Home Turf

Tuesday 20th August

I’ve finally done it. After a year of havering and agonising, I’ve actually bought a narrowboat. She’s called ‘Turf’ and she’s 32 feet long. All I’ve got to do now is get her home. The rain stopped yesterday morning and the sun came out as we set off from Leighton Buzzard, heading north along the Grand Union Canal. The voyage will take between three and six weeks, depending on the weather, the performance of ‘Turf’s’ 75 year old engine and the capabilities of skipper and crew. I’m a complete narrow boating novice and the plan – which, to be honest, feels a little foolhardy just at the moment – is to pilot the boat from here in Buckinghamshire to her new home on the Lancaster Canal, the most northern reach of the English canal network.

Luckily for me, for the first few days I have my narrowboat guardian angel on board. Geoff is a calm and experienced canal hand who has owned several boats and covered countless canal miles over his boating career. He has generously offered to teach me the ropes — quite literally — as well as the myriad other tasks I need to master.

I have a lot to learn. Just an hour into the journey,  I tackle my first flight of locks at Soulbury. The presence of a volunteer lock-keeper makes this less-daunting than it might have been. He guides me through the baffling business step by step and I – like a clumsy mime artist on the opposite bank of the canal –  mirror his actions. With Geoff at the tiller we negotiate the three locks at a cracking pace although I’m not at all sure what I’m doing or why. Within the hour I give a solo performance at another lock, struggling – and just about succeeding – to remember the sequence: raise the paddles to fill the lock, open the gates to allow the boat into the lock, close the gate behind the boat, lower the paddles, then on to the next gate. It is not, as they say, rocket science – it’s more like hydro dynamics; but this morning I had no idea how to do this stuff, now I’ve learned a little.  

On the downside I’m having trouble with one of the the most basic of boating tasks: cranking ‘Turf’s’ vintage engine into life. Even Geoff is marvelling at the punishing ergonomics of ‘Turf’s’ 16 horsepower Lister CE engine. “Why on earth is it designed like that?” he asks over a pint in a pub on the outskirts of Milton Keynes.

I share his pain. The engine has a heavy, metal flywheel positioned at knee height. This needs to be coaxed into action with a detachable starter handle. It’s a bit like starting a very old car except the job is tackled in the cramped confines of ‘Turf’s’ tiny engine room. Crouching, legs apart, with one foot on a step and the other perilously close to the flywheel,  bowed head virtually banging on the boat wall, you launch into a crank-whirling frenzy. Then, at peak momentum, you reach one arm across the spinning flywheel to pull an awkwardly positioned lever. This engages the diesel engine’s compression. Correctly timed, with a following wind (and a prayer to the gods of kinetics), the engine will start with a wheezy splutter.  It’s all a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time only much more tiring and, after three or four failed attempts, not so funny. 

Geoff and I have now worked out a double act where he whirls the flywheel while I wait for his command to flip the lever. This works. Mostly.  But it seems a lot of bother for a job that on modern boats is done with the turn of a key and the press of a button. Not for the first time I am wondering whether ‘Turf’ and I are well-matched. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely boat. At 32 feet she’s small for a narrowboat: cramped but easy to manoeuvre. She was built in 1978, which is old for a boat. But for me, she has a commanding virtue: at £17,750 ‘Turf’ is more affordable than most secondhand narrow boats. Two separate surveys confirm her hull is in very good condition and that her engine is sound and well-maintained. 

And what about narrowboating itself: is it for me? At the moment the anxiety is outweighing the enjoyment. I’m bumping my head a lot and stressing about the chemical toilet. I haven’t slept brilliantly in the boatman’s cabin — 6 feet by 4 feet —  and I’m struggling with the Calor gas cooker. There are more locks ahead, swing-bridges, tunnels and, for all I know, dragons. But this afternoon Geoff pointed to a streak of iridescent blue darting across the water: the first kingfisher of the trip. It was a genuinely moving and uplifting sight. Was that joyous, pocket rocket of a bird the promise of halcyon days to come? Does it mean that I’m going to adapt to life on the canals; that I’ll come to love ‘Turf’ unconditionally … perhaps even that I’ll learn how to start that blessed Lister?  Watch this very confined space. 

Wednesday 21st August

Geoff tells me we are now “on canal time” and that I need to slow down. We chat over breakfast. We have a second cup of tea. I watch the clock nervously. The day is wasting. Eventually we are ready to move. But starting the boat proves tricky. Geoff’s back is fragile, so I crank the engine while he stands by to pull the compression lever. Miraculously, I persuade the engine to fire first time. In a moment of triumphant madness, I forget to hold on to the steel starting-crank which is designed to disengage once the mighty 23 inch flywheel begins spinning. The crank stays on the flywheel, whipping round at 1,000 rpm like a knife on the wheel of Boadecia’s chariot. Geoff and I yell and cower in the corner of the engine room. This is truly alarming. Geoff stretches for the ‘off’ button and the engine, with its scything attachment, gradually slows down. We have to try again. For God’s sake don’t let go of the starting crank. Yes, I know. We try again and it starts. I hang on grimly to the handle. Geoff slows the revs down and…the engine stalls. I’m not terribly happy. Another break and another cranking session. The engine starts again and stays started. No-one loses a leg.  Hooray!

We eventually move off around midday…but only far as Milton Keynes Marina where we have two tasks: emptying the chemical loo and buying a new gas bottle. As we’re new to the boat we park outside the marina and walk 200 yards to the marina office where we exchange our empty gas cylinder for a newer, heavier one. We struggle back to the boat to find that it’s too big to fit the boat. Back to the office where we exchange it for a smaller one. Back to the boat. Then the toilet. It won’t break apart to allow us to empty the cassette. Much grunting and cursing. A call to Stefano the previous owner: “What do we do?” “No idea.” I have yet another go. I kick and wiggle it and finally the top half comes away. We can complete the grisly task of emptying its contents into the stainless steel hopper at the marina. Is everything always going to be this hard? By the time we get away it’s four o’clock and we’ve travelled about two miles. The weight of the 200+ miles ahead weighs down on me. We plough on ’til about 8.30pm and make a  dash for the pub. Veggie wellington and new potatoes (not bad!) and two decent pints of bitter. Very bad. I’m up repeatedly in the night to use the chemical toilet.

Thursday 22nd August

This feels like the first full day of cruising. We don’t start very early. But since we parked next to a waterways toilet block, we can empty the loo again (much easier this time), and fill up with water. Geoff tells me that this is good: empty toilets, full gas tank, no shortage of fuel or water. Are we ready to cruise? Definitely. We share the driving. ‘Turf’ is heavy on the tiller but responsive. The throttle control is tricky to reach — more ergonomic problems. Did the original owner have particularly long arms? He must have been short because I can’t stand up in the rear cabin and I’m 5’8″.

At Stoke Bruerne we encounter our first major flight of locks. We fall in with an elderly, experienced boat owner and her younger friend – a novice like me. The two beginners operate the locks shouting queries and encouragement across the canal. Do we wind this one first? Am I doing this right? Watch out, your ratchet’s not engaged…etc etc.

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Locks spook me. The broiling water charging into the brick-lined pit, the huge muddy, dinosaur-like wooden gate beams disappearing and reappearing as the lock is filled and emptied. Then there are the paddles – the mysterious, invisible barriers under the gates, that control the water. This is what all that cranking is about (so much cranking on the canals!); the click clicking of a restraining ratchet rewarding your efforts as the paddles come up. When they go down again, you lift the ratchet while controlling the descent of the paddles with the windlass — a metal tool part-spanner and part-starting handle. If you let go of the windlass it can fly off and concuss you or break your arm, or leg, or head — or the head or limb of one of the fascinated onlookers who congregate around locks. The so-called gongoozlers.

Going through the locks takes longer than expected – about two hours. But I feel a sense of achievement for the first time this trip. I’m beginning to commit these arcane, repetitive processes to memory.

We push on. More time at the tiller. I don’t like or dislike it. The engine chugs along. The countryside rolls slowly past. Very slowly past. Too damn slowly past. We meet other boats, slow down and edge nervously towards the side (not too close or you’ll run aground!). A wave and a smile (usually) from other narrow boaters as we pass. I venture an occasional “nice boat” or “lovely dog” but there’s little time for conversation. I mostly remember to slow down when passing moored boats. One fellow boat owner reading a Daily Mail on the stern responds to my cheery “lovely afternoon” with a more in-sorrow-than-in-anger shake of the head. I’m going too fast. “Sorry!” I slow down from a jaunty 2 mph to a slug-like 1mph. 

We stop at Blisworth where Geoff goes off to admire other people’s boats. I do a little light laundry — underpants and a tee shirt . Where do you hang these things to dry? The tiny bathroom to start with, moving them to the still-warm engine room at the end of the day. Will everything smell of diesel? Is that good or bad? Perhaps I’ll exude the essence of true boater if I smell like an engine sump.

Geoff returns from his tour of inspection with exciting news. He’s been given the name  of someone who might service ‘Turf’s’ aged engine. This is one of my top three current anxieties (tunnel phobia, drowning in a lock and the engine exploding…since you ask). I call the number and speak to Mr Powell’s polite and helpful wife and …success! He’ll meet us under a bridge at Braunston on Tuesday morning to take a look at ‘Turf’s’ engine, change the oil and replace the filters — if he can find filters for an old and uncommon engine at such short notice. I am relieved and very grateful to everyone: Geoff, Mrs Powell and her engineer husband. With 200+ miles ahead I want someone to reassure me that the engine is not going to melt down, explode or subside into inscrutable silence. 

Feeling pleased with ourselves, we approach the final challenge of the day: The Blisworth Tunnel. I’m not good underground. I have nightmares about pot-holing accidents. As we near the ominous oval void of the tunnel — two miles of unrelieved, roof-dripping darkness — the Greek myth references overwhelm the pot-holing. We’re entering the underworld. Sensory deprivation relieved only by the occasional, flickering  light on the very edge of our vision. Is that a boat ahead? Is it coming towards us or going away? Is it the light at the end of the tunnel…probably not an oncoming train. I try not to look back towards the dying light of the tunnel entrance. But I do. Why on earth did I agree to this nightmare? Geoff is much more composed, half-hoping we meet another boat coming the other way so he can relate the experience to fellow boaters. I’d really rather not. What if it’s a broad beam boat? Neither of us could pass. ‘Turf’ is crap at going backwards. We’d inhabit the Underworld for the rest of eternity. I don’t share these thoughts with Geoff because they are clearly unhinged. I later learn that wide-beam boats can only enter the tunnel by prior arrangement, so that they have the full-length of the Stygian darkness to themselves. Eventually, peering, straining through my binoculars I confirm that the distant orb of light is the end of the tunnel. Thank Zeus! As we emerge into daylight I confess to Geoff that this had been an entirely negative experience for me. I’m rewarded with a description of the Harecastle Tunnel which I will have to pass through on the Trent and Mersey Canal — later in my trip and probably alone. You can’t believe when you go in how low the roof is, Geoff enthuses. Then it gets lower… and lower again. You have to remove the roof exhaust pipe from the engine … and you go through in convoy with other boats. The tunnel is full of choking exhaust fumes. I’m really worried now. Is this a leisure activity? Have we all gone stark, staring bonkers?  Later I reach for the map and plot an alternative route home, avoiding the Harecastle Tunnel.

Friday 23rd August

An egg and cress sandwich was the main event today. We stopped for a late lunch at Nether Heywood and  after a pint of Timothy Taylor bitter in the Olde Sun, I bought a sandwich on the way back to the boat. A few hours later I was suffering stomach pains. Of course it might have been caused by some other bacterium than those in the sandwich. Canal water is pretty dirty after all. It was a shame because this evening Geoff’s partner Miriam arrived with her rescue greyhound, Grace. We’re not all squeezing on to ‘Turf”:  Miriam, Grace and Geoff are camping a few miles up the Grand Union at Braunston. Probably just as well given Egg and Cressgate.

Saturday 24th August

Feeling better.  Very hot and sunny today. Another lunchtime start. Miriam and Grace join us on the boat to help with the  flight of locks before the Braunston Tunnel. Miriam is nifty around a lock. Grace mostly lies in the shade. We polish off the flight by mid afternoon and enjoy a well-earned pint in a canalside pub before Geoff and I square up to the Braunston Tunnel. It’s shorter than the Blisworth. It has older brickwork. And bats. I see them flitting and swooping ahead of us  in ‘Turf’s’ tunnel light like tiny acrobats. I like them: they give me something to seek out in the darkness; something to stop me thinking about tumbling off the back of the boat into the River Styx. Did I mention that I don’t like tunnels? Granted, there is one rather beautiful moment towards the end of this one. We can see the exit in the soft, late afternoon light and suddenly Geoff says “That’s Miriam!” and sure enough, when I focus my binoculars hundreds of yards ahead on the oval of light, there is a tiny, pale figure at its centre, almost luminous, like a figure on a cameo brooch. She is waiting patiently, Grace at her feet, to catch a photo of ‘Turf’ emerging from darkness into light. I’m looking forward to seeing her photo. I bet I’m wearing a very broad grin as we escape the underworld: recalled to life!

We had planned to press on to Braunston village this evening but it’s late and there are another half dozen locks en route. Instead we moor ‘Turf’ in a cutting, with trees overhanging the canal. We walk to a pub named after an Admiral for an excellent stir fry. Afterwards, Geoff, Miriam and Grace go off to their tent, and I return to the boat in the gathering gloom. I have a lot to think about. Over dinner the long-feared moment arrived: Skipper Geoff is leaving ‘Turf’. In the morning I will have to start the engine without him— something I’ve not done before — and then negotiate half a dozen locks on my own. Can this be done? Moreover, can I manage the remaining 160 or so miles home as a lone sailor? Probably not, I conclude. Right. I need to do something. I contact boat movers. I find a man called John who is willing to a) pilot ‘Turf’ from Braunston to the Lancaster Canal, b) Let me stay on board c) give me more lessons en route d) take the boat and me across the Ribble Link e) all for £1,250. That’s a lot of money. Will I stump up? This wasn’t in the plan…or budget. I’d better check with Judith. It’s her money too.

Sunday 25th August

Solo Sunday dawns. Geoff has challenged me to tackle the last six locks to Braunston on my own. He’s kindly said I should call him if I get into a pickle, omitting to mention that there is no mobile phone signal here! (To be fair, I don’t think he knew).  He, Miriam and Grace are enjoying a relaxing day on the campsite before returning to Suffolk tomorrow. It’s a sensible option given the heat and I am loath to disturb them. 

First problem: the Engine. I go through pre-flight checks viz: open both engine room doors in case I let go of the crank and have to make a run for it; fill up the day tank with diesel; place an oily dishwashing sponge (don’t ask!) into the engine to keep the throttle open; attach the mighty starting crank to the 23 inch flywheel. I assume the position: bent forwards like a sprinter in the blocks…or perhaps a shot putter in the circle…either way, I’m in the zone. This time you’re going to start you awkward, cranky Lister. My portly 15 stone frame explodes into action, every fibre straining. The flywheel hurtles,  I reach for the compression lever and pull. Nothing. The very definition of anti-climax. Breathe, swear,  repeat. Nothing. Rien. Nada. All I want is that modest put-put of a vintage diesel. A third attempt ends the same way. As I lean on the thoroughly inadequate engine safety guard, sucking in drafts of diesel-fumed air, I hear a put-put sound echoing down the canal. What mockery is this? I climb onto ‘Turf’s’ stern and see an old working boat shuffling into a mooring behind me. Aha: that boatman will know about hand-cranked engines. Five minutes later I stroll chummily along the towpath to beg a favour. A man about my age is neatly clipping the foliage alongside his moored boat with a pair of garden shears. “I hadn’t realised we were supposed to do that,” I say. “I’m going to paint this side of the boat later,” he explains patiently. “I don’t want grass and weeds spoiling the finish”. He tells me that the contractors working for the Canal and River Trust do not cut the banks often enough. He’s a canal volunteer and reckons enthusiasts could do the job more effectively for no charge. We chat amiably for a few more minutes before I finally come to the point: “Could I ask a favour?”. He quickly agrees and steps along to ‘Turf’ where he grips the compression lever as I revert to crank-dervish mode. ‘Now!’ The engine sputters into life. But now my new friend wants to show me his engine, a massive lump made by the English firm Petter. Ww walk back to his boat, and as he describes his engine’s virtues and foibles, I keep one, wary eye on ‘Turf’, fearing that my engine will splutter and stall. It doesn’t. I express justified admiration for his lovely old working boat and stride back to ‘Turf’. Stage one accomplished.

I realise that to succeed as a novice, single-handed narrowboater I am going to have take a leaf out of the Blanche Dubois playbook, viz: always relying on the kindness of strangers. My next benefactors are a lovely couple in late middle age who offer to accompany me through all six locks AND insist that I stay on my boat all the time, leaving the windlass and lock gate work to them. They applaud my toddler tiller work and even grin when ‘Turf’ gets a little too friendly with their boat in the locks — smooching alongside in a paint-threatening manner. “Sorry” and “Thank you” see me through the next two hours and all six locks. “Let me buy you both a drink.” I shout across as we finish the last lock. “It’s 10.30 in the morning,” comes the puzzled reply. Perhaps I’m on canal time. Geoff warns later that I’ll be getting a reputation as a boat-board alcoholic, what with the early drink habit and the seven days growth of beard. 

I’m now entering Braunston itself, the beating heart of Canal Land. Here the Grand Union and Coventry Canals meet: left to Brum, right to Coventry. There are chandlers offering boat bits and even a ropeworks. My ropes are quite frankly ropey and in need of urgent replacement: the frayed section in the middle of my starboard rope could star in a public information film. It is rough, nasty, disintegrating nylon. Geoff thinks I should replace all of them with something more tactile in hemp. How much is that going to cost? The outlay is endless. And I’m still worried about the rest of the journey? Should I book John and pay the £1,250 fee? As I worry about all this — the escalating cost, the long journey ahead, the fearsome locks on the Trent and Mersey not to mention the Ribble Link — I realise that I’ve lost my appetite and my stomach is aching. I have a painful, sleepless, anxious night. 

Monday 26th August

I moored last night outside Paul Redfern’s new workshop just by the bottom lock at Braunston. He’s still moving-in  and only has time for a quick chat this morning. Paul is an expert on vintage diesels, heir to a famous canalside business set up by his father. We’ve already had a brief phone conversation and an email exchange about the possibility of giving ’Turf’s’ 1945 Lister engine an electric start. This would replace crank-dervish mode with a simple start button and relieve the anxiety of stalling in mid-canal or worse, mid-river. Paul looks at the engine and says he could do the job for  around £2,000. New engine guards might be another £300-£500. But he can’t do it before I get to Lancaster. It would probably be next Spring. 

A call from Mrs Powell, the engineer’s wife:  he can’t service my engine after all,  his father has died and he is taken up with sad family duties.

I’m beginning to think buying ‘Turf’ really was a mistake. I am a hopeless romantic. Worse, I am a hopeless mechanic. This boat needs a dedicated vintage engine enthusiast content to live with its eccentricities  and spend his (or her) leisure hours tinkering, servicing, improving the engine. If I have to pay professionals to do all this it could bankrupt me. Why didn’t I spot this at the beginning? I suppose because I really wanted to believe I could do it. Stefano made it all look very easy. His relaxed manner persuaded me that I too could rise to the  challenge. I thought perhaps I’d gain confidence and wield the odd spanner myself. I was so drawn to ‘Turf’s’ charms that I set all qualms aside. Now they are staring me in the wallet. Lancaster seems a long way away. 

There are other issues. If I’m honest I’m still not enjoying steering the boat along the canal. I’ve had scrapes, the odd bang against a barge (!) and a few angry looks and words.  

I find the constant diesel emissions literally sickening. ‘Turf’s’ exhaust stack sends clouds of  smoke straight at the driver. At the end of the day I often have a headache to complement my current stomach-ache. Real narrow boaters are unaffected by such trifles: Geoff positively likes the smell of diesel. As I’m writing this, moored up outside Braunston, the stationary boat in front has been running its engine for more than an hour, presumably to heat water or charge batteries. The diesel smell is overpowering and the environmental impact of the CO2 and the diesel particulates is another real concern for me.

Two things seem clear: I can’t take ‘Turf’ home alone while I’m unable even to start the engine. And costs are mounting alarmingly. For the first time I consider the unthinkable: should I cut my losses and sell her? If she does have to go, I’d like to sell her to Geoff and Miriam. They both love the boat and are obviously so much more comfortable with her than I am; even Grace looks at home on board! Geoff thinks he’d need the electric starter because of his bad back. But he started the engine alone yesterday and today. I’ve shared my worries with him. He’s going to see if he can make an offer. . 

If I do wimp out of boat owning I will feel deflated. But I think that’s  better than persisting, losing more money and still selling up eventually. Quite rapidly the possibility of giving up ‘Turf’ turns into a plan. I’m disappointed. It’s the end of a dream. But truth be told, it was a short-lived dream. I got into this as a way of finding an occasional bolt-hole away from the school where Judith works and where we both now live. As I became engrossed in the world of narrowboats I lost sight of the original objective. I’m in over my head. I feel pretty foolish. I shave off my beard.