring, as was the comfort of a proper
bed, and a real fully functional toilet. After the first unpacking
there were the souvenirs, and a chip supper to look forward to. As
mentioned earlier, Mum always insisted that these be packed away soon
after purchase, meaning that, by the time we'd got home we'd mostly
forgotten what we'd bought. Mugs with “Lechlade on Thames”
written on them Pennants from Abingdon and Windsor all got unpacked,
to be placed around the house, with some being set aside as gifts for
Granny and other relatives. Most of these things have disappeared
over the years, but I still have a few that I bought and which have
survived from that first introduction to the canals.</div>
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That's about it. 1967
is noted by most as being the “Summer of Love” which, at ten
years old, did rather pass me by. Of course there were a few oddly
dressed people around and there was some interesting music to be
listened to on Radio Luxembourg which would turn us into drug addicts
and delinquents (or so we were told) but for me it was the summer
that I was introduced to, and fell in love with, the canal system of
this country. Digging the diary up has made me realise quite what
an effect that year had on me and, without being able to escape there
in my mind, my final year in primary school would have been a good
deal more horrible that it was. Thankfully the T.V. Series “The
Flower of Gloster” was broadcast to serve as a reminder that the
canals existed, and in my imagination I made stories up based around
the waterways, though I rarely wrote anything down. It seems
logical to me that the slow fermentation of some of these stories is
what brought “Mayfly” into my mind.</div>
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