Half term. That pesky random confluence of the stars has aligned and daughter number 1 is home from university, gleefully spreading her mess, sorry, belongings, around the house. Every clear surface now has make up, clothes, hair products and little piles of assorted junk. In fairness, there aren’t many clear surfaces as the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree here and I stack books and plants in precarious piles which are now just that bit more precarious due to the extra, increasingly random accoutrements. The 2nd daughter has just finished her GCSE’s and is looking forward to a few weeks of doing absolutely nothing. As him indoors and I are both off work for a few days, it feels like a good time to inflict a bit of boating onto the people I care about. Number 1 daughter is fine with this as she is adept at creating chaos wherever she is as long as we can deliver her to the NCS (National Citizenship Service) on Monday where she has worked as a summer leader for the past 3 years. That isn’t even a challenge, I can put her in a taxi from anywhere! The other daughter isn’t quite so keen, and makes it loudly and clearly known, however, since a bank holiday weekend where neither Keith nor I are at work is akin to a fresh steaming pile of unicorn poo, we are going for it. The family holiday. Hurrah!! I’m ridiculously excited of course and have elaborate plans which include going up to Shobnall marina, reclaiming my blacking left at the entrance (by my mother), reversing in to change the gas and pump out before continuing up to Barton marina where we will turn around and wander back to our mooring. Not a particularly far reaching or ambitious journey but a long weekend, in the sun (hopefully) with the people who put up with me by choice 🙂 excepting, of course, the presence of daughter number 2…
The recalcitrant teenager is mildly unhappy about the prospect of a weekend boating with our pile of dogs as she has developed quite profound anxiety since we lost Belinda (little dog, much loved and found dead last year, a whole other saga which was dreadful and, I hope, never to be repeated), regarding the safety of the dogs. I’m sure that the apocalypse and subsequent home schooling where the girl has been forced to spend most of her days in lonely isolation has also massively hindered her development in a variety of exciting ways, most of which we will only become aware of as time moves unrelentingly onwards. The most difficult change so far has been her total loss of confidence in social situations coupled with crippling anxiety and an unhealthy obsession with me closing doors. Or, alternatively and maybe more worryingly, lockdown has just reinforced her complete ease with her own and the dogs company to the exclusion of the rest of society, with a long career as a hermit living in a cottage deep in some woodland somewhere practising the art of true social distancing. On a side note, this paragraph has been pre-approved by the daughter in question with no caveats, although this may change when the wind changes direction.
Despite the monotone, albeit surprisingly loud grumbling, we load the girls, dogs, enough food for at least a month, clean linens, far too much wine and piles of extra toilet paper (2 ply of course) into the boat. We have no water point next to the boat at our new mooring but we only have to pass 2 boats to reach the supply. With unusual grace and co-ordination, I take us off the mooring, around the stationary boats and slot us into the free, 69ft, space near the water tap, where Keith hops off and secures the middle line so we can fill the tank. I’ve got no idea on the actual capacity of our water tank but once full with a family of 4 on board and a little care, it will last a good 4-5 days, probably due to her past life as a hire boat. The sun is shining, I’ve installed a cheap but surprisingly effective net-type-thing as a dog gate for the bow doors and we set off as soon as our water tank is full. Interestingly, a full water tank (in the bow) drops us 2 inches deeper into the water, it’s quite noticeable when approaching her from the front, and I have to constantly remind myself that we are not sinking, we just have a full tank every time I look at her.
The next fairly urgent job is to pump out the toilet. If you are blissfully unaware of toilets on narrowboats, we have a pump-out which means we need to go to a place/marina with pump-out facilities to empty our toilet. With the whole stay at home stuff and the unreasonable amount of hours we spend working and, therefore, not boating, we actually have’t needed to pump-out for quite a while, although, with increasing temperatures and a growing bacterial load, the need for a pump-out is becoming troublingly insistent. As we are facing in the direction of Shobnall, we will pump out at the marina there and take on more water as we will have an overnight before arriving. Also, we always take every opportunity to top up the water, we are training ourselves for spending long periods of time on her once we get the last child to leave home. We also need to replace an empty gas cylinder, not a frequent event as ours are bloody ginormous, 2 have lasted us 11 months of boating, including over the winter. Not that we have the central heating working yet but that’s a story for another day. From our mooring to Shobnall is an easy couple of hours and we are in no rush, leaving our home mooring in the early afternoon, so we stay there overnight. Now, I remember my mother leaving a not inconsiderable amount of my new blacking on the entrance to Shobnall marina when we turned there recently. So now the perfect opportunity has arisen for me to return and reclaim some of it. (For all of you lovely people who are waiting for mum’s version of events, I say this. So am I. Cough. Cough. Mother. Ahem).
After a night with no particular adventure, apart from one lady who had clearly imbibed a touch of something warming, wandering half dressed past our boat with her dogs and us watching her to make sure she returned safely to her boat, daughter number 1 and I walked up to the marina to check we could change our gas cylinder and pump out. As we were walking towards the marina, a boat was reversing into the entrance so we waited for them to sort themselves out. Once they had left the marina, we went for it. To access pump out and diesel here, we need to reverse in to a narrow channel which is actually the entrance to the marina. I have included a few photos of the marina entrance to give an idea of the difficulty of reversing a 68ft narrowboat into it.
So, the moment of truth arrives, giving me an excellent opportunity to demonstrate my ineptitude once again. The sun is out, it’s warm and pleasant and there are already a few people out watching the boats. A lady has her phone out and is sitting next to a couple of fishermen next to the entrance as we approach. Great, once again we will be providing free entertainment.
Anyway, I have a plan. I’ve given this quite a lot of thought. The bridge just before the marina entrance doesn’t give a lot of space to get yourself into a good position to take the turn and I will need to put my nose into the belly of the winding hole to be able to swing the boat 90 degrees to allow me to reverse into the entrance. Except, I don’t want to swing to the full 90 degrees, as I’m reversing she will continue to swing around (given co-operation of the wind), so I’m thinking I can swing her nose 70 degrees or so to my right and, as I reverse, she will continue on the same trajectory, thus ending perpendicular to the marina entrance allowing me to reverse in. Reversing in is definitely the preferable option, to put her nose in would necessitate a whole world of pain for me and more joy for the gongoozlers, simply due to her length. I come under the bridge with the boat over to the right side of the water, to give me extra room to swing the stern left as I put the bow into the apex of the winding hole. If the boat is over to the left as I turn her to the right, I will be hampered by the concrete bank on my left and this will reduce my ability to get her nose deep into the apex. I chug slowly through the bridge and then put her into a hard right turn with high revs. This doesn’t speed me up, rather it forces the nose to the right and into the belly of the winding hole. I wait until I think I am near the bank of the apex with my bow, drop her into neutral and just wait for a second or two while I assess my position, what the wind is up to, the look of consternation on Keiths face…actually, it’s looking good, I am not lined up centrally with the marina entrance which is about 10ft to my left but my nose is in the apex, my stern is nowhere near the brickwork and my bow is still gently drifting to the right. I straighten the tiller, put her into reverse and begin to move backwards with the marina entrance coming tantalisingly close. So bloody close to doing it in a single two point turn. The boat is not quite straight enough in relation to the entrance to allow me to reverse her in and I am still at a bit of an angle but make a decision not to move out fully into the winding hole to adjust (or over-adjust and have the same issue but with a slightly different perspective) but to gently (note the term gently) and use the brickwork to tap me into position as I drift regally backwards. Honestly, I feel like the proverbial swan, serene and graceful on top, frantic panic, excessive activity and needless palpitations underneath! It’s literally the most competent I have ever looked and daughter number 1 goes off to see if the woman with the phone was videoing my moment of glory…
Sadly, she wasn’t, but she very kindly said that of the three boats she had watched complete the same manoeuvre over the past hour, mine was definitely the least entertaining. High praise indeed!
Feeling quite elated, I usher daughter number 2 into the shower while we are topping up our water tank and the nice chap at the marina is pumping out our loo. Unfortunately, in this marina, pump-out is not a self service job. Strangely, I enjoy pumping out the loo, I top up the tank with water, give the boat a rock, pump out and repeat a few times. If the pump-out hosing is clear you can have a good look at the material coming up and it gives a good idea of when you need to rinse and repeat. Not forgetting the reminder to improve the family diet 😂 I find it a strangely satisfying chore and I would pump out the tank every day of the week rather than put diesel in my car. Work that out. Celebrating a dirty job well done by someone else with ice-cream, we put the new gas cylinder on board, pay up and turn left as we leave.
Daughter number 2 is increasingly unhappy and has withdrawn into a monosyballic depression with a rapidly narrowing focus on dog safety; her anxiety is manifesting itself via heightened, stressful and unnecessary vigilance over the dogs, none of whom have even dared make a single bid for the promised freedom of the towpath. The dogs all have flotation jackets, are contained within the boat by either closed doors or the dog gate and are never left alone to claw their way out through the steel bottom. No-one has (yet) been close to being squished between the boat and a lock. The dogs have all been unusually well behaved, although none of them has had any chance to even think about going for a swim or giving one of the many baby ducks a little lick due to the draconian conditions they are currently living under. Our stress levels are spiralling in the wrong direction and I’m torn between continuing on our holiday versus just going home with the single aim of improving the atmosphere on the boat. Generally, I use up all of my tolerance quota at work; also I am really good at saying no, so we find ourselves at a bit of an impasse…
Keith and the reasonable daughter rush in to save the bloody teenager and plans are made for her to return home in the morning, helpfully utilising the same taxi that number 1 daughter booked to drop her off with the NCS. Although we only have a few hours cruising left to return to our mooring, we make sure the daughters have definitely gone, have a lovely leisurely breakfast and a cheeky walk around the nature reserve before setting off on. It’s bittersweet but shines a light on our ever evolving relationship with our daughters, not to mention the promise of future childfree boating… So, acknowledging the little sad part of my heart with a surprisingly bouncy spring in my step, I accept that this was most likely our last family holiday.