Welcome aboard! We're setting sail on our inaugural canal boat trip. Join us as we explore the waterways and share our experiences. We hope our adventures will inspire and assist other PYC boaters.
So, we spent a whopping twelve days on a boat. Twelve! Can you believe it? Me? I was the captain, or rather, the glorified steering wheel holder. Four glorious hours a day of gripping the tiller and being serenaded by the dulcet tones of our trusty Beta 28 engine. Rachel, bless her heart, handled the gruelling task of operating the locks – a staggering seventy-eight of them. We covered a mind-boggling one hundred miles, split between fifty-eight thrilling river miles and forty-two adrenaline-pumping canal miles. Talk about excitement. I mean, who needs a rollercoaster when you can spend hours waiting for a big metal door to open? Absolute thrill-a-minute. So, there you have it, folks – the summarised version of our totally mind-blowing, edge-of-your-seat water escapade. But hey, if you're really that desperate for excitement, feel free to subject yourself to the excruciating details that follow."
Captain's Log Wednesday 3rd July 2024
Our Epic (and Slightly Chaotic) River/Canal Caper
Ahoy there! Buckle up for a tale of triumph (mostly) and tribulations (definitely) on the calm waters... well, more like the rivers of Cambridgeshire.
We finally set sail, or rather, cast off at 2 pm (fashionably late, of course) from our posh digs at Orton Mere lock, historically known as Vysers for the Earth dwellers. Our trusty vessel, the aptly named "Hope" (let's hope it lives up to its name!), a 30-foot, 10-ton beauty, was stocked to the gills with enough snacks to feed a small army for our 12-day voyage across the vast territories of Cambridgeshire, Northamptonshire, and finally, the uncharted waters of Leicestershire.
Our final destination: Debdale Wharf Marine in Leicestershire, a stone’s throw from where Rachel's sister resides with her crew of tiny pirates.
Now, the first lock at Alwalton. My chance to shine as the fearless captain! Except, in true captain-y fashion, I decided to forgo the recommended "centreline rope" technique and wing it with the lock wall chains. Let's just say it went about as smoothly as a pirate ship in a hurricane. Imagine a 10-ton hunk of metal doing a synchronised swimming routine with the lock wall - all accompanied by the delightful clanging of a giant bell. Needless to say, I ate a large helping of humble pie for that one.
Speaking of near misses, Rachel, ever the enthusiastic first mate, almost became a mermaid when her coat snagged on the handrail of the boat as she jumped off with lock and cabinet keys in hand! Thankfully, her life insurance seems to be in order, so we've instituted a new rule: no jumping ship unless it's, you know, actually sinking.
Later, fueled by a week's worth of work crammed into two days (because men are too manly to complain, obviously), I convinced myself I'd left the van door wide open at Peterborough Yacht Club (a self help club) carpark. All thanks to that one of Vysers' inhabitants keeping us hostage with conversation while Rachel telepathically communicated her desire to set sail. But hey, Rachel to the rescue again, assuring me it would all be alright.
Oh, and did I mention the hayfever? Because of course. Despite the completely avoidable mishaps, we sailed (well, puttered) into the night, conquering the mighty waters of Water Newton, Wansford, and Yarwell. Unable to find a suitable posh harbour (because apparently not all moorings are created equal), we ended up at Elton Lock.
We figured being good boaters, we'd make ourselves scarce early in the morning to avoid any grumpy boaters waiting to use the lock. Rachel then whipped up some mystery concoction for dinner (bless her adventurous spirit!), and soon we were both fast asleep, dreaming of smooth sailing and, hopefully, fewer brushes with disaster.
Stay tuned for the next thrilling instalment of our canal capers!
Our Epic (and Slightly Chaotic) River/Canal Caper
Ahoy there! Buckle up for a tale of triumph (mostly) and tribulations (definitely) on the calm waters... well, more like the rivers of Cambridgeshire.
We finally set sail, or rather, cast off at 2 pm (fashionably late, of course) from our posh digs at Orton Mere lock, historically known as Vysers for the Earth dwellers. Our trusty vessel, the aptly named "Hope" (let's hope it lives up to its name!), a 30-foot, 10-ton beauty, was stocked to the gills with enough snacks to feed a small army for our 12-day voyage across the vast territories of Cambridgeshire, Northamptonshire, and finally, the uncharted waters of Leicestershire.
Our final destination: Debdale Wharf Marine in Leicestershire, a stone’s throw from where Rachel's sister resides with her crew of tiny pirates.
Now, the first lock at Alwalton. My chance to shine as the fearless captain! Except, in true captain-y fashion, I decided to forgo the recommended "centreline rope" technique and wing it with the lock wall chains. Let's just say it went about as smoothly as a pirate ship in a hurricane. Imagine a 10-ton hunk of metal doing a synchronised swimming routine with the lock wall - all accompanied by the delightful clanging of a giant bell. Needless to say, I ate a large helping of humble pie for that one.
Speaking of near misses, Rachel, ever the enthusiastic first mate, almost became a mermaid when her coat snagged on the handrail of the boat as she jumped off with lock and cabinet keys in hand! Thankfully, her life insurance seems to be in order, so we've instituted a new rule: no jumping ship unless it's, you know, actually sinking.
Later, fueled by a week's worth of work crammed into two days (because men are too manly to complain, obviously), I convinced myself I'd left the van door wide open at Peterborough Yacht Club (a self help club) carpark. All thanks to that one of Vysers' inhabitants keeping us hostage with conversation while Rachel telepathically communicated her desire to set sail. But hey, Rachel to the rescue again, assuring me it would all be alright.
Oh, and did I mention the hayfever? Because of course. Despite the completely avoidable mishaps, we sailed (well, puttered) into the night, conquering the mighty waters of Water Newton, Wansford, and Yarwell. Unable to find a suitable posh harbour (because apparently not all moorings are created equal), we ended up at Elton Lock.
We figured being good boaters, we'd make ourselves scarce early in the morning to avoid any grumpy boaters waiting to use the lock. Rachel then whipped up some mystery concoction for dinner (bless her adventurous spirit!), and soon we were both fast asleep, dreaming of smooth sailing and, hopefully, fewer brushes with disaster.
Stay tuned for the next thrilling instalment of our canal capers!
Captain's Log Thursday 4rd July 2024
Oundle Adventures:
Cast off the lines (well, maybe the mooring lines in this case) at 5:30 am and charted a course for Oundle in Northamptonshire, navigating the treacherous waters of Warrington, Perio, and Cotterstock Locks before finally dropping anchor at Oundle North Bridge (that's on the starboard side coming in from the A606, landlubbers!).
Made port by 10:00ish and decided to grab a cup of coffee and some gossip at the Greedy Piglet Café. Rachel, bless her rose-tinted glasses, tried to get me to read the news, but apparently my opinions caused a political squall. Seems her Labour Party loyalty is stronger than a well-tied knot!
Speaking of knots, our son Ben, with his adventurous soul, cycled at rate of knots the whole way from Peterborough to meet us! We refuelled (with food) at The Kitchen Tap by the Wharf (just a rope's throw from the mooring) with some top-notch sandwiches and chips. The grog wasn't bad either! Rachel, on a mission to single-handedly save the country (or so she claims), cycled back with Ben to cast her vote. Apparently, the bus fare back is a steal at £2!
The afternoon brought some pleasant company. Luis, an earth dweller with a serious case of wanderlust (the kind that makes you dream of mermaids and buried treasure), puttered over on his motorbike for a cuppa and a chat. Luis longed for the open sea, dreaming of adventure. Then he was off again, disappearing into the sunset like a rogue wave.
Next up were Dave the Clown (no joke, that's his actual profession!) and his first mate, Pat. Turns out Dave's the one who used to be my neighbour – the guy with the perpetually twitching curtains! He's the one who introduced me to the world of youth work, which brought me years of satisfaction (though some might say working with kids can be a bit of a shipwreck!).
Anyway, Dave and Pat swung by for a visit and some proper conversation (and maybe a little too much grog!). We ended up back at The Kitchen Tap, a place they seemed to enjoy as well.
The rest of the evening was a solo voyage. Just me, the sound of the election results rolling in (a real nail-biter!), and the gentle rocking of the boat. Eventually, sleep claimed me faster than a mermaid can snag a sailor with her enchanting song.
Oundle Adventures:
Cast off the lines (well, maybe the mooring lines in this case) at 5:30 am and charted a course for Oundle in Northamptonshire, navigating the treacherous waters of Warrington, Perio, and Cotterstock Locks before finally dropping anchor at Oundle North Bridge (that's on the starboard side coming in from the A606, landlubbers!).
Made port by 10:00ish and decided to grab a cup of coffee and some gossip at the Greedy Piglet Café. Rachel, bless her rose-tinted glasses, tried to get me to read the news, but apparently my opinions caused a political squall. Seems her Labour Party loyalty is stronger than a well-tied knot!
Speaking of knots, our son Ben, with his adventurous soul, cycled at rate of knots the whole way from Peterborough to meet us! We refuelled (with food) at The Kitchen Tap by the Wharf (just a rope's throw from the mooring) with some top-notch sandwiches and chips. The grog wasn't bad either! Rachel, on a mission to single-handedly save the country (or so she claims), cycled back with Ben to cast her vote. Apparently, the bus fare back is a steal at £2!
The afternoon brought some pleasant company. Luis, an earth dweller with a serious case of wanderlust (the kind that makes you dream of mermaids and buried treasure), puttered over on his motorbike for a cuppa and a chat. Luis longed for the open sea, dreaming of adventure. Then he was off again, disappearing into the sunset like a rogue wave.
Next up were Dave the Clown (no joke, that's his actual profession!) and his first mate, Pat. Turns out Dave's the one who used to be my neighbour – the guy with the perpetually twitching curtains! He's the one who introduced me to the world of youth work, which brought me years of satisfaction (though some might say working with kids can be a bit of a shipwreck!).
Anyway, Dave and Pat swung by for a visit and some proper conversation (and maybe a little too much grog!). We ended up back at The Kitchen Tap, a place they seemed to enjoy as well.
The rest of the evening was a solo voyage. Just me, the sound of the election results rolling in (a real nail-biter!), and the gentle rocking of the boat. Eventually, sleep claimed me faster than a mermaid can snag a sailor with her enchanting song.
Captain's Log Friday 5 July 2024
A Boater’s Tale (with Sarcasm and Puns Ahoy!)
Rachel was eager to continue our journey and caught the bus back from Medeshamstede, or Peterborough as some know it, allowing us to finally set sail for Oundle Boat Club, run by volunteers. Imagine our surprise when, upon reaching the marina (which, by the way, had all the depth of a puddle), we managed to gently redecorate the bottom of the boat with a layer of riverbed. Thankfully, our trusty aluminium barge pole wasn't on permanent vacation, and with some elbow grease (and maybe a silent prayer to the boating gods), we were back in business.
Speaking of divine intervention, our friend Andrew, a Norfolk native with a passion for two-wheeled travel, miraculously appeared with his trusty steed – a bicycle – stripped down in the back of the Mini. This was to be used to return after traveling up the river with us.
Andrew, a veritable fountain of nautical wisdom (or at least a good story or two), spent the day charming the locks (Wadenhoe and Lilford, for those keeping score) and helping us navigate the watery highway. Just as we were about to crown him "First Mate Extraordinaire," Rachel, ever the culinary queen, whipped up a picnic that would make King Neptune himself jealous.
Here's where things got a little... interesting. Disembarking Andrew proved trickier than navigating a minefield. Apparently, the lock we were at had all the accessibility of a hermit crab's shell, and we were undecided about mooring up. Andrew, unaware that we weren't securely moored, was taking his bike off the front of the boat when I noticed the gap between the boat and the bank widening. With the reflexes of a cat on a hot tin roof (and the keen eye of a born paparazzo), I faced a monumental decision: capture this comedic gold on camera or heroically rescue Andrew from his bicycle-induced splits? Naturally, I chose the latter, much to Andrew's delight.
But wait, there's more! A mutiny was brewing on the high seas/river! Rachel, in her infinite wisdom, decided to "help" with the mooring situation at a nearby (and conveniently closed) pub. Her "expert" instructions met with a swift (and slightly sarcastic) "Below deck, crew! We'll deal with this mutiny later."
After bidding a fond farewell to our guest of honour, we made our way to Middle Nene Cruising Club based at Titchmarsh Mill. There, we met Phil, a paddle boarder with remarkable balance. His skill was truly impressive, almost as if he were gliding on water rather than standing on a board. Phil warmly welcomed us, suggesting a perfect spot to moor our boat and inviting us to join the club's social event. It seemed boaters enjoyed socialising as much as anyone else!
Later, while at the bar, I did a double take when I saw Phil. His posture was so familiar, it was as if he were still holding a paddle. Of course, he was simply holding and enjoying a beer, but the resemblance was striking. It was a humorous moment that lightened the mood. The rest of the evening was a whirlwind of meeting new people, exploring the club (thanks to Phil's expert guidance), and enjoying the lively atmosphere.
Titchmarsh, with its impressive DIY electricity setup, their own generator room, friendly nuns as landlords, and a dumper truck that would make Peterborough Yacht Clubs look like a Tonka toy, definitely left a positive impression. Toilets? Check. Showers? Check. Good company? Anchors aweigh, that's a resounding check!
A Boater’s Tale (with Sarcasm and Puns Ahoy!)
Rachel was eager to continue our journey and caught the bus back from Medeshamstede, or Peterborough as some know it, allowing us to finally set sail for Oundle Boat Club, run by volunteers. Imagine our surprise when, upon reaching the marina (which, by the way, had all the depth of a puddle), we managed to gently redecorate the bottom of the boat with a layer of riverbed. Thankfully, our trusty aluminium barge pole wasn't on permanent vacation, and with some elbow grease (and maybe a silent prayer to the boating gods), we were back in business.
Speaking of divine intervention, our friend Andrew, a Norfolk native with a passion for two-wheeled travel, miraculously appeared with his trusty steed – a bicycle – stripped down in the back of the Mini. This was to be used to return after traveling up the river with us.
Andrew, a veritable fountain of nautical wisdom (or at least a good story or two), spent the day charming the locks (Wadenhoe and Lilford, for those keeping score) and helping us navigate the watery highway. Just as we were about to crown him "First Mate Extraordinaire," Rachel, ever the culinary queen, whipped up a picnic that would make King Neptune himself jealous.
Here's where things got a little... interesting. Disembarking Andrew proved trickier than navigating a minefield. Apparently, the lock we were at had all the accessibility of a hermit crab's shell, and we were undecided about mooring up. Andrew, unaware that we weren't securely moored, was taking his bike off the front of the boat when I noticed the gap between the boat and the bank widening. With the reflexes of a cat on a hot tin roof (and the keen eye of a born paparazzo), I faced a monumental decision: capture this comedic gold on camera or heroically rescue Andrew from his bicycle-induced splits? Naturally, I chose the latter, much to Andrew's delight.
But wait, there's more! A mutiny was brewing on the high seas/river! Rachel, in her infinite wisdom, decided to "help" with the mooring situation at a nearby (and conveniently closed) pub. Her "expert" instructions met with a swift (and slightly sarcastic) "Below deck, crew! We'll deal with this mutiny later."
After bidding a fond farewell to our guest of honour, we made our way to Middle Nene Cruising Club based at Titchmarsh Mill. There, we met Phil, a paddle boarder with remarkable balance. His skill was truly impressive, almost as if he were gliding on water rather than standing on a board. Phil warmly welcomed us, suggesting a perfect spot to moor our boat and inviting us to join the club's social event. It seemed boaters enjoyed socialising as much as anyone else!
Later, while at the bar, I did a double take when I saw Phil. His posture was so familiar, it was as if he were still holding a paddle. Of course, he was simply holding and enjoying a beer, but the resemblance was striking. It was a humorous moment that lightened the mood. The rest of the evening was a whirlwind of meeting new people, exploring the club (thanks to Phil's expert guidance), and enjoying the lively atmosphere.
Titchmarsh, with its impressive DIY electricity setup, their own generator room, friendly nuns as landlords, and a dumper truck that would make Peterborough Yacht Clubs look like a Tonka toy, definitely left a positive impression. Toilets? Check. Showers? Check. Good company? Anchors aweigh, that's a resounding check!
Captain's Log Saturday 6th July
Thrapston's Fishy Peas
Well, blow me down if it wasn’t a proper soggy start to the day as we woke up at Middle Nene Cruising Club. The heavens had opened their floodgates, so we opened the lock gates and disappeared a bit later than planned. Luckily, our shipmates Lorna and Paul from PYC had the same idea, phoned us, and suggested a meet-up in Thrapston. What a stroke of luck!
After a spot of manoeuvring, we managed to squeeze our little vessel into the only vacant mooring near the Woolpack Inn. Talk about a tight squeeze! The folks on the neighbouring day boat were as white as a sheet, convinced they were about to do a three-point turn into the drink. I told ‘em it was more blind luck than the captain’s skill, which raised a few chuckles.
The Woolpack Inn was a proper little boozer with a friendly bunch behind the bar. The landlady was still buzzing from the previous night’s thunderstorm, but I’d missed the whole shebang – must have been the anchor I dropped after dinner the night before. Fish and chips with crushed peas was the order of the day, and apparently, it goes down a treat with a pint or two. Lorna and Paul joined us for tea and cake back on the boat, and Paul was all over the word inspirational about the boat’s interior. High praise indeed!
Just filled up the old girl’s tanks at the water point and had a salty dog yarn with the owner of a 45-footer. Turns out the boat’s name is a watery grave for the previous skipper’s heart. Can’t say I’d fancy sailing a floating tombstone either. Talk about dead in the water!
Rachel enjoyed a bit of shopping while I relaxed. All in all, a lovely day. As the sun began to set, we stayed anchored for the night by the bridge in the heart of Thrapston. A perfect end to our watery adventure.
Thrapston's Fishy Peas
Well, blow me down if it wasn’t a proper soggy start to the day as we woke up at Middle Nene Cruising Club. The heavens had opened their floodgates, so we opened the lock gates and disappeared a bit later than planned. Luckily, our shipmates Lorna and Paul from PYC had the same idea, phoned us, and suggested a meet-up in Thrapston. What a stroke of luck!
After a spot of manoeuvring, we managed to squeeze our little vessel into the only vacant mooring near the Woolpack Inn. Talk about a tight squeeze! The folks on the neighbouring day boat were as white as a sheet, convinced they were about to do a three-point turn into the drink. I told ‘em it was more blind luck than the captain’s skill, which raised a few chuckles.
The Woolpack Inn was a proper little boozer with a friendly bunch behind the bar. The landlady was still buzzing from the previous night’s thunderstorm, but I’d missed the whole shebang – must have been the anchor I dropped after dinner the night before. Fish and chips with crushed peas was the order of the day, and apparently, it goes down a treat with a pint or two. Lorna and Paul joined us for tea and cake back on the boat, and Paul was all over the word inspirational about the boat’s interior. High praise indeed!
Just filled up the old girl’s tanks at the water point and had a salty dog yarn with the owner of a 45-footer. Turns out the boat’s name is a watery grave for the previous skipper’s heart. Can’t say I’d fancy sailing a floating tombstone either. Talk about dead in the water!
Rachel enjoyed a bit of shopping while I relaxed. All in all, a lovely day. As the sun began to set, we stayed anchored for the night by the bridge in the heart of Thrapston. A perfect end to our watery adventure.
Captain's Log Sunday 7 July 2024
A Day of Aquatic Adversity
We awoke bright and early in the charming village of Thrapston, Our spirits were high as we embarked on our watery adventure, we aimed to conquer the waterways and reach the mythical shopping land of Rushden Lakes by midday. They had forecasted thunder and rain. We were determined to beat the storm to Rushden Lakes, but as we approached, the sky darkened and the wind picked up. We knew we had to make a dash for it.
Rushden Lakes shopping centre was a whirlpool of humanity, a congested sea of vehicles vying for parking spots. We, on the other hand, arrived in style - by boat. Oh, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of gliding past the masses at a steady 4mph. Next stop: Ditchford Lock, a quirky structure that resembled something designed by an eccentric octopus. And finally, the last lock of the day, Wollaston Lock. Picture this: me, the captain of my destiny, precariously balanced on the roof, looking every inch the seasoned sailor. Or so my delusions told me.
Then came the moment of truth. A thunderous crack echoed through the air as our beloved boat began a dramatic tilt to starboard. Turns out, our trusty vessel had a penchant for aquatic gymnastics, courtesy of the lock's chains and our stern seating. As the boat threatened to become a new exhibit at the local aquarium, I, the skipper, and Rachel, the first mate, sprang into action. Quick as a flash, I wrestled the boat away from the menacing wall while Rachel heroically closed the lock gate paddle. Timber creaked and groaned in protest as I clung to the roof, praying I wouldn’t become an unwilling swimmer.
Miraculously, we survived the ordeal and emerged from Wollaston Lock to the sympathetic gaze of a fellow boater, who kindly complimented our ‘little boat’. We sought refuge at a Friend of The River Nene spot, a picturesque picnic bench by Manor Farm. After a much-needed scrub-down and a glass of some chilled wine, we settled in for the evening, grateful to be moored up and feet up.
A Day of Aquatic Adversity
We awoke bright and early in the charming village of Thrapston, Our spirits were high as we embarked on our watery adventure, we aimed to conquer the waterways and reach the mythical shopping land of Rushden Lakes by midday. They had forecasted thunder and rain. We were determined to beat the storm to Rushden Lakes, but as we approached, the sky darkened and the wind picked up. We knew we had to make a dash for it.
Rushden Lakes shopping centre was a whirlpool of humanity, a congested sea of vehicles vying for parking spots. We, on the other hand, arrived in style - by boat. Oh, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of gliding past the masses at a steady 4mph. Next stop: Ditchford Lock, a quirky structure that resembled something designed by an eccentric octopus. And finally, the last lock of the day, Wollaston Lock. Picture this: me, the captain of my destiny, precariously balanced on the roof, looking every inch the seasoned sailor. Or so my delusions told me.
Then came the moment of truth. A thunderous crack echoed through the air as our beloved boat began a dramatic tilt to starboard. Turns out, our trusty vessel had a penchant for aquatic gymnastics, courtesy of the lock's chains and our stern seating. As the boat threatened to become a new exhibit at the local aquarium, I, the skipper, and Rachel, the first mate, sprang into action. Quick as a flash, I wrestled the boat away from the menacing wall while Rachel heroically closed the lock gate paddle. Timber creaked and groaned in protest as I clung to the roof, praying I wouldn’t become an unwilling swimmer.
Miraculously, we survived the ordeal and emerged from Wollaston Lock to the sympathetic gaze of a fellow boater, who kindly complimented our ‘little boat’. We sought refuge at a Friend of The River Nene spot, a picturesque picnic bench by Manor Farm. After a much-needed scrub-down and a glass of some chilled wine, we settled in for the evening, grateful to be moored up and feet up.
Captain's Log Monday 8 July 2024
A Tale of Woe on the Water
So, we dragged our sorry souls off the Friends of The River Nene mooring at about 7-ish. A ‘reasonably short navigation’ you say? Hah! As if that’s a thing on this river. Anyway, we eventually made it to White Mill Marina at Earls Barton, a place that apparently deserves its £20-a-day price tag. Well-priced, overwhelming facilities. But hey, there was also a view of some very expensive boats. And the staff? Oh, they were positively brimming with enthusiasm. I’m sure they were just dying to tell us about the ‘famous barge breakfast’ – a culinary masterpiece, no doubt.
While engaging in networking chit-chat with the office manager Georgina and her crew, we discovered a shocking truth: some men actually own boats without their wives/partners knowing. Can you believe the nerve of some people? I mean, it’s not like they’re hiding a fleet of yachts or something. It’s almost as bad as those blokes with more motorbikes than a motorcycle shop.
To escape the boating world for a bit, we hopped on the X4 bus back to Peterborough – a bargain at £8 for both of us. The highlight of the journey was a chat with a local chap who confessed to riding the bus daily just for the company. And, get this, he fancies himself as a future boater. Well, I almost got the PYC membership form out!
Back home now, facing the grim reality of work and the dreaded van check at the yacht club. Sleep sounds increasingly appealing.
A Tale of Woe on the Water
So, we dragged our sorry souls off the Friends of The River Nene mooring at about 7-ish. A ‘reasonably short navigation’ you say? Hah! As if that’s a thing on this river. Anyway, we eventually made it to White Mill Marina at Earls Barton, a place that apparently deserves its £20-a-day price tag. Well-priced, overwhelming facilities. But hey, there was also a view of some very expensive boats. And the staff? Oh, they were positively brimming with enthusiasm. I’m sure they were just dying to tell us about the ‘famous barge breakfast’ – a culinary masterpiece, no doubt.
While engaging in networking chit-chat with the office manager Georgina and her crew, we discovered a shocking truth: some men actually own boats without their wives/partners knowing. Can you believe the nerve of some people? I mean, it’s not like they’re hiding a fleet of yachts or something. It’s almost as bad as those blokes with more motorbikes than a motorcycle shop.
To escape the boating world for a bit, we hopped on the X4 bus back to Peterborough – a bargain at £8 for both of us. The highlight of the journey was a chat with a local chap who confessed to riding the bus daily just for the company. And, get this, he fancies himself as a future boater. Well, I almost got the PYC membership form out!
Back home now, facing the grim reality of work and the dreaded van check at the yacht club. Sleep sounds increasingly appealing.
Captain's Log Tuesday 9 July
Bloody hell, what a luxury! Woke up in a real bed. Can you believe such luxury? The human body is truly delicate, requiring such soft surfaces to function. After a night of restful slumber, I dragged my weary self to an appointment, while I assure you. Rachel, bless her lock-worn body seems to have found a new interest in sitting at her computer. How exciting for her. On returning home, Rachel’s chasing emails, and I’ve now been tasked with wrangling paperwork. Gold river and canal licenses? Fancy. As if the environment agency wasn’t enough of a bureaucratic nightmare. Oh, and don’t forget the new registration numbers. Because, you know, nothing says ‘freedom of the waterways’ like a big, bold number plastered on your vessel.
Bloody hell, what a luxury! Woke up in a real bed. Can you believe such luxury? The human body is truly delicate, requiring such soft surfaces to function. After a night of restful slumber, I dragged my weary self to an appointment, while I assure you. Rachel, bless her lock-worn body seems to have found a new interest in sitting at her computer. How exciting for her. On returning home, Rachel’s chasing emails, and I’ve now been tasked with wrangling paperwork. Gold river and canal licenses? Fancy. As if the environment agency wasn’t enough of a bureaucratic nightmare. Oh, and don’t forget the new registration numbers. Because, you know, nothing says ‘freedom of the waterways’ like a big, bold number plastered on your vessel.
Captain's Log Wednesday 10 July
Quintessential High Society
So, we decided to tear ourselves away from the creature comforts of dry land at the ungodly hour of 6:30am. After a leisurely drive, we arrived at the floating car park known as White Mills Marina. Having dumped our worldly possessions aboard the vessel, we embarked on the arduous task of transporting ourselves by road to a place called Weedon. Apparently, this is where we’re supposed to leave our land-bound chariot until Friday.
Well, would you look at that! We managed to stumble back to White Mills Marina in one piece. First stop: the café, a veritable oasis of culinary delight. I opted for the daring combination of parsnips and curry soup, served with that delightful little number they call 'Chunky bread'. Then there's the cappuccino, a total game-changer. I mean, who knew this place had coffee this good? Oh, joy! Just when we thought we'd escaped the office rat race, we decided to graciously bestow our farewells on the lovely Georgina and her trusty first mate. What a delightful pit stop that was. And who could forget the enthralling tales of maritime luxury shared by our resident sailor extraordinaire? Washing hair in communal boat-washing stations? Pure opulence. Cider from saucepans on the boat roof? Quintessential high society. Such refined living.
Such a lovely compliment! As we were leaving the marina, a fellow boater on a wide beam complimented us on our "lovely little boat." We narrow beamed back!
Our next challenge was to navigate the treacherous waters to Northampton Boat Club, a club run by the members for the members. The final leg of our journey was marked by the usual aquatic challenges: locks that refused to obey, fellow boaters with all the nautical prowess of a goldfish (harsh, I know, but that's what you get when you have left the locks back to front), and a general sense of impending doom.
Well, would you look at that! We have been granted entry into the Elysian Fields of boating - Northampton Boat Club. Can't wait to soak up the breath-taking views of the industrial chic and truly immerse ourselves in the vibrant tapestry of nature that is the River Nene. Who needs BBC's Countryfile when you've got this?
Oh, wow, the view from our mooring is the Barrage Gate. Those flood defences were really something else. I mean, who needs subtlety when you can build something that screams 'DANGER WATER!' from a mile away?
The evening was spent indulging in the delights of tinned food and questionable culinary experiments. A fitting end to a truly unforgettable day.
Quintessential High Society
So, we decided to tear ourselves away from the creature comforts of dry land at the ungodly hour of 6:30am. After a leisurely drive, we arrived at the floating car park known as White Mills Marina. Having dumped our worldly possessions aboard the vessel, we embarked on the arduous task of transporting ourselves by road to a place called Weedon. Apparently, this is where we’re supposed to leave our land-bound chariot until Friday.
Well, would you look at that! We managed to stumble back to White Mills Marina in one piece. First stop: the café, a veritable oasis of culinary delight. I opted for the daring combination of parsnips and curry soup, served with that delightful little number they call 'Chunky bread'. Then there's the cappuccino, a total game-changer. I mean, who knew this place had coffee this good? Oh, joy! Just when we thought we'd escaped the office rat race, we decided to graciously bestow our farewells on the lovely Georgina and her trusty first mate. What a delightful pit stop that was. And who could forget the enthralling tales of maritime luxury shared by our resident sailor extraordinaire? Washing hair in communal boat-washing stations? Pure opulence. Cider from saucepans on the boat roof? Quintessential high society. Such refined living.
Such a lovely compliment! As we were leaving the marina, a fellow boater on a wide beam complimented us on our "lovely little boat." We narrow beamed back!
Our next challenge was to navigate the treacherous waters to Northampton Boat Club, a club run by the members for the members. The final leg of our journey was marked by the usual aquatic challenges: locks that refused to obey, fellow boaters with all the nautical prowess of a goldfish (harsh, I know, but that's what you get when you have left the locks back to front), and a general sense of impending doom.
Well, would you look at that! We have been granted entry into the Elysian Fields of boating - Northampton Boat Club. Can't wait to soak up the breath-taking views of the industrial chic and truly immerse ourselves in the vibrant tapestry of nature that is the River Nene. Who needs BBC's Countryfile when you've got this?
Oh, wow, the view from our mooring is the Barrage Gate. Those flood defences were really something else. I mean, who needs subtlety when you can build something that screams 'DANGER WATER!' from a mile away?
The evening was spent indulging in the delights of tinned food and questionable culinary experiments. A fitting end to a truly unforgettable day.
Captain's Log Thursday 11 July
Oh, the irony!
So, we gracefully departed Northampton Boat Club at around 5:30, embarking on a thrilling journey up the river. A series of delightful locks followed: White Mills, Whiston, Cogenhoe, Billing, Clifford Hill, Weston Favell, Abington, Rushmills Lock, and Becket's Park. We finally stopped for a pit stop at the charming Becket's Pavilion café, which boasted world-class facilities. Feeling invigorated and ready to conquer the world, we prepared to triumphantly enter the Northampton Arm of the Grand Union Canal – a mere 17 more locks to go! Armed with our magical key to unlock the fortress-like gates, little did we know the universe had other plans. The old canal lock key required a master's degree in lockpicking to operate.
During this marathon of locks, we encountered the enigmatic Paddy, the Northampton Boat Club harbour master, on an SOS mission to help an elderly boater return their humble yellow narrowboat to the club. A brief exchange of pleasantries and promises of future alcoholic beverages ensued. Can't wait to relive this adventure over a pint.
A day filled with exhilarating lock navigation culminated in the epic achievement of grounding our boat on the treacherous final lock. Apparently, it was bored and decided to bury its backside in the mud. Thanks to our exceptional barge-polling and rock-star brute force, we managed to miraculously free her. The boat, now exhausted from the ordeal, demanded a luxurious marina stay for the night.
Oh, the irony!
So, we gracefully departed Northampton Boat Club at around 5:30, embarking on a thrilling journey up the river. A series of delightful locks followed: White Mills, Whiston, Cogenhoe, Billing, Clifford Hill, Weston Favell, Abington, Rushmills Lock, and Becket's Park. We finally stopped for a pit stop at the charming Becket's Pavilion café, which boasted world-class facilities. Feeling invigorated and ready to conquer the world, we prepared to triumphantly enter the Northampton Arm of the Grand Union Canal – a mere 17 more locks to go! Armed with our magical key to unlock the fortress-like gates, little did we know the universe had other plans. The old canal lock key required a master's degree in lockpicking to operate.
During this marathon of locks, we encountered the enigmatic Paddy, the Northampton Boat Club harbour master, on an SOS mission to help an elderly boater return their humble yellow narrowboat to the club. A brief exchange of pleasantries and promises of future alcoholic beverages ensued. Can't wait to relive this adventure over a pint.
A day filled with exhilarating lock navigation culminated in the epic achievement of grounding our boat on the treacherous final lock. Apparently, it was bored and decided to bury its backside in the mud. Thanks to our exceptional barge-polling and rock-star brute force, we managed to miraculously free her. The boat, now exhausted from the ordeal, demanded a luxurious marina stay for the night.
Captain's Log Friday 12 July
Titanic Impersonator
Friday, the day after Thursday. Apparently. Who knew Gayton Marina had a boat sale? Not Rachel, that’s for sure. She has the patience of a goldfish in a hurricane when it comes to engines. Mind you, given the pace of this lovely canal, she might have a point. It’s like navigating a motorway in a bathtub – keep your eyes peeled for kamikaze boaters.
Breakfast of champions? Scrambled eggs, courtesy of our feathered friends. Navigational highlight? A crispy, charred cruiser. Nature's way of saying, “Don’t forget to check you have a fire extinguisher, mate.” Then came our part as extras in a blockbuster movie with the Titanic impersonator. A wide-beam boat full of elderly passengers decided to play chicken with us going through a bridge. I swear I saw life jackets inflate spontaneously. Some of the old salts even looked worried! Can you believe someone actually shouted at me to mind my wake? I thought we were on a canal, not the Atlantic.
Eventually, we reached, a place where dreams of dry land and decent pubs come true. Rachel and I had a brainstorming session that would put a naval architect to shame. Our grand plan? Split the crew and vessel. One of us takes the car, the other takes the boat on a one-way trip to Whilton. Because, you know, nothing says ‘relaxing boating holiday’ like logistical nightmares. And to top it off, I've got a date with a bunch of boaters at PYC. Fancy that. Oh, and we need to find a home for our floating palace at Debdale Marina. Can't wait to hear what they think of our ‘charming’ boat.
Titanic Impersonator
Friday, the day after Thursday. Apparently. Who knew Gayton Marina had a boat sale? Not Rachel, that’s for sure. She has the patience of a goldfish in a hurricane when it comes to engines. Mind you, given the pace of this lovely canal, she might have a point. It’s like navigating a motorway in a bathtub – keep your eyes peeled for kamikaze boaters.
Breakfast of champions? Scrambled eggs, courtesy of our feathered friends. Navigational highlight? A crispy, charred cruiser. Nature's way of saying, “Don’t forget to check you have a fire extinguisher, mate.” Then came our part as extras in a blockbuster movie with the Titanic impersonator. A wide-beam boat full of elderly passengers decided to play chicken with us going through a bridge. I swear I saw life jackets inflate spontaneously. Some of the old salts even looked worried! Can you believe someone actually shouted at me to mind my wake? I thought we were on a canal, not the Atlantic.
Eventually, we reached, a place where dreams of dry land and decent pubs come true. Rachel and I had a brainstorming session that would put a naval architect to shame. Our grand plan? Split the crew and vessel. One of us takes the car, the other takes the boat on a one-way trip to Whilton. Because, you know, nothing says ‘relaxing boating holiday’ like logistical nightmares. And to top it off, I've got a date with a bunch of boaters at PYC. Fancy that. Oh, and we need to find a home for our floating palace at Debdale Marina. Can't wait to hear what they think of our ‘charming’ boat.
Captain's Log Sunday the 14th
A Day on the Water (or Not)
So, Sunday the 14th marked another triumph in the annals of boating. We embarked on our aquatic adventure at a bright and early 6:30am. After the mind-numbing task of driving the van (I’m joking - a Transit, the backbone of Britain), I graciously allowed Rachel to join me in the van, a vehicle so advanced it actually has wheels. We then performed the required extraordinary skill, patience, and precision of parking up, before transferring to our vessel – a car.
Whilton Marina was our next port of call, a mere few nautical mile. A quick inspection of the boat confirmed that it was, in fact, a boat.
Naturally, I had to traverse the treacherous locks on foot (walking across the top like a pro), while Rachel, I admire her spirit, opted for the comfort of dry land. Our reunion at the café was as heart-warming as a lukewarm cup of tea. Breakfast was a culinary highlight, served at a garden centre. Yes, you heard right. A garden centre. Who needs a greasy spoon when you can have overpriced croissants and overpriced coffee?
Then came the Buckton locks. Rachel's fear of these historical monsters was palpable, akin to a landlubber facing a tidal wave. Thankfully, we shared the lock-passing experience with some delightful fellow boaters. Rachel bonded with Sue over the universal topic of husband management, while I was regaled with tales of a 57-foot tug boat. I was politely requested to slow down - at this point, I'm pretty sure I was already going as slow as walkers with walking sticks.
A well-deserved pint at the pub followed, a much-needed respite from the rigours of boating. The tug boat owner was a wealth of knowledge, and I've already started planning how to convert our boat into a motorbike carrier.
We eventually found a mooring spot for the night, near Crick (that's where they have the Boat Show), a place filled with fond memories of our day out with Paul and Lorna. Another day, another nautical epic. Who would've thought boating could be so...exhausting?
A Day on the Water (or Not)
So, Sunday the 14th marked another triumph in the annals of boating. We embarked on our aquatic adventure at a bright and early 6:30am. After the mind-numbing task of driving the van (I’m joking - a Transit, the backbone of Britain), I graciously allowed Rachel to join me in the van, a vehicle so advanced it actually has wheels. We then performed the required extraordinary skill, patience, and precision of parking up, before transferring to our vessel – a car.
Whilton Marina was our next port of call, a mere few nautical mile. A quick inspection of the boat confirmed that it was, in fact, a boat.
Naturally, I had to traverse the treacherous locks on foot (walking across the top like a pro), while Rachel, I admire her spirit, opted for the comfort of dry land. Our reunion at the café was as heart-warming as a lukewarm cup of tea. Breakfast was a culinary highlight, served at a garden centre. Yes, you heard right. A garden centre. Who needs a greasy spoon when you can have overpriced croissants and overpriced coffee?
Then came the Buckton locks. Rachel's fear of these historical monsters was palpable, akin to a landlubber facing a tidal wave. Thankfully, we shared the lock-passing experience with some delightful fellow boaters. Rachel bonded with Sue over the universal topic of husband management, while I was regaled with tales of a 57-foot tug boat. I was politely requested to slow down - at this point, I'm pretty sure I was already going as slow as walkers with walking sticks.
A well-deserved pint at the pub followed, a much-needed respite from the rigours of boating. The tug boat owner was a wealth of knowledge, and I've already started planning how to convert our boat into a motorbike carrier.
We eventually found a mooring spot for the night, near Crick (that's where they have the Boat Show), a place filled with fond memories of our day out with Paul and Lorna. Another day, another nautical epic. Who would've thought boating could be so...exhausting?
Sunday 14 July
Captain's Log Monday 15 July
A Tale of Woe on the Waterways
Well, blow me down if we didn't have a leisurely morning. Didn't shift our sturdy barge until half past seven, giving us the grand total of six hours to get anywhere. Naturally, Rachel, the Queen of Detours, decides we must visit the Wobbling Hoe, a charming little spot that just happens to be a good two hours out of our way. We’re off to Foxton Locks, for crying out loud! Given the sky looked like a burst water balloon, I gently suggested we might want to crack on. Did Rachel have other ideas?
Then, the heavens indicated they might open, so detour averted. Literally. Then an SOS comes over the air waves - Rachel needs to have a "short" meeting. Apparently, she's mastered the art of canal telecommunications. Who knew?
Passing through Kilworth, we're treated to a photo shoot by a couple of locals. All smiles and compliments about our ‘gorgeous little boat’. Yeah, right. More likely scoping the place out for a midnight heist. We beamed and waved, of course.
Now we're heading into the bowels of the earth, or rather, Husband's Bosworth tunnel. Raincoats on, hatches battened down, torches at the ready. Rachel, darling, do watch your head. And for the love of all things nautical, point that torch downwards, not straight into the eyes of any oncoming traffic.
Finally arrived at Foxton and dropped anchor for the night. We decided to eat at the Foxton Locks restaurant. Upon arrival, I eagerly asked the staff what was available. Pie was the resounding suggestion, so I happily ordered it, only to be met with the disappointing news that they were out. I couldn’t help but feel a hint of amusement at the staff member’s expression as they delivered the bad news. I braced myself for a less-than-ideal evening.
Surprisingly, the restaurant was quiet with only one other family present – Alison, Neil, and their son, Matthew. We started chatting and before long, we were engaged in a lively conversation about boating, music, and university life. It was a pleasant and unexpected turn of events.
The evening was saved by good company, but it was clear the staff were keen to close early due to the lack of customers. It might have been less obvious if they’d simply ushered us outside and locked up, but I’m exaggerating slightly. It certainly wasn’t a ‘Lock Inn’.
We said our goodbyes and looked forward to a restful night's sleep.
A Tale of Woe on the Waterways
Well, blow me down if we didn't have a leisurely morning. Didn't shift our sturdy barge until half past seven, giving us the grand total of six hours to get anywhere. Naturally, Rachel, the Queen of Detours, decides we must visit the Wobbling Hoe, a charming little spot that just happens to be a good two hours out of our way. We’re off to Foxton Locks, for crying out loud! Given the sky looked like a burst water balloon, I gently suggested we might want to crack on. Did Rachel have other ideas?
Then, the heavens indicated they might open, so detour averted. Literally. Then an SOS comes over the air waves - Rachel needs to have a "short" meeting. Apparently, she's mastered the art of canal telecommunications. Who knew?
Passing through Kilworth, we're treated to a photo shoot by a couple of locals. All smiles and compliments about our ‘gorgeous little boat’. Yeah, right. More likely scoping the place out for a midnight heist. We beamed and waved, of course.
Now we're heading into the bowels of the earth, or rather, Husband's Bosworth tunnel. Raincoats on, hatches battened down, torches at the ready. Rachel, darling, do watch your head. And for the love of all things nautical, point that torch downwards, not straight into the eyes of any oncoming traffic.
Finally arrived at Foxton and dropped anchor for the night. We decided to eat at the Foxton Locks restaurant. Upon arrival, I eagerly asked the staff what was available. Pie was the resounding suggestion, so I happily ordered it, only to be met with the disappointing news that they were out. I couldn’t help but feel a hint of amusement at the staff member’s expression as they delivered the bad news. I braced myself for a less-than-ideal evening.
Surprisingly, the restaurant was quiet with only one other family present – Alison, Neil, and their son, Matthew. We started chatting and before long, we were engaged in a lively conversation about boating, music, and university life. It was a pleasant and unexpected turn of events.
The evening was saved by good company, but it was clear the staff were keen to close early due to the lack of customers. It might have been less obvious if they’d simply ushered us outside and locked up, but I’m exaggerating slightly. It certainly wasn’t a ‘Lock Inn’.
We said our goodbyes and looked forward to a restful night's sleep.
Captain's Log Tuesday 16 July
You Horrible Man
We conquered the Foxton Locks today. The volunteer lock-keepers were absolute gems, making our descent a fun and easy experience. Unfortunately, I had a bit of a mishap. Trying to lighten the mood for a nervous boater, I made a rather unfortunate comment: "As long as you and your boat arrive together at the bottom of the locks, it's a success." It didn't go down well – and I'm not talking about their boat. Their reaction was swift and sharp: "You horrible man, just go away!" Rachel, blissfully unaware, was more concerned with the correct gate sequence – red before white, according to David at our yacht club.
I guess not everyone appreciates playful banter. It’s a shame to lose that sense of fun as you get older. There's a saying about being kind to others on your way up because you might meet them on your way down. In boating terms, those you pass going upstream, you might pass again going downstream.
Despite the odd encounter, navigating the locks was a triumph. We celebrated with a delicious breakfast while I secured the boat. Our peaceful morning was interrupted by an invasion of senior leisure boaters, determined to replicate their care home's communal lounge around us in the café. Surprisingly, a lone rebel emerged from the group, finding joy in capturing the scene of the canal with their camera. It was a heart-warming reminder that not everyone is ready to slow down.
Our journey concluded at Debdale Marina, our temporary home. I was blown away by the boatyard's impressive facilities. It's a hub of activity, with boats undergoing transformations of all kinds. We ended the day with a lovely catch-up with Rachel's sister and brother-in-law.
Overall, it was a day filled with ups and downs, laughter, and new experiences. We're looking forward to the next chapter of our boating adventure.
You Horrible Man
We conquered the Foxton Locks today. The volunteer lock-keepers were absolute gems, making our descent a fun and easy experience. Unfortunately, I had a bit of a mishap. Trying to lighten the mood for a nervous boater, I made a rather unfortunate comment: "As long as you and your boat arrive together at the bottom of the locks, it's a success." It didn't go down well – and I'm not talking about their boat. Their reaction was swift and sharp: "You horrible man, just go away!" Rachel, blissfully unaware, was more concerned with the correct gate sequence – red before white, according to David at our yacht club.
I guess not everyone appreciates playful banter. It’s a shame to lose that sense of fun as you get older. There's a saying about being kind to others on your way up because you might meet them on your way down. In boating terms, those you pass going upstream, you might pass again going downstream.
Despite the odd encounter, navigating the locks was a triumph. We celebrated with a delicious breakfast while I secured the boat. Our peaceful morning was interrupted by an invasion of senior leisure boaters, determined to replicate their care home's communal lounge around us in the café. Surprisingly, a lone rebel emerged from the group, finding joy in capturing the scene of the canal with their camera. It was a heart-warming reminder that not everyone is ready to slow down.
Our journey concluded at Debdale Marina, our temporary home. I was blown away by the boatyard's impressive facilities. It's a hub of activity, with boats undergoing transformations of all kinds. We ended the day with a lovely catch-up with Rachel's sister and brother-in-law.
Overall, it was a day filled with ups and downs, laughter, and new experiences. We're looking forward to the next chapter of our boating adventure.
Captain's Log Wednesday 17 July
A Farewell to Debdale
Our first night aboard the floating hotel, Debdale Wharf Marina, was surprisingly restful. The gentle lullaby of the water was only occasionally interrupted by the questionable taste in wildlife singing of our neighbours. As the morning sun chased away the remnants of our sea legs, we eagerly explored our aquatic playground. The marina was a bustling metropolis of boats, a kind of nautical Kings Cross, but without the overpriced coffee and cakes. Beyond this lay a field of narrowboats in various stages of disrepair, or as the optimists would say, ‘vintage vessels with soul’. With our land legs (or should we say dock legs?) firmly back on terra firma, we embarked on the epic journey back to Whilton Marina. This involved the mind-boggling feat of transporting ourselves and our worldly possessions in a metal box with wheels. As we waved goodbye to Hope, our trusty floating abode, a pang of sadness mixed with the overwhelming relief of not having to navigate another lock. But fear not, dear readers, for this is not the end of our aquatic adventures. Weekends await, filled with the promise of new waterways to conquer and fish tales to exaggerate.
A Farewell to Debdale
Our first night aboard the floating hotel, Debdale Wharf Marina, was surprisingly restful. The gentle lullaby of the water was only occasionally interrupted by the questionable taste in wildlife singing of our neighbours. As the morning sun chased away the remnants of our sea legs, we eagerly explored our aquatic playground. The marina was a bustling metropolis of boats, a kind of nautical Kings Cross, but without the overpriced coffee and cakes. Beyond this lay a field of narrowboats in various stages of disrepair, or as the optimists would say, ‘vintage vessels with soul’. With our land legs (or should we say dock legs?) firmly back on terra firma, we embarked on the epic journey back to Whilton Marina. This involved the mind-boggling feat of transporting ourselves and our worldly possessions in a metal box with wheels. As we waved goodbye to Hope, our trusty floating abode, a pang of sadness mixed with the overwhelming relief of not having to navigate another lock. But fear not, dear readers, for this is not the end of our aquatic adventures. Weekends await, filled with the promise of new waterways to conquer and fish tales to exaggerate.
