So I suppose you would like to know what it’s like to live and travel on a narrow boat. Well, if the first ten minutes of our journey are anything to go by I can categorically report that it is terrifying.
We managed to get all our stuff on board, take the car back to Rufford which will be our long term marina for this winter and then go by train back to Burnley and take up residence on the boat. There was some dispute with the many spiders on board who seemed to be under the impression that the boat was theirs but we resolved that by throwing them out of the windows. After a fitful first night’s sleep this was our first experience of ‘driving’ the boat.
We checked the fuel, filled the water tank, had one more cup of tea and then realised that we were all out of excuses. It was time to go. I had been told, and had read many times, that reversing a narrow boat is really difficult so the fact that our boat was parked nose into the bank had been playing on my mind all night.
The close proximity of a large number of very valuable craft didn’t help to allay my anxiety as I fired up the engine and nervously engaged reverse.
The boat took off at about seventy miles an hour backwards, or so it seemed. In practice it was probably more like one mile an hour and concentrating hard on all those YouTube videos I had been absorbing over the last few weeks I gracefully carved a beautiful arc across the open water. When I thought I was far enough out I put her into forward gear and set the tiller to take us towards the exit. What happened next took me by surprise to say the least. Our Golden Girl took on a mind of her own and drifted sideways towards all those expensive boats and the flimsy wooden jetties they were moored on. In my panic I couldn’t remember anything about the insurance cover I had purchased just two days ago. Did it cover multi million pound damage to boats and the destruction of inland waterways? While I was simultaneously contemplating this and throwing the throttle and tiller about wildly (just as everybody had advised me never to do) a kindly gentleman appeared on the end of one of the jetties, gave us a bit of a push and suddenly I was in control again. With racing heart and clammy hand I aimed the boat at the exit of the marina hoping to get out quickly before anybody else saw us. What I didn’t see was the large steel black and white guiding posts sticking out of the water. Gill was leaning on one of them with all her strength preventing me from felling it with fifteen tons of steel. Another marina resident sat calmly sipping a cup of tea and gave us a cheery wave as we finally made it out into the canal. She wisely reminded us that paint was replaceable so not to worry too much. I was a nervous wreck by now. I was under the impression that the boat would be controllable merely by judicious use of the tiller and throttle from the stern. I didn’t realise that you needed a supply of both land and boat based humans to fend off obstacles and prevent extensive damage to other people’s property. For the next half hour we pottered along sedately while my heart rate came back down to normal and I puzzled over the contradiction between the lazy, laid back boating life that everybody had talked about and the terrifying, mega stressful first ten minutes that I had just experienced. Then I remembered that about two hours ahead of us lay seven locks and I started to sweat again.
Five days, twenty one locks, six swing bridges and a few bottles of wine later, we find ourselves moored in Skipton and relaxing over beers as we chat like old hands to other boaters. Any casual eaves dropper would just assume we have been living on board for years listening to us swapping stories of handy knots and reverse thrust turning as we contemplate the ingrained dirt of our calloused boaters hands. If only they knew.
We learned an awful lot over those five days but that’s for another post.