Inside the Sardine Can

Firstly, dear readers, I must inform you that unbeknownst to me MN (keep up, check earlier blogs if you've forgotten this acronym) had discovered my blog and was following it. As the owner of the magnificent Fandango and a keen narrow boater I had not chosen to tell him of its existence as I was not sure how he would take my sceptical view of this particular pastime. Oh embarrassment. 

But it turns out he's enjoying the blog and was even kind enough to be the one who responded to my request in The Art of the Lock Flight for an answer to the question why one end of a lock has two gates and the other one. Well, being the MN he had the answer and thanks to Nick I will educate you further.  

Its all vey sensible and logical of course. The reason you have one gate at the top and two at the bottom is weight. The bottom gate of a lock is a much deeper gate and therefore its easier to operate if you install two smaller gates rather than a single large one. Simples.

We are now approaching the end of week three here on Fandango. "Oh god, I can't believe its flying by so quickly" says the captain at this piece of information. I decide to keep my counsel and not to share my newly installed countdown clock on my smartphone.  Smarthusband I say. 

With this amount of sea hours under my belt I think I have enough experience to briefly enlighten you on what it is actually like for a grown man to spend his life aboard and how you have to adapt. You'll recall my earlier fears about being 6'2" in such a confined space and developing the permanent disfigurement of a tilt of the head as I bent to negotiate the low lying roof and doorways. Well I'm delighted to report that good old Fandango has enough head clearance for me to generally nip about the cabin without fear of concussion.  The only exceptions are the rather smart wooden ceiling detail to the "double" bed and the low knees-bent-crawl you have to make over the engine enclosure popping up after the sliding hatch in order to exit the rear of the boat to the steering platform. 

Best to describe the bedroom obstacle as a sort of mock four poster bed where the upper rail that would have held the curtain is attached to the roof of the cabin and has a stylish but low lying carved detail at its corner ideally situated to make contact with my head if I am hurrying about my first mate duties. Its fairly typical that I will have whacked my head on this lovely feature and proceed up over the engine in a bit of a blue daze only to make secondary contact of said head with the hatch. 

Should be wearing that crash hat WHs.

The other means of movement about the boat I've had to develop is the one required to navigate down the narrow side corridor past the bathroom and into the bedroom. I have been describing this as my crabbing motion but I was surprised and delighted to learn in a conversation with a live aboard worker at the Anglo Welsh yard that there is in fact a proper officianado term - the narrow boat shuffle! So it's not just me. Not sure if that's reassuring or not....

I'll not dwell on the bathroom for although it is small (can't be anything but really - it's a narrow boat!) I just about manage. It is a bit of challenge to shave as you need to get the angle of your torso just right down the side of the cabin so you can see clearly in the mirror and my head does make contact with the roof when showering, but hey, that motor sure heats the hot water and the shower is wonderfully powerful so I'm not complaining. 

We are into the routine now of preparing and dismantling Ros' bed morning and night and sit comfortably round the dinette table for our meals (when not at the pub...).  Otherwise, the two of us manage quite amiably to share our restricted space apart from occasionally tripping over the dog who insists on lying in that wretched corridor and in front of our best friend, Morso. 

We sit in parallel in our comfy chairs of an evening looking up from below the waterline through the window opposite at the trees and sky and of the feet and legs of walkers reading, listening to music, blogging and occasionally watching TV if we can get a signal.  

Pretty much like at home don't you think? (Apart from those feet in your window of course).

Is a Dawning Appreciation Ruined?

Dare I say it, but the day following our exertions on the Tardebigge flight I awoke fresh and surprisingly rested and feeling rather positive about this experience of ours. I was sure my poor old body would be complaining loudly but much to my amazement all I had a was a little stiffness. So I began the day with a very rosey outlook and was pleased to see sunshine and blue skies. Ah, narrow boating....

After a short motor we moored alongside bridge 38 and prepared to head off across the fields to our next cultural experience, the National Trust property at Hanbury Hall. Settling Phoebe in her dog cage (she has accepted gracefully the necessity of snuggling down in this when we go on short trips sans chien) we followed the footpath across pastures and fields to the hall just under a mile from the canal. The weather was spring like, fresh and clear with larks singing and even a courteous farmer who had left a beaten track for the footpath through the middle of this ploughed field to the boundary of the Trust property. Take note farmers.

We caused some confusion to the poor volunteers arriving as we did from the canal as this meant we had bypassed the entrance which was down a drive at the opposite end of the grounds. I was not so sure my sense of well being that morning was as apparent to the driver of the electric golf cart as it had been to me when he offered to take us back to the main entrance to obtain our tickets. I felt it impolite not to accept so I rode in silent style while my younger wife walked.  OAP she shouted - you too I replied!

We had booked a guided tour of the property before it opened and thoroughly enjoyed a rather tongue in cheek introduction to the house and its family, the Vernons, from a rather eccentric lanky gentleman of a certain aged dressed in slightly tired tweed. Some of these volunteers really are caricatures of an Evelyn Waugh novel and just fit the house so well.  He managed to add some colour to the story of what was essentially a rather boring rich family - they'd been mostly barristers and lawyers so that says it all. But they had built a fine "small" country house in 1701 in the style of William and Mary and had fortunately not had the imagination or gumption to change much in the ensuing 300 years so it was quite special.  

Quick cup of coffee - lovely, a cappuccino at last - and back to the boat and an excited Phoebe. She really does go ape whenever you return be it after ten minutes or two hours as she tears between Ros and I toy in mouth. And so onward to Worcester. 

Our destination was the Diglis Basin just before you lock down to the River Severn. A "definite destination" this as the captain was absolutely convinced we needed a pump out (now there's a couple of words to conjure the joys of narrow boating) and the spreadsheet said this was a perfect spot just before the river and ideal for seeing Worcester.  It was quite a trek to get there testing my enthusiasm for long days locking here and there but we made it around 4.30 and moored alongside the British Waterways (yet to be rebranded as the Canal and River Trust, its successor) pump out station.  

A DIY version, we unlocked the unfamiliar room with our special key and studied the instructions. Forced to use our Sherlock Holmes skills we deduced where to purchase the necessary "service payment units" (no help in the instructions for us pump out virgins) and began the procedure. Unravel the long and weighty pipe, unscrew the correct cap on the gunnels, plug in heavy duty pipe socket and press button. Much rumbling and sucking noises followed but without that glorious addition, the inspection window, we had no idea whether it was working or not. Well, as you may have by now suspected, when we looked down the toilet in the boat not much had happened. 

We returned to our "service payment units" vendor who rather glibly informed us that the machine was frequently not working so he wasn't surprised. Call the Trust he advised. So we phoned the help line and were somewhat surprised to be answered by a charming young woman who put us through to the local office where we encountered - yes, the inevitable an answer phone. So near yet so far we thought. 

The captain was quickly into her guides and spreadsheets and noted that a private marina 2 miles back had pump out facilities. A quick call and yes, they would do a pump out but not till the morrow.  As we ended the call the phone rang and it was the local rep of the Trust. An operative was on his way we were told and would be with us within 15 minutes. If he couldn't get it to work he'd do a manual pump out (??) we were informed. 

Wow. What impressive service we thought, and so late in the day. 

But as the time ticked by and 15 minutes became 45 we began to despair.  Then the said operative arrived in his smart branded Canal Trust polo shirt, opened the rear of the malfunctioning pump out station, huffed a bit, switched everything off, and informed us he'd no idea why he'd been sent as there was nothing he could do.  He then disappeared for another half hour and returned with a new "service payments" card so we could enjoy another attempt at a DIY pump out elsewhere on the system. I think not. 

So after enduring a very bumpy, stormy night just down from the ill fated pump out station we did a 180 degree turn (great fun, more 23 point than 3 point turn) we returned to the Viking Boat Yard where two very nice young men did it all for us while we supped our coffee. So much better. 

Only issue was the slight surprise on their faces when they politely enquired why we had felt the need for a pump out as it was only about half full. 

Over to you captain. Any dawning going on there?

The Art of the Lock Flight

Settling down to the relative flat of the Birmingham levels we enjoyed a period of gentle cruising enabling us to do what all those tourist brochures promote when showing the delights of narrow boating - sitting at the front of the boat, cup of tea in hand absorbing the landscape or reading safe in the knowledge that the helm has everything under control. Even the weather was kind for whilst not exactly the balmy spring-like conditions we craved it was dry and comfortable enough to sit outside in a warm fleece.

We stopped off at Alvechurch, a pretty village with beautiful half timbered houses where the canal sat high above curving around its westerly boundary allowing us to look down on the red clay roof tiles and array of chimneys.  Its attractive Norman church had a very contemporary glass hall attached resembling the prow of some great 18th century tea clipper. Impressive. 

Shopping done in the trustworthy Coop we continued south to our next challenge, the Tardebigge flight of locks, 30 little beauties packed into a steep descent of only just over a mile and a half.  Such a challenge required us to be fresh and rested so we postponed the attack and decided to use the afternoon for some education. So we unloaded our bikes for the first time and cycled to the Avoncroft Museum of Buildings at Stoke Heath.  Now this meant cycling down the towpath past all 30 of the locks we were to grapple with the following day giving us a preview of delights to come.  We chatted to a father and son about half way down who had started earlier that day and noted a certain lack of spring in the young man's step.

The Avoncroft Museum was a fascinating visit with its eclectic collection of 15th and 16th century houses, farm buildings, public buildings of all kinds (toll houses, counting houses and public toilets) and the largest collection of old phone boxes in the country.  This brought back boyhood memories of the dreaded A and B buttons in the box that took your pennies (old money of course) and where when attempting to make a call you'd inevitably struggle to get the B button to engage and allow your call to proceed.  How far we've come with phones.  Kids at the museum were bemused at the sight of these red, yellow and even blue boxes that once upon a time were a vital link in our communications but really do feel part of a bygone age now we all have our mobile phones. 

The whole visit had a slightly surreal feel to it as the museum was occupied for the weekend by groups of american civil war reenactors. Trying to keep a straight face while a motley crew of "soldiers" marched past being screamed at to "left, right, left" by their temporary superior, who was clearly loving his moment of power by the way, whilst shouting in the broadest of midlands accents was not easy.  But worry not, I didn't sign up even if the shooting practice with ancient rifles looked fun.  

And so to the prime purpose of this blog. The art of the multiple lock.

Lovers of the canal system are fascinated by locks, their many varieties and evolution. I have to admit I personally find them all pretty similar - gates at either end, water goes in or out, boat goes up or down and hey presto you've solved the problem of how to move a boat on water over a change in topography without hurtling down a set of rapids at risk of life and limb.

But there's a whole history of paddle and gate design and preferred solutions that enlivens the conversation of the experts in the towpath pub of an evening into such fascinating subjects as to whether the British or the French winding system is the more efficient. Personally, I'm not too fussed as long as its not too much like hard work and the damn things do what they're supposed to. However, I must reluctantly be honest here for as this "experience" of ours progresses even I find myself noting which winding mechanism glides effortlessly up its ratchet - oh dear, is a conversion going on here or is it just a form of lock stroke?

Anyway, back to the Tardebigge. 

Up bright and early, we were relieved to find the day dry with a watery sun and little wind. The Tardebigge locks are all the same with a single gate at the upstream end and two smaller gates at the downstream end.  I've asked my resident expert why this should be so but unfortunately she doesn't know and my cursory glance at the Nicholson guide provides no answer either so I leave it to you my loyal readers (if there are any that is) to do the research and get back to me.

Of course being the Scotts we were very competitive about the perfect system for efficiently overcoming this challenge. I could bore you with details of this carefully considered solution but I don't want to lose you so early on in our adventure. Suffice it to say that after persuading my wife that it was possible and safe to step from an open gate to a closed gate without tumbling into the watery depths and thereby speed up the progression of our boat we happily shared the physical manual labour of lock operation and the more skilled touch-less entry of the boat into the lock.  

We were a team and smiles ensued.

And we did the 30 locks in three and half  hours. Not a bad effort considering every lock had been against us - of course.

Into the Dark

To give you some idea of the slowness of pace that is narrow boating let me explain to you how we solved the conundrum of getting Giles back to his car after he'd spent a morning "cruising" with us and we had travelled to just beyond Lapworth top lock.  

Well, we got onto the towpath and after a leisurely stroll of about half and hour we were magically back at Rowington. Yes, half an hour. Now that should give you a good idea of exactly how leisurely this kind of boating is and why you have to get used to watching ramblers, cyclists and even old people with walking sticks and zimmer frames speed past you as you chug along at a steady 1400 rpm. I swear we'd se more of the country if we walked for 3 months even allowing for blisters and the need for numerous rest stops. 

We next meandered across a flat landscape with no locks as we approached the southern edge of Birmingham. We were surprised to find the outer reaches of the city here bore no resemblance to our map its fields having been completely developed with hundreds of new houses many of which were clearly of the executive variety with their two cars in the driveway - the obligatory BMW 4x4 and a sleek Mercedes - and perfectly manicured gardens.  How fascinating that here the canal had become a real asset and was the frontage for the most expensive houses. The rebirth of the canals we had heard about and mirrored in the smart warehouse conversions we saw as we circumnavigated the city was a reality. 

We left the Stratford-on-Avon canal at the very pretty Kings Norton Junction and joined the Worcester and Birmingham canal. And here we encountered my next pet dislike of this pastime (I'm being honest here) - a tunnel - the long, dark, dank, claustrophobic kind.  Yes, it was time to disappear beneath the ground for the 2492 metres of the Wast Hill tunnel which in my book is just about two and half kilometres or more like a lifetime in the pitch black. One of the longest in the country our Nicholson guide proudly announced. 

I will admit here that I do have an irrational fear of being underground. Indeed I was forced to confront this fear many years ago on one of those Outward Bound type management courses where in the interests of team building and trusting your colleagues I had to do some caving beneath the Kymin near Monmouth. Terror. I still get a churning stomach recalling the "squeeze" we were asked to do under a boulder barely wide enough for my 6'2" frame. Oh, and the added pleasure of this particular bit of caving delight was that you had to hold you breath and submerse yourself under the water that was flowing 2 foot deep beneath your feet.  Madness. Why would anyone class caving as a sport?

Clearly you would accuse me of unacceptable exaggeration if I were to draw any kind of parallel of this experience to the Wast Hill tunnel but I seriously did not like it. 

And so I did the right thing and placed all my trust in my wife to navigate through its 2492 metres.  I went below, put on all the lights (actually part of the drill to help illuminate the walls and thereby avoid contact) and turned my iPod player up to max.  

Amazing how quickly it passed....... for Ros, it was all part of that essential narrow boat experience as she gallantly steered into the black with only the single beam of the boat's tunnel light to guide her and her trusty London 2012 off shore gear to keep her dry from the at times torrential drips. Fortunately we didn't meet any boat coming he other way where you have to focus really hard on the slowly advancing single light desperately trying to judge just how close it and potential impact are. 

And before you start beating me up, I have subsequently done several other tunnels albeit they maxed out at 450 metres! 

As I said all along, this one was Ros' experience. Mine is yet to come.

Our First Visitor

Before we left Ros was brandishing invitations to just about everyone we know to come for a visit as if we were embarking on some great country house escape forgetting that a 57 foot narrow boat has not been designed with entertaining in mind. I've already explained how narrow boating definitions of size are other wordly especially in the bedding department where to accommodate my familiarity with a proper king size bed at home Ros and I have taken to occupying separate "double" beds on board. 

So it was with not a little trepidation on my part that we learnt that our first visitor was to be our middle son Giles only a couple of days after we had embarked on our voyage. 

Now those of you who know Giles will be familiar with his 6'6" height and the fact that since taking up Finn and now America's Cup sailing his physique more resembles Atlas or a young Arnold Schwarzenegger than the skinny kid who was nicknamed gangly bean head. His 100 kilo frame is pure muscle and we've lost sight of the width of his shoulders thanks to the fitness regime ruthlessly imposed on him by his Italian yachting masters.  Can you now understand my trepidation?

He was briefly in the country between Finn World Cup events giving little flexibility in dates and so we sent him postcodes for his sat nav to locate a pub by a bridge we anticipated reaching at Rowington in the evening. Fortunately the magnificent spread sheet (I feel another acronym coming on here) had done its calculations well and we duly arrived on schedule at bridge 63.  

Point of information; all canal bridges are numbered, a great aid to navigation when you've been lulled into a numb stupor standing for hours at the helm crawling over endless cow filled countryside and have no idea where the hell you are.  

Anyway, back to our first boat guest. 

A phone call announced he had arrived, found the towpath and was approaching our vessel. We rushed out to greet the lad only to be confronted by the biggest smirk and a "what the...." clearly indicating his disbelief that we had actually gone through with this mad cap idea. Reprimands over from his highly sensitive mother he was invited aboard. 

Now I admit we are still pretty new to this lark but we have been on and off Fandango enough times to know that she is a pretty stable lass. Well, neither of us were prepared for her violent listing when Giles leapt on starting a rocking motion we're sure the poor old girl had never experienced in her years with the MN or other guests. As he moved down inside the boat the rocking continued and we suddenly got a tinge of seasickness, something we had not prepared for in our marathon packing inventory. 

Just one night did he say? Shame....

We had sensibly planned to eat at the local pub and so could escape before nausea overtook us and spent a delightful evening at the local pub the Tom O the Woods. 

Surprisingly Giles slept well in the dinette bed usually occupied by his mother claiming it was at least 6'6" long and comfy enough. Hurrah for him I thought as my night was pretty sleepless squeezed into that so called double bed and in constant fear of tumbling into the corridor every time I turned. Poor Ros. 

The morning saw us take our guest on a cruise and experience the delight of migrating from the Grand Union onto the Stratford-on-Avon Canal at Kingswood junction.  This is a very picturesque and photogenic spot with wrought iron footbridges, pretty cottages and gardens fronting the canal and the first narrow lock of our trip. These smaller versions only hold one boat so no-one to help share the work from now on.

Ros had been attempting to instruct Giles in the finer points of narrow boat handling as he was keen to helm. Paying little attention, he of course took to it like a duck to water perfectly executing a tricky 90 degree turn down the link to the Stratford canal and then effortlessly entering the first of the narrow locks without a touch and an enormous grin. Surely he wasn't having fun?

And how dare he beat us at our own game? 

After a couple more near perfect lock transitions it was time to get him off the helm before he set a standard we'd never match.  We had the Lapworth Flight to climb -  18 little beauties all against us of course.  

We had a professional America's Cup  grinder in our midst.  

Time to make proper use of those muscles. 

At Sea

The Grand Union Canal is aptly named for it is generous in its size and has large locks capable of holding two narrow boats which can be up to 72 foot long so our modest Fandango has room to spare. Linking London with Birmingham, Leicester and Nottingham it is now home to trendy live aboards in smart London postcodes at places such as Limehouse, Regents Park and Little Venice. And to complete your education, it is actually composed of at least 8 separate canals - but enough anoraking.

Although in excess of 137 miles in length, we were to enjoy its company for only 21 miles before branching off into the less industrial sounding Stratford-on-Avon Canal at Kingswood Junction.  My first exposure to it was pleasant enough.  We meandered through the open rolling Warwickshire countryside in grey overcast skies enjoying the odd waft of heat that welled up to the open stern from the bowels of Fandango where our new best friend, the Morso, was silently converting smokeless fuel to life enhancing heat. 

We quickly got into our stride; descending the Stockton Flight - 8 locks - tick. The Bascote Locks (including a staircase lock) - 4 locks - tick.  Fascinating to see that the ambitious entrepreneurs of the early  1800's built these wider locks leaving their narrow older brothers redundant alongside. Picturesque maybe, but a definite health hazard if you don't keep your wits about you as you turn to speed to the next lock forgetting there's another stretch of water between you and the towpath.  After this we settled in the more leisurely pace of a lock every mile or so before we entered the outskirts of Leamington Spa.

Now it's actually called Royal Leamington Spa thanks to good old Queen Vic granting the town that Royal prefix in 1838 but I have to say my worst fears of canals inhabiting the real back end (I'm being polite here) of a town were reinforced as Royal it certainly was not.

The canal water had gone an even darker shade of mud brown, the towpath suddenly was littered with the inevitable McDonalds wrappers and coke cans and graffiti (most of which was pretty uninteresting and scrappy and not worthy of a Turner nomination)  was everywhere.  Entering from the west you do pass the old industrial areas some of which are now redundant and rotting but as you progress to the directly adjoining town of Warwick the canal improves with modern developments fronting the water and some of the slick offices of the games and digital media companies that have lead to the town being known as "Silicon Spa". 

We decided not to linger. 

Beyond Warwick was our first big lock challenge - the Hatton Flight, all 21 of the them. And our luck was in, another boat was about to climb the Hatton and we could share the effort. 

When doing 21 locks in succession you have a lot of time to chat to your fellow boaters be it the helms idling side by side in the filling lock, or grinders raising and lowering paddles or opening and closing gates. And what a friendly bunch they are. 

It turned out we were in the company of professionals. A couple offering skippered charters in their 72 foot home, she a slight woman from Japan, he a midlander with a broad Brummy accent wanting an alternative lifestyle.  They had developed a market in Japan using her family connections and regular visits home to lecture and give talks at tourism fairs which had lead to a business that clearly satisfied their needs. Downsizing from a house  in Birmingham they had jettisoned all their furniture and a large proportion of their wardrobes to fit into their floating home. "Surprising how little you need" she told me.

 Are you (am I even?) listening to that?

And how good were they at getting up those locks! My Brummy mate was clearly in a hurry so  he manfully jogged ahead opening and closing paddles at an alarming rate so that we arrived at the top several hours ahead of Ros' meticulously planned schedule. 

I feared the consequences. But no panic ensued.  The spread sheet is flexible I was relieved to hear...

And hey, what's the rush?

The Voyage Begins

I suspect you're wondering if we are ever going to leave the security of that Warwickshire marina and if I'll catch up with real time in this blog. You know, I know that you know we are already in day 5 of our adventure but hey, this is an unfolding story not a BBC news update.

Odd concept that, real time. 

Already my appreciation of time and its passing has slowed just being in the confines of my good looking sardine can. I struggle to remember what day it is and definitely have lost track of the date.  I must come back to this philosophical thought however, when my familiarisation with this sedentary life is more advanced as its one of the qualities of narrow boating many speak about. 

Well, after a return visit from MN (keep up, read the previous blog) for final handover and introduction to the joys of the weed trap, greasing the stern gland, refuelling, filling with fresh not canal water and that magnificent piece of technological advancement, the Pump Out, we were signed off for departure.  

But I can't mention the Pump Out without digressing a bit into this vital but not-in-front-of-the-children necessity.  Life aboard would be a far more challenging experience without the inclusion of a near as damn it proper toilet.  Can't put it any more subtly, but lets face it we've moved a long way from a bush, a bucket, a hole in the ground  (latrines to the scouts and guides among you), a chemical toilet and all those even more basic solutions employed by campers. So having a flushing toilet that doesn't require any other more complex intervention than attaching a machine resembling a gigantic industrial vacuum to a hole in the gunnels of the boat is a blessing for us reluctant sardines. 

 So that's what we learned to do - plug in, press the button and suck. Can't say I enjoyed the inspection window in the pipe but all part of the monitoring process to determine when you're empty

Thus prepared for every eventuality we bravely ventured from the security of the Wigrams Turn marina into the wilds of the Grand Union canal, set our compass bearing for due west and set off towards Leamington Spa.

Now the first thing you learn about steering narrow boats is that they are long, heavy and very cumbersome.  This means they are not the quickest of beasts to react to your instructions through the tiller. Thus, at first, despite being a highly qualified RYA Inland Waterways Helm (and I have the photo ID certificate to prove it) I found myself weaving wildly up the first mile of fortunately quite wide canal trying desperately to calm Fandango to a gentle straight line. And a mile was all I had as that was how far it was to our first set of locks at Calcutt.  Only three, but our first and therefore very precious to us - a moment to treasure, a coming of age perhaps - or a taste of the hundreds of muscle aching paddles we will have to raise and lower as we "grind" releasing thousands of gallons of a canal's lifeblood, its water, lifting or lowering our precious Fandango to the next stretch of flat water. 

And thus began the latest competition with my wonderful wife. 

Who can enter the lock without touching, nay even kissing, the gates or walls at any point of Fandango's sleek 57 foot hull?  At least our skills are beyond the numbing crunch the scars of the bruised bricks and wooden gates suggest is not uncommon with other less serious helms.

A stretch of 10 miles with the Stockton Flight of 8 locks lay ahead before our first city at Leamington Spa.  

But we were ready.

Introducing Fandango

Our launch was delayed two days as the wonderful owner of the good ship Fandango in his perfectionist manner wanted the paintwork glistening and the foul weather we have been experiencing (spring - ha) had meant sub standard paintwork to the red roof. So we extended our stay with the wonderful Hampsons, shot down to Hampton Court to visit sister, nieces and great nephews and dined in Cambridge with the parents of Evan's fellow traveller to South America - he should be writing the blog, far more exciting stuff.

And then the handover day arrived. Again the wonderful Hampsons (perhaps the acronym WH is required here for future speed of writing?) took us and all our kit, which was plentiful to say the least, to the marina at Napton.  My first encounter with a narrow boat marina - Cowes it was not with a distinct absence of masts, expensive chandleries or rows of Mercs and BMWs. Instead arranged in a herringbone pattern some 20-30 rows deep either side of a central channel were low lying steel tubes in a variety of colours but all bearing the distinctly narrow boat patterns and decorations many puffing gentle pillars of smoke from their chimneys indicating a "live aboard" - more of them later.

 

We quickly located Fandango out along one of the pontoons which proved to be rather narrow and somewhat alarming to navigate with a trolley full of possessions. And there was the Nick, our owner and I believe Ros' mentor who had been so impressed with her nautical accomplishments that his calls were many and long as the two of them plotted and enthused about our trip and he improved and added to the impressive inventory.

So how is Fandango? 

She's 57 foot long (a critical measurement for officianados like Ros as its the maximum length for some of the older canals in England), 7 foot wide with a black hull, navy blue and burgundy superstructure picked out in white and a red roof. Fully lined in warm honey coloured wood she boasts a Morso coal stove (our new best friend), fully fitted kitchen (no dishwasher or washing machine - what the hell do you think the canal is for?), dinette seating for 4, bathroom with cosey shower and a "double" bedroom.

One thing I'm learning is that the use of normal descriptors such as "double" have a different meaning on narrow boats.  Far more akin to those applied by the Munchkins when describing their homes to a visiting Dorothy and Toto in my opinion. 

So all in all a fine vessel and a bit of a looker in narrow boat circles.

Managing to squeeze the enormous amount of stuff we had brought into our new home we bid farewell to the WHs, completed our initial briefing from the meticulous Nick (MN?) and settled down to our first night aboard. 

And the wind howled, and the temperature fell, and the grey overcast Warwickshire sky threatened, and we blessed the fact that Fandango possessed a central heating system. 

Begin at the beginning

Oh what am I doing?

I have no real idea about blogging and here I am attempting to start one from the confines of a sardine can. And that means awful "connectivity" and a requirement for the patience of Mother Teresa as my wonderful smart phone attempts to tether to my iPad and allow me to type this message in the hope it will eventually soar into the blogosphere or whatever it's called.

Having only been introduced to Facebook last year in an effort to maintain contact with my uncommunicative sons I posted updates of travels vainly hoping for the odd 'like' or message but apparently one or two of our friends rather enjoyed my ramblings and tart commentaries and kept saying 'do a blog on your canal trip'. In denial I resisted and didn't bother to even find out what a blog was let alone how to start. But failure to upload onto my Facebook has forced me to attempt a blog and after minimal research here we are. If this works it's a miracle of technology and nothing to do with me.

It all started with early retirement and the apparent availability of "free time". That was the cue for my wonderful wife to start the drip drip torture of achieving her childhood ambition of living on a narrow boat for a year and travelling the canals and navigable rivers of England. At 6'2" tall the idea of a 57x7 foot steel coffin bore little attraction to me and my different spacial awareness to that of my 5'5" wife, but a year of negotiation (with no recourse to marriage guidance I might add) we agreed on a 3 month excursion.

And so her search for a suitable vessel began. Several false leads and a near miss left her disappointed and frustrated so what did her idiot husband do? He bought a Waterways World magazine in a spontaneous gesture of solidarity only for her to locate in the small ads a private hirer prepared to risk his boat with us two for the full 3 months. Making it affordable limited my room for manoeuvre and before you could say Grand Union we were booked for an April start.  

And so that is how I find myself a novice blogger. Attempting to tell the tale of 3 months in a vessel drawing its heritage from a long past age of British transportation and now the preserve of alternative lifestyles, ardent traditionalists and holiday makers of every hue. It will hopefully be a slowly unfolding tale (max speed 4 mph remember) of one man's observation of the life and sights that line the network of canals that criss cross middle England. He may even be converted to the joys of a slow life punctuated by bursts of energy winding away at those tiresome locks!

Oh yes. And why the reluctant sardine? Well, any Spike Milligan fan may recall his poem about a baby sardine's encounter with a submarine and his wonderful accompanying cartoon. Well, it may not be a submarine but there is an uncanny resemblance to the confines of a submariners home!

Wish me luck.......