Well it’s a bit like camping. Seven days of it and you can’t wait to get home to a comfortable bed…
I’m talking, of course, about hiring a boat and setting sail on the river Thames. It did seem like a great idea at the time, but come the middle of the week I’d had enough. I’m not sure what tipped the balance in my mind, the boredom of travelling at speeds that a snail would laugh at or the fact that I fell in at a mooring site, just before a lock, which left me with half a pound of small stones embedded in my heel. Looking back now, as a 23 year old, it was the whole cycle of the trip wore me down in the end.
Overall, it seems all to easy to hire a boat and set off down or up the river, depending where you start. All I can recall was a little chubster of a marine owner saying, “Thanks for the cash, here’s the key, there’s your boat and see you in a week!” The rest was up to us! So, after stowing our belongings away and sparking up the engine of HMS Intrepid, the four of us headed off in search of the nearest pub.
However, before you make to the nearest inn, like life, there are a certain amount of obstacles, barriers if you will, that are set to fuck up your transit towards a clutch of decent pints of bitter. Opening you first lock is a fascinating exercise. You don’t know what to do, but people appear out of nowhere to help. But, by lock 315, you really don’t give a shit, especially after you’ve worked out that if you had a straight run, with no locks, you could add another two days to your holiday.
Were we warned about accidents that may occur on our journey? “Key, boat, see you next week.” If we were I’d missed it! At one point my girlfriend took the wheel and all was fine for quite some time. That was until we entered a private yachting marina. Rather than alert the crew of any impending doom, my lady-love kept schtum, hoping she could sneak out the same way she stumbled into the boating equivalent of a Rolls Royce showroom.
And the plan worked, right up until the point where something long and expensive looking, which was sticking out proud of another boat, made contact with the side of our boat. There was this sort of straining noise, which was followed by an unnerving scraping sound. I woke up to find part of an aluminium mast making an entrance through a window which then made contact with the frame of the window.
I watched as out boat lurched forward, instead of the intended direction of reverse, and heard the cries of a young female in distress saying, “Bollocks, fuck it,” and, “bollocks,” once more! I’m not quite sure how we slipped away unnoticed, baring in mind the row that the collision made, plus the level of human vocal activity, but some how we did. And the damage? Well we couldn’t shut our window now. And the yacht’s mast? Personally I thought the bend at the tip of it lent it a certain amount of charm!
A few days into our voyage we met up with boaters and punts brigade. It was all very Pimms and jolly nice dresses, if you know what I mean. Bloody idiots – loads of money, but a sad lack of common sense. Thank God we had missed the Henley Regatta by exactly one week, these prats were just the warm-up act.
Did anyone mention anything about the boat’s engine? “Key, boat, bye.” Nope, don’t think so. On the Thursday there was this smell. A smell which smelt like if it could speak wouldv’e said, WARNING – WARNING – WILL ROBINSON -YOU’RE ENGINE IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE. But it didn’t. So, after waiting for five hours for it to cool down, we thought we had better put some lubricant in the oil-starved engine.
The very next day we managed to beach our trusty puddle steamer on a sandbank. Aah yes, the joys of standing at the helm, while sailing into the midday sun with a blinding hangover. Fortunately the crew of a tourist boat alerted their man at the wheel, and he shouted at us to wait for the backwash of his cruiser while slamming our wreck in reverse.
I think the main reason the trip wore me down to a frazzle were to key points. The first was the chemical toilet. Man, it was toxic in there. And that was before anyone had used it. For tuppence I’d have had a dump over the side, but you know what it’s like, you just can’t go when a bunch of canoeists paddle past or a gaggle of cyclists drift by on the tow path can you!
Well, by day six you’re completely pissed off with life on a boat. The bog stinks to high heaven, the fly and mosquito population seems to have tripled, and you’ve totally run out of patience with anything to do with the lock gates. However, one thing you’re not going to miss is, parking up at night. You’re tired, you can’t be arsed to cook, and all you want to do is hit the nearest pub. But can you find a mooring site? Can you bollocks! You can see plenty of spaces, but can you reach them before a German U Boat slips in before you? NOT AT 8 FUCKING MILES PER HOUR YOU CAN’T!!!! They already had their towels down at 2:30 in the afternoon!
You disembark, making sure you pull up with the damaged window facing away from the landing stage, and say to the boat owner, “Key, boat, and – by,” then run like hell to your car, hoping the bloke with the aluminium mast hasn’t rung the guy demanding money with menecies. NO, NO, NO – NEVER , EVER AGAIN
[US News now: there’s a place in Cincinnati, Ohio called Licking County – fact.]
Comments
Powered by Facebook Comments