Gloucester docks is
interesting for completely contrasting reasons but mostly, in my
opinion for the seagulls. The many imposing warehouses have been
tastefully preserved and turned into apartments with bars and
restaurants overlooking the water and on a warm summer’s evening it’s
a pleasant place to eat and drink or just to stroll around enjoying
the atmosphere. It’s popular amongst young and old alike but it’s
most popular amongst the many varieties of squawking, squabbling
gulls that have made it their playground. I have been told that there
is a landfill site nearby and after a good rummage around amongst the
garbage the birds seem to like nothing more than to use the main
basin that we were moored in as a kind of communal bathing facility.
It’s fun to watch them having a good old scrub up, dipping and diving
repeatedly to wash away the dust and grime of a hard day’s
scavenging. Unfortunately, whilst they may be fastidious about their
cleanliness they are a little less fussy about their toileting habits
and the entire dock area is liberally splattered on a daily basis.
Combine this behaviour with fastidious boat owners, alfresco diners
and summer evening strollers and you get a wonderful people watching
opportunity that is endlessly entertaining and really quite exciting.
We spent a rare
balmy evening sat on the back of the boat drinking wine with Gill’s
two sisters and like the diners outside the adjacent Greek
restaurant, we were nervous. At one point a couple vacated their
table and a beady eyed herring gull was quick to spot that they
hadn’t completely cleared their plates. With a loud shout of the
seagull equivalent of “grubs up” the entire colony rose as one to
investigate the opportunity of a spot of calamari and maybe a chip or
two. The other diners soon revealed their priorities as some took
cover under paper napkins, or hastily covered their plates whilst
the remainder focussed on protecting precious wine or beer lest it
should become diluted. To his credit a waiter was swiftly on the
scene to clear the table and disaster was averted. It might have been
more entertaining though had the restaurant been short staffed.
The narrow boat moored next to us was owned by a particularly proud skipper who spent most of the two days we were there, painting, cleaning and polishing his precious home. He had obviously been to Gloucester before because he had devised a cunning method of deterring the gulls from landing on the roof of his boat. Or so he thought. An elaborate arrangement of strings ran the length of his roof which would, in theory, make it tricky for the birds to alight. What he didn’t know was that while he and his partner were off somewhere enjoying an evening in town, the local gulls were having great fun playing French skipping, limbo dancing and learning to tight rope walk. I looked around the marina and his was the only boat with seagulls on the roof and when he returned he looked completely perplexed by the tangled disarray of string and generous calling cards the birds had left behind. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what we had witnessed and watched him patiently rearranging his macramé deterrent and reaching for his bucket and mop once more while all around him sea birds sniggered and laughed. I’m sure if he had stayed another day they would have set up a zip line.
We enjoyed our stay
in Gloucester and it was lovely to catch up with family and friends.
Admittedly the gulls were noisy and washing the boat so much was a
real pain but for sheer entertainment they took some beating. Next
stop Sharpness to see if big ships and racing tides can compete.
When amber means go
All photos by Gill Pearson
Rivers aren’t ideal places for narrow boats because they move about too much and mooring opportunities are scarce. When I say they move about, I don’t mean that they may not be where they were yesterday, I mean that the water in them is always moving and when it’s flowing quickly handling a narrow boat can get a bit tricky. The river authorities have a traffic light system to guide would be adventurers along the lines of: Green; everything is tickety boo and you can go and have a nice time messing about on the river. Amber means, if you are experienced and confident or stupid and foolhardy go ahead and don’t blame us if you drown. Red means, have you written a will and if not can I have your boat when you do drown? We had spent eight days repeatedly checking the river Severn condition during our enforced stay in Stourport and it was always red. Red for stop, red for danger, red for death.
We had all agreed that we were definitely not going to go on the river until conditions were green because there was little point in taking risks and Gill and I had no experience of moving waters so it would be stupid to take the chance. Patience was the key to survival we all said, so why we left Stourport on Saturday with the river condition on amber I will never know. It certainly wasn’t the ‘experienced and confident’ factor.
We talked at length
to Greg the lock keeper who said we could proceed with caution but we
wouldn’t be allowed to go past Worcester bridge because of a massive
build up of debris against two of the arches. I am a little bit
ashamed to say that we ignored his advice and moored up later that
day, just beyond Worcester bridge, a little frazzled but very much
Stourport basin is
about fifty feet higher than the river so you have to descend through
two pairs of staircase locks to get down and I got more apprehensive
with each successive lock. When the gates of the final one opened and
I saw the river speeding past it felt as if I was about to launch the
boat, Gill, myself and pretty much everything we own into to the
hands of a wild and irresponsible parent. I edged cautiously out into
the flow and to my surprise and relief I was gently picked up and
taken along on the current and it was actually rather nice. We were
speeding along at about six miles an hour which is fast for a narrow
boat, certainly faster than we had ever been before, but the width of
the river masked any sense of speed and I found myself quite enjoying
the sensation. Then I thought, what if I want to stop? The banks are
all lined with trees and bushes and I knew that it was necessary to
make a U turn before trying to bring the boat to a halt and suddenly
I wasn’t enjoying myself at all. Then we saw a kingfisher and the sun
was shining and it was all lovely again and so it went on. The
constant to and fro of serenity and fear gradually settled on the
side of calm, enabling us to take in the beauty of the river and our
surroundings and to respectfully enjoy the power of the water.
We moored up before
the forbidden bridge at Worcester and debated our options. Gill and I
went to take a closer look at the debris and it was obvious that the
sixty foot tree spanning the left arch was why the trouble had
started. There was an interesting collection of natural and man made
artefacts wedged firmly against the tree and there were going to be
quite a few people upstream wondering where their ladders or garden
shed had gone. We overheard a couple of locals point out that at
least there wasn’t a dead cow amongst it like the last time. Yuk. We
watched with our hearts in our mouths as a couple of boats appeared
and approached the bridge at speed, one went through the middle arch
and the other through the one to the right and that was all we needed
to make up our minds. We untied the boats and after a quick U turn I
approached the bridge feeling very much like a naughty schoolboy who
had been told very clearly where the boundaries were but I was going
outside them anyway. It was less than a mile to the place we wanted
to moor for the night and I was feeling pretty chuffed with my first
day on the river. We had to moor three abreast because of the limited
spaces but it made for a very sociable evening and a rather
The boat immediately behind us looked kind of familiar but it was only when we got chatting with Phillip and Pamela, the owners, that I put two and two together and realised it was Grace from Kinver. Grace had featured in the blog! She was the internationally recognised narrow boat, star of the “Steak pies and Aston Martins” post from a couple of weeks ago no less. We have since met Phillip and Pamela again and over a glass or two of wine I confessed to having sneakily photographed their boat to feature it in a blog.
The next day I fell
foul of over confidence and nearly lost the boat to a fast flowing
weir as we approached a lock. There was a lot of panicked over
revving of the engine and extreme tiller action before I wrestled it
back on course and safely into the lock and it was a short sharp
lesson in becoming complacent and loosing respect for the power of
the water. We moored for the second night at Upton upon Severn on a
floating pontoon, so called because it can rise and fall with the
water levels and we could clearly see that it had been ten feet
higher just a few days ago. The status of the river was still amber
but things were clearly settling down and we went to sleep without at
care in the world and feeling quite at home in our new environment.
That was, until about 4.30am.
I’m used to the
sound of birds running about on the roof of the boat so when I first
woke up that’s what I assumed I could hear but then I thought; hang
on, birds don’t wear clogs and I’m pretty sure they don’t dance and
make the boat rock. Bleary eyed I peeped out of the window half
expecting to see that we were being swept to our death by the
currents but what I saw was what appeared to be the remains of a
thousand beaver’s dams floating by, interspersed with the occasional
tree or piece of riverside infrastructure. In front of the boats
debris was rapidly building up to form a new dam whilst behind us was
the source of the terrible racket we had heard. A full set of landing
steps complete with accessories had come under the boat and lodged
behind us. The whole scene was quite surreal but I realised what had
happened. The Environment Agency had been scheduled to clear the
debris at Worcester bridge overnight and twelve hours later we were
directly in the path of everything that had been released as it made
it’s way down the river. At least we weren’t going with it.
We took a day off in
Upton upon Severn to catch up on chores and sleep and to take a
closer look at the small town and it’s interesting buildings and
history. Further entertainment was provided by a procession of sand
barges that use this section of the Severn to move thousands of tons
of material about two miles down stream one boatload at a time. They
passed us by empty and towering above us and then, half an hour later
they returned fully laden and looking like they were about to sink
under their load. We bobbed about in their wake but were otherwise
undisturbed by them. The barges and a huge passenger trip boat both
contributed to the new and fascinating experience of being on ‘big’
water, quite a contrast to the sleepy canals we were used to. The
final leg to Gloucester was uneventful with all the manned locks
opening as we approached like the magical doors to a new enchanted
world and the exceptionally friendly lock keepers handing out much
appreciated tips and advice as Bob handed them equally appreciated
bottles of beer. There were multiple sightings of kingfishers,
cormorants and many other birds along the way and the occasional
tempting riverside pub which were all duly noted for further
exploration. The last lock just before the docks is approached along
a channel parallel to the river and where the river re-joins it there
is a strong eddy that we had been warned about. After the earlier
experience at the weir I gave it my full concentration and we passed
into the giant lock without a problem and from there into the docks
themselves and a relative haven of calm.
My first river
experience had a bit of everything but mostly I would describe it as
No stopping now
This weekend Gill and I travelled to Gloucester to see her side of the family for the last time before we depart. I’m not sure whether it is to do with the distance involved, or the fact that it took up a whole weekend, but for some reason it has taken on an importance in my mind that makes it very significant. It’s like the beginning of the end of the final preparations. If that isn’t too convoluted. You know those rows of dominos that you set up as a child? The ones that all fell down in sequence once you toppled the first one. Well that is how it feels. Like we have knocked over the first domino and now nothing will stop all the others from tumbling. On Sunday we will be getting together with some friends for a farewell party and then my sister will be coming to stay. She will be our last overnight guest in this house. The following weekend we are visiting another friend for the final time before we leave and so it goes on. Each occasion like another domino tumbling and leading inevitably to the next one. The flaw in the analogy is that, unlike the toppling dominos, there are frustrating delays between each event. I’m impatient. I want all these moments to roll together into a seamless continuum that takes us up to April 26th. Fortunately there are plenty of things to do in between these engagements to keep us occupied.
Over the course of the next week we plan to do our first full packing session. This involves gathering all our clothing and equipment for the trip and packing it into our ten bags to go on the bikes. Yes that’s five bags per bike. Two rear panniers, two front ones and a handle bar bag each. The purpose of this exercise, so long before we go, is that it always reveals last minute things that we need to buy, mend or adjust and leaves us plenty of time to do it. I’ll take some photographs for those of you who have asked us how we intend to carry everything on the bikes (and for other cycle tourers who just like to see other peoples setups, geeks I suppose). It’s also a chance to check that the weight distribution is reasonably even and to re-familiarise ourselves with what goes where. This is really important as there is nothing more frustrating than having to delve into three panniers in succession in order to find an urgently needed piece of kit when the weather suddenly changes.
On a more tedious level it’s probably time now to start talking to the service providers about terminating our various contracts with them. I did start to look on line to do it but of course their web sites only cater for people moving from one home to another. As opposed to weirdos who plan to put their homes on their bikes and pedal off into the sunset. No doubt some of the conversations on the phone will be tortuous. “Address you are moving to?” “There isn’t one, we are travelling.” “But we need your new address for correspondence.” “We won’t have one, we will be in a different place every night.” “Oh that’s a bit difficult, I’ll just put you on hold a minute.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. I can’t wait.
My next blog post will probably be a rant about the intransigence of one or other utility company.