Lock, stock and two smoking narrowboats

Uppie and friends at Little Venice

Well, we made it.  After about 150 miles and 127 locks, 'Uplander II' is safely moored on the Grand Union Canal, close to its junction with the Regents Canal, at Little Venice in west London, a few hundred yards from Paddington Station.

Being based in London for a while is interesting.  It's funny how you get used to hearing people talking in a particular accent, even if it's not your own, and when suddenly they all sound quite different, it's almost disconcerting.  When they all seem to sound like either Ray Winstone or Boris Johnson, it's even more unsettling, but that's how it seems to be with London-based narrowboaters - they either talk like toffs or geezers.

We heard a lot of interesting dialogue where we originally tied up, as it was just a bit too handy to the water point and sanitary station, so any boat needing to take on water or drop of rubbish or worse had to pull in immediately in front of us, and those waiting tended to pull alongside.  One minute it would be "I say!  Giles!  Tie orf the bow rope could you!", and you half-expected to see some jolly cove in a blazer and boater at the helm (we had seen a 'chap' dressed precisely so at the top of the Marsworth flight, so they are out there), and the next it would be "Oi!  Dave, you ******* *****!  Look aart for that ******* hose!" 

Actually, there are Australians too.  Breakfast Sunday morning was interupted by the incongruous sight of a pair of hairy legs passing the window as a guy with shorts and a distinctly antipodean accent tied his boat on to Uppie while they waited their turn for the services.  Tough bloke - it was barely above freezing that morning!

The Pool at Little Venice - before the festival boats settle in

Still, we were lucky to get there.  After a largely trouble-free journey, the last stage almost ended in disaster.  I rejoined the boat at Rickmansworth last week, having missed quite a long flight of locks between there and Tring, where I previously abandoned ship.  That turned out to be good timing as the weather was absolutely glorious on Thursday and we cruised through some beautiful landscapes, before stopping at Uxbridge to let our temporary crew member catch his train back to Winchester.  We passed through our last lock at Cowley Peachy (sounds like a character from a PG Wodehouse novel!) and then decided that, as we were ahead of schedule, we could look for moorings along the little used Slough Arm. 

We soon realised that the Slough Arm was little-used for a reason - it's shallow and reedy with no moorings close to where we would have been able to access a footpath to a village with a decent pub (according to the not-always trustworthy Nicholson's Guide - the sort of publication that probably would describe Earth as 'Mostly Harmless'), and just before passing under the M25 (another attractive feature - not), we were hailed by a couple of geezers on a footbridge, who claimed that the bridge had actually moved a couple of feet in the last day or so. 



I'm not a qualified structural engineer, and I've seen a lot of old buildings with ugly cracks in them that have stood in such condition for centuries, but the cracks in the actual towpath were another matter entirely; they were clearly too deep to just be drying out in warm weather, and recent.  I began to panic - quietly - that having come this far, we would get caught the wrong side of a bridge collapse or breach and instead of being at Cavalcade, we'd be marooned in Slough.  The Slough of Despond, indeed.

Fortunately, it seems the Force is strong with either me, Christine (skipper of Tickety-Boo) or both of us, as I was relieved to see her turn at the next winding hole, and having done the same, we retreated carefully back under the dodgy bridge and moored for the night.  By Saturday morning, we heard that the Slough Arm had been closed due to the threatened collapse of a footbridge...

But we were safe - well, almost!  Practically within sight of Little Venice, we came around a slight bend to find another boat had pulled its bow mooring pin and drifted to lie at 90 degrees to the towpath, completely blocking the canal.  On closer inspection, it proved to be two boats tied together.  A call to the Canal and River Trust, diverted through to their emergency line, went unanswered for so long, it automatically cut off.  Jon pondered calling the fire-brigade.  Then, luckily for us, 'Captain Fraser' turned up.

Houston - we have a problem!

Captain Fraser was on his own boat, moored and pointing away from the obstruction, but the good man leapt aboard the other vessel, secured a rope which he threw to me, and between the three of us we managed to re-secure the loose boat (our rescuer having found some bits of scrap metal on the abandoned boat to use as temporary pins), just in time for a wide-beam boat of toffs to cruise past and almost undo all our hard work with its wake.

But Uppie squeezed by successfully and so reached our destination.  The best photos from the whole expedition are here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/30634865@N03/sets/72157633358796317/
To coin a phrase, it's been emotional!

And meanwhile, I'm back in Stoke-on-Trent gardening furiously - after a busy day tree planting and pruning at college on Monday, I planted another batch of potatoes yesterday morning (the infamous Pink Fir Apple), then fitted in two separate jobs for clients in the afternoon.  The longer evenings are certainly handy!

And, (shameless plug alert!) the concluding part of my book is also out, picking up where the first left off.  Well, not exactly where the first left off - it ain't that kinda book, people, though there are a few cheeky bits!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Continual-Supervision-Social-Insecurity-ebook/dp/B00CD0VQIU/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1367396327&sr=1-2  The ebook of the first part ought to be available to download for free over the May Day bank holiday weekend too, so we'll soon see if that generates some interest and reviews.

But I'll be back at the boat soon, ready for the Canalway Cavalcade Festival, though I might have to sneak across to Trafalgar Square on Saturday morning to support the protest against austerity.  It would be a shame to be so close and miss it.

Gardening leave

All aboard!  Uplander (with Tickety-Boo and crew behind) heading for London

I have abandoned ship again, just for a few days, and am starting to regret attempting to fit in an entire day's gardening for clients and the planting of my 'Kestrel' second early spuds this evening.  Under the circumstances a hot bath is a very tempting prospect, but I dare not get out of the reach of the phone just yet in case there's a 'ship to shore' call to let me know where everyone else is now, and where and when I should rejoin the cruise.

'Braunston Turn', Grand Union Canal

One of the things I love about narrowboating - on our little Luddite boat, at any rate - is the sense of escaping from the whirl of modern civilisation. 

Nothing stops for tea - handover of a brew while locking!

Last week was a particularly good example as I managed to miss all of the hype around the funeral of the not-much-missed-around-here Margaret Hilda Thatcher.  Though not always a fan of the man's questionable line in 'comedy', in one episode of 'Mock the Week', Frankie Boyle once came up with a marvellous cost-saving alternative to the lavish state affair we have apparently squndered millions on - that if the Government could merely provide everyone in Scotland with a shovel, they could dig a hole so deep they could hand Mrs T over to the Devil in person!  Pure genius; just a shame that Boyle's humour too often becomes Mock the Weak.

Blisworth Tunnel.  If you thought you could get out of the rain in here, think again!

I also have no idea who, where or what 'Broadchurch' is.  Or was.  And don't confuse me with someone who cares, either.

 

Stoke Bruerne.  An idyllic village - except there's nowhere to buy bread, milk or stamps!

The only snag of this retreat from technology is the one I'm now encountering; namely, that the loveliest, quietest, most picturesque overnight moorings generally have completely unreliable 'phone and internet connectivity.  While I can usually handle this, it's a nightmare for my friend Chrissie who is attempting to finalise all manner of key PR issues for the very festival we are attending.  Despite having the latest smartphone and all manner of electronic wizardry to keep her computer connected, it's a nightly struggle to regain contact with the 21st Century, and one which is often lost.  It probably doesn't help that narrowboats are all steel, so to get any signal on a phone usually means going on deck, or holding up against a window.

Collision course!

So, all being well, I'll be rejoining the expedition soon, in time for the journey through London, which I have been looking forward to, since while boating through the spring countryside is extremely pleasant, urban landscapes from canals can be fascinating too.  The only problem is - after all that digging today, am I actually going to be up to doing my fair share of lock work?

Staying afloat

Slow boat to Little Venice

If things have been quiet on this blog recently, there's a very good reason for it.  Naturally, you'll be thinking, spring has finally arrived and so Sarah will have lots to do in her garden and her customers' gardens, and it's lighter in the evenings too.  But no - just as that ought to be the case, I'm engaged in a different enterprise altogether.  Jon and I are off to Little Venice, near Paddington in West London, for a canal festival - Canalway Cavalcade - over the May Day Bank Holiday weekend, and because narrowboats only move at four miles per hour, we have to go now.

Actually, we've gone.  Jon and the boat are down in Rugby after a week spent cruising the Trent and Mersey, Coventry and North Oxford Canals, while I'm home briefly to attend college, round up the post, deal with essential emails and then catch the train back to rejoin him.  There is no time for gardening, though I did find time to give the publishers the 'OK' for the final proof of the sequel to 'Severe Discomfort' to be released into the world.  You can find it here, the opening few chapters at least, but if you haven't read the first book, don't start on this one unless you want a major 'spoiler' from part one: check out 'Severe Discomfort' first (there's a Kindle version now, Amazon users).
http://www.completelynovel.com/books/continual-supervision

Hopefully, relief crew permitting, I'll have a whole week at home next time to properly manage the 'launch' of this volume and catch up on some paid gardening work, and to plant our main crop potatoes, though I haven't been idle on the boat.  The paints have been out, inside at least, and if the opportunity arises to barter one or two of these for boatyard services such as fuel and WC pump-out, that will be no bad thing.



Our boat, 'Uplander II', is very much a Luddite ship, with no TV, mains electricity (unless connected up to a shore line) or Internet access, so it'll be silent running for the rest of the week.  You might be able to catch some of our adventures on another blog, as we are due to rendeavous with friends on another vessel which doesn't reject the evils of modern technology shortly.  You might find a few photos and references to us turning up on Chrissie Smith's blog at:  http://cavalcadeodyssey.blogspot.co.uk/

In the meantime, he's the answer to one of those age-old questions.  If you've ever been at a football match and the chant 'who ate all the pies?' has started, the answer is actually me, at the Greyhound pub at Hawkesbury Junction, near Coventry.  Here's the proof...

A trio of supposed 'mini pies'!

Good job there are so many locks to work through on the next stage of our journey!

Endless Winter

It's 8th April today, and there are still snowdrops in full flower in my garden (see photo).

Don't get me wrong: I love snowdrops.  But there's a time and a place for them, and April isn't it, even up here in North Staffordshire.  But since there's still some snow too, I suppose you can't blame them for being confused.

We were in Cornwall last week, but although we had anticipated a little spring fix from this, we were disappointed in that respect.  There were quite a few primroses about, but we've seen them at Christmas down there before now, and apparently local horticulturalists had a rotten year for daffodil sales with nothing much ready for Mothering Sunday and everything a bit beaten up by Easter, after heavy rain and persistent strong, easterly winds.

In our garden there are a few daffs about, mostly the little "Tete-a-Tete" cultivar and "February Gold", which have just opened, defiantly oblivious to its name.  Not that the narcissi here have any regard for the Trades Descriptions Act at the best of times.  "St Patrick's Day" are never open in time, but if they manage to put on a show by St George's Day this year, they will be doing well.

Not losing the plot - busy day on the allotment

Despite this, there's something that has to be done at this time of year, come what may, and that's the planting of First Early potatoes.  We got ours in on the allotment yesterday.  Three different cultivars - Colleen, Cosmos and Swift, and for once it actually felt almost like spring, with lighter winds and some pale sunshine.  It was similar today, despite a less optimistic forecast, as we prepared our plots at Reaseheath for what, in theory, was the same exercise, though there's more than one way to plant a spud...

On the allotment, I dug over the whole plot to work in some of that most gruesomely-named fertiliser, 'blood, fish and bone', estimating the quantity, before digging individual trowel holes about 15cm deep for each tater, judging the rows by eye at 45cm centres in both directions, using my long trowel handle for guidance.  At college, matters had to be done to proper RHS specifications.  Exactly 400g of fertiliser was weighed out (fun in a stiff breeze) and scattered evenly over the area to be planted, lightly forked in ('Will you stop DIGGING!' Harry ordered me - so I tried not to lift too much soil) and then two perfectly spaced, taut garden lines positioned 75cm apart.  Using draw hoes we took two out lovely neat V-profiled trenches, before retrieving our chitted spuds from their nice warm greenhouse and spacing them neatly into what must have felt to the spuds like an icy tomb.

Naturally, I couldn't resist an experiment, so have spaced one row at 30cm centres and the second at 20cm, to see which gives the higher yield - I'm expecting smaller spuds from those spaced closer together, but with more tubers...?  We shall see.  But the main thing is, they are all in.  Mission accomplished, we went to the pub.

At home, I still have the bulk of my second early and main crop spuds to plant, but that will have to wait for the next few weeks, as something of a completely non-gardening nature will be taking priority. 
Here's a clue... 

Must go now - I have a boat to catch!



Snow on St Patrick's Day

Top of the morning!  Talke Pits in the snow, with Mow Cop behind

As he pottered into the kitchen last night with our empty whiskey glasses, having celebrated 'Saints' unexpectedly convincing victory over Liverpool (not that I dislike the Reds of Merseyside - but we need the points!), Jon announced with some surprise, "It's snowing, sweetheart!" 

The odd flurry at this time of year on a cold night isn't unusual, but waking up to it still covering the ground in the morning is.  But it gave me an opportunity to get out with the camera to record some views that might not be there to be enjoyed for too much longer.

I've posted previously about the proposals to carry out open cast coal mining on a stretch of countryside roughly south-west of our village, and I've promised the organisers of the campaign against (CAGOO - Campaign Against Great Oak Opencast) that my photographic skills are at their disposal.  Keen not to miss what (hopefully) will be the last snow of the winter, I squelched through the fields this morning to record some stunning views, with only the song of skylarks for company. 

Threatened with excavation - looking north-west across the Great Oak site

I was squelching through the same fields yesterday too, and listening to the same larks, but in the company of quite a lot of other people, as it was the CAGOO protest march from Audley up to the Wedgwood Monument.  Luckily there wasn't snow, although I doubt it if would have taken the edge of the adult protesters' commitment or spoilt the day for the animals and children who came along with them.  In fact, if I were UK Coal, I'd be more worried about them than the grown-ups...

Continuity CAGOO?  Beware the boy in the balaclava!

There are lots more pictures of both the lovely location itself and the protest here:

http://flickr.com/gp/30634865@N03/Bum230/  And thanks immensely to the Flickr algorithms generator for that link name!

There was tea and buns to be had at the local cricket club afterwards, but being a hopeless old leftie I had another protest to attend, this time in Hanley, against the 'Bedroom Tax'.  It was a bit thinly supported, but started to look less so once the Socialist Party and Socialist Workers' Party members decided they could actually stand next to each other and co-operate, and I (neither of the above - tempted to describe myself as the Popular Front against the Bedroom Tax: do I hear the word 'splitter'?) was interviewed by a young woman who I mistakenly thought said she was from 'Staffs Hive', though a comrade later corrected me that it was 'Staffs Live'.

So it's just as well I didn't digress into talking about the threat to bees from pesticides... 

Whether either the bedroom tax or the open cast mining proposals can be defeated remains to be seen; despite organised opposition, many a wrong or unpopular measure has been inflicted on people because it suits the powers that be.  But I always find it encouraging to stand with people who care deeply about issues affecting the less well-off in society or the environment.  In which case, I should probably join the Green Party, as I see in Brighton, they've taken a policy decision not to evict tenants plunged into rent arrears by the Bedroom Tax.   Hopefully more principled councils and social landlords will follow suit.

That was the week that was...

"We'll need lots more bottles to edge all these plots, J."  "I'll just have to drink lots more beer then, sweetheart!"

So, that was spring, was it?  This time last week, the wee fella and myself were making great progress turning over some nicely warming soil on our allotment, planting out some garlic and onions that I'd started off in the greenhouse during the autumn, and even sowing some rows of broad beans on the promise of more mild weather.  And tucking in to home-grown salad with some fine-weather Mediterranean-style food.  Why, you could even think summer was just around the corner!

Slug-dodging salad leaves

I also put together a rather splendid spring hanging basket as a commission for a friend and former colleague, with complete disregard for the fact that the poor bloke was probably going to have to get it home on the bus!  I understand a lift was forthcoming in the event, but in future I probably need to factor in a small 'delivery charge' or cut down slightly on the polyanthus!

After a strenuous weekend digging our plot, it was college day on Monday and guess what?  Time to dig over our plots there too.  The allotment soil is light and silty, and gradually improving with regular doses of 'FYM' (farmyard manure - actually, horse muck as a rule).  Reaseheath's soil, surprisingly for an agricultural college on the flood plain of the River Weaver, is not so; I've more chance of making a replica of the Portland Vase from the college's 'soil' than of growing carrots in it, despite the eight barrows of compost now dug in.  But we did have our First Earlies to set out for chitting.

'Foremost' - my 'lucky dip' taters for the trials.  No sign of my Ulster Sceptre' batch yet so they'll have to go on the allotment when they arrive.

Tuesday it was time to scrub the dirt from under my fingernails and stick some of my less scruffy clothes on, as I was in 'training mercenary' mode, helping the CAB explain the miriad of changes to the benefits system coming up in the next few weeks and months to their staff and some partner organisations.  While it's fun to be back amongst friends and scrawling flow-charts and diagrams all over a 'Luddites' Powerpoint' (flipchart) to try and explain what the bloody hell is going on, when you actually step back and look at what IS going on, it's about as depressing as the prospect of frost with the plum blossom about to burst.

As it was World Book Day on Thursday, I'm going to slip in another sneaky plug for mine.  I need to use all sorts of tactics to promote it as it occured to me, as I sent off my press release to the 'Sentinel' on Friday, that if the odds of a Northcliffe Press owned paper giving a mention to a book with a couple accused of benefit fraud as its heroes was pretty slim for starters, describing the arch villain of the piece as 'essentially the Daily Mail newspaper in human form' in the preface might have fatally damaged its marketability in their eyes.  (But he is - in so many ways!).  A free read still available at:

http://www.completelynovel.com/books/severe-discomfort--1

Friday was still being spring-like if soggy, so I put in another shift for a client with this lovely 'Winter Garden', for which I can take no credit whatsoever, though the patch to the left where the ground has been turned over and foxgloves and forget-me-nots planted is my handiwork.

But they'll be no gardening today - the snow is back, there's an icy wind blowing and anyway, I have notes on Employment and Support Allowance to put in order for a training session on Thursday.  But at least it's cosy indoors: the fire's lit and Jon's doing lunch. 

I might even let him have a beer with it!

Not all beastly in Eastleigh...

The view from Netley Beach, Eastleigh Constituency.  It's prettier at night...

If I didn't know this was going to be the sort of post where the jokes almost write themselves, I'd be tempted to put it in 'the other blog'.  It's going to be almost completely plantless and riddled with more political references than there are slugs in a typical hosta bed, but it's simply not the style for the sombre Suffragette time-traveller who writes http://raggedskirt.blogspot.co.uk/

The author of that was an earnest young woman who took her politics extremely seriously and, in the days leading up to her 24th birthday in the late spring of 1987, could have been found trudging the streets of the Southern Parishes of an obscure Hampshire town with bundles of Labour Party leaflets in a big satchel, stuffing them through the letter-boxes of prospective voters, boldly knocking on doors and checking voting intentions, wincing with embarrassment when those doors were opened by sitting Tory councillors (supporters' address list just a trifle out-of-date there, Eastleigh CLP - thanks, comrades!).  Because that was my home constituency for the first 24 years of my life, excepting the term-time parts of my three years as a student in Red Sheffield - Beastly Eastleigh. 

I was even allocated the thankless task that same year of running for a Parish Council seat in yachty Hamble (which subsequently went even further up itself by adding 'le-Rice' to its title).  Despite the marvellously efficient Eastleigh CLP printing a leaflet describing me as belonging to the 'Campaign Against Nuclear Disarmament', when naturally I supported quite the opposite cause - and so did the Party as a whole, officially, back then - I managed to come second (with about 150 votes) to the Tory, who had a mere 600 more, and still beat the Libdem into third by about three votes.  Whether my 'success' might have got me a winnable seat next time round, I'll never know - at a Labour Party meeting later that year, the guest speaker (invited by his colleague in the ambulance service, who was also my driving instructor) was a chap discussing the merits of Regional Government.  I wasn't totally convinced by his ideas, but got on quite well with the little man himself.  His name was Jon Honeysett.  The rest, as the saying goes, is history...

The town of Eastleigh is probably hoping to slip quietly back into obscurity now the political band-waggon and media circus is packing up and moving on, especially now that the rest of the civilised world thinks all its UKIP-voting xenophobic citizens care about is the mathematically impossible prospect of more Bulgarians than the entire population of Bulgaria heading their way in the next wave of EU migration.  That's an entirely unfair reflection on the good people of Eastleigh - I can think of a couple of friends who would be only to welcoming to strangers from anywhere in the world, just as long as the immigrants were willing to share the coolest tracks from their record collection and any particularly tasty vegetarian recipes.

But then we do know all four of the Democrats living in Texas too...

Unless you're a railway enthusiast, and a steam buff at that, or (God forbid) a fan of ghastly 1970s 'comedian' Benny Hill who was born there, you probably hadn't heard of Eastleigh until all the shenanigans with Chris Huhne and his motoring misdemeanors hit the press.  But the position of Eastleigh MP has a track record of misfortune not far better than the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts tutor at Hogwarts.  For many years, the MP was a genteel old Tory by the name of Sir David Price, who didn't seem to get particularly upset about anything until his pet dog was bitten by an adder in the New Forest, at which point he got all riled and started calling for the reptiles to be culled en masse (clearly all a dastardly plot to oust him by Slytherin).  His successor, elected in the 1992 General Election, took a safe seat and was tipped for great things, but became infamous for the manner of his untimely death.  I will discreetly refer my readers with curious minds who are not too easily shocked by kinky goings-on to Wikipedia for more details: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Milligan

Suffice to say, that didn't help the Tories with their 'Victorian values' morality-heavy strategy at the time, though was the gift that kept on giving to political satirists for years to come.  The Libdems swept in at the by-election on a tide of moral outrage and much of their famous grass-roots electioneering, heavily based on promising to do something about dog poo on pavements (not, however, 'kill the adders so dog-walkers can take their pets out to the New Foest in safety', which even those in the blue corner had disgarded by then).  I understand dog poo is still an issue on the doorstep.

Poor Mr Milligan's fruity fatality was quite handy from my perspective, as I was working for Eastleigh Council in their housing advice team at the time.  We often had to contact other local authorities when checking the back-stories of some of our applicants for housing, and invariably when you called them and said where you were calling from, they'd ask 'Where?' and you'd have to explain it was a town in south Hampshire, just north of Southampton, just south of Winchester...  After what should have been, but never was called 'Orangegate', EVERYBODY knew where Eastleigh was!*

And then they forgot again.  Eastleigh settled down with an obscure Libdem MP called David Chidgey (wasn't that a village near Camberwick Green?) and local politics went off the scale of absurdity with a Conservative/Labour coalition holding the Libdems at bay in the Town Hall at one one point.  No one old enough to remember was going to buy 'Don't vote for the Libdems - they've made a pact with the Devil!', when Eastleigh Labour Party didn't always remember to bring their own long spoons to the feast.

So if there's one thing I'd urge Ed Milliband and the policy guys at Labour HQ, it would be don't try to draw conclusions from anything that happens in Eastleigh, because it's weird with a frankly bonkers political history.  And don't drift to the right to try and snap up those UKIP voters either, because if you do, you'll lose even more of those earnest young activists who thought nothing of leafleting an entire village single-handed in a day for 'the Party', until the Party dropped Unilateral Nuclear Disarmament, and Clause 4, went to war in Iraq, and introduced Employment and Support Allowance.  We've heard muffled regrets about the illegal war, but it's been a bit quiet on where 'we' stand on plans for squandering billions on son-of-Trident, some potentially popular renationalisations (railways, anybody - that would go down well in Eastleigh!), and so far nobody's apologised for those nasty new descriptors and letting Atos loose on the sick and disabled, have they?   You need us old-fashioned, idealistic activists back on board; those leaflets aren't going to deliver themselves, you know! 

And once you've got the policies worked out, sort your 'supporters' address lists out too!

*whoops - is that my John O'Farrell moment, the sick remark that will come back to haunt any future political life I might aspire to?