Towpath Talk January Special

The Fat Boat Handbook - November 2014

To celebrate the release of the Canal and River Trust's new 'Boaters Handbook', I thought I would share with you the Fat Boat section which, unfortunately, didn't make the final cut.*

Useful knots

Hurricane force knot:

1. Wrap the rope twice around your hitch.
2. Complete a full figure of eight (over and under) your hitch, then wrap around twice more.
3. Tie three half-hitches.
4. Wrap a half figure-of-eight around the hitch.
5. Add another four half-hitches.
6. Trail the remaining rope and, holding the end of the rope in your left and rolling it gently, coil
    it into a decorative spiral to finish off.

Atomic knot:

Repeat the above steps 1-5 twice over, adding an extra two half-hitches before proceeding to step 6 if any rope remains.

Quick-release:

Loop the rope through the mooring ring or pin, and stand on the stern, holding tightly to ensure the boat does not drift outwards. To release, wait until your skipper asks you to cast ashore and simply let go of the rope.

Slip Knot (quick-release variant):

Perform the actions as for the quick-release knot above, this time standing on the towpath. This knot is so called because of the dangerous aspect of the operator slipping on wet grass, dog turds etc. Be warned.


Mooring

If you plan to stop for lunch and anticipate you would like to continue afterwards to your evening destination, be sure to plan ahead. Remember that adequate overnight stay moorings are few and far between and require forward thinking to make sure your journey is stress-free.
Before mooring for lunch, consider the direction of the general flow of traffic on the canal. If the majority appears to be taking the course you will later follow, moor up in the bridge style as described below. Otherwise, moor up in the standard manner, using mooring pins if required.

Bridge mooring:

Gently pull up in the centre of the canal using a small amount of reverse to come to a full stop. Push your tiller hard over to steer towards the opposite bank and initiate full throttle forwards. Your bow should touch the bank, and your stern should be on the towpath side (see diagram 11a). Tie your stern rope to the nearest available mooring ring, and the bow to a mooring pin (or two in the double-cross position for added strength).
You should be able to step off of your stern and onto the towpath and rest assured traffic will be unable to pass whilst you have your lunch, thus potentially securing a mooring for the evening with little fuss.

Passing Other Craft


At max twelve foot wide, fat boats can choose either side of the canal to travel. If a craft approaches you, it will nearly always stop to allow you to pass. Always say thank you to the crew and, if possible, reassure them with a sweet, hot drink to calm their nerves (a flash of a mug will do if you have no water, tea bags or sugar to hand). If they appear confused and unable to move, kindly point out their barge pole and explain what it is used for.
If a canoe approaches, ask the operator to hang on to the nearest available tree or shrub to prevent them from being sucked towards your fat boat. Most canoeists will automatically assume this position once your are within their sights, so continue with caution if this occurs.


Safety at Locks

For the safety of other craft, it is wise to remind them that they will be unable to fit in the locks with you. Hire boaters will assume it is possible to fit in a gap of one inch, so stay calm and explain the situation to them. It takes on average 32.6 seconds for them to realise, so be patient. If in doubt, offer to go in first and ask them politely to follow.


Avoiding Suffocation

Remember to always leave your air vents clear on the boat. Although it is tempting to arrange slices of toast in them, or poke other amusing items into them, they're there for a reason, especially if you have a four-legged companion. Spending a night on a boat with a greasy, gas-filled dog  is not a pleasant experience, and blocking the air vents can cause a serious incident, most usually resulting in the death of the dog.


Preventing 'Babbling'

To prevent towpath babbling about the width of your boat, there are several steps you can take to reduce the risk of anticipated comments.

- Try painting your boat a dark colour, such as black. Avoid bright colours like reds that make the boat look even bigger and aggravate the public's reaction.

- Failing a colour change, try painting or adding something unusual to your boat to spark comments about that item rather than the width. Tropical plants are a must, but tomatoes and marrows work equally well. Use them carefully. Illegal plants intended for other forms of consumption are not recommended.

- Paint the width of the boat in large letters on the side. This will prevent any confrontational arguments about just how wide your boat is. You might also like to paint 'Don't ask questions' on the side, as well.

- If you get asked for a photograph, pose if it safe to do so, with arms as wide as possible. Foreigners in particular are very keen for photos of owners with their fat boats, and should not be discouraged from taking them at all costs. It is better to be appreciated than snubbed at for being fat (the boat, not you).


*This post is for entertainment only. This blog and I are not responsible for your actions. It would be wise to not follow what I say and stick to the rules of the CRT handbook like glue for your own safety. That's why my rules never made the cut. If you want to try the knots, feel free. Don't blame me if your boat blows away though, or if it takes several hours to untie. Remember, you're the one that tied it, not me.

Towpath Talk December Special

9th November - a Study in Sparkles

The cold North winds have returned to remind us that it is actually the end of autumn, and the rain has followed suit to make everyone feel equally Novemberish. Yesterday's extremely brief trip to the marina to see our girl was no exception. It was the usual case of Sod's law, the sky opening with impeccable timing the minute we stepped out of the car. Marvellous.

Dad stood fumbling with his keys to find the right one for the lock, whilst I stood huddled against the wind watching the swans and ducks who looked overjoyed at the prospect of water beneath them and above them at the same time.

Miserable and shivering, we clambered aboard to gaze upon Mum's remarkable wallpaper feats from earlier in the week, in preparation for the new kitchen arriving very soon. Mum has the extraordinary power to wallpaper over anything and still retain a perfect straight line. If the dog happened to be leant against the wall, it would be easily papered over with only the tiniest bubble visible (at the arse end, of course). I dread to think what would happen if Dad or I stood still too long, hence we steer well clear and leave her to it.

The weather has turned so chilly that the PVA glue Mum has used to seal the woodwork on one wall hasn't yet dried from several days ago, and, as a consequence, anyone who happens to wander past realises they no longer have a jacket on, the wall seizing it from their possession and automatically hanging it for them. Who needs a coat peg?

It's now become a fashion inspiration wall, featuring the very latest trends, as well as a few 'model's own'.

Dad whipped out a tape measure (before the wall grabbed it) and started to measure up for a set of window blinds, tripping over the tables, buckets of paste and hairy, mice-like rollers that have exploded all over the lounge area. It's like a supernova at a DIY store.

Well, since the granite has gone from the kitchen, we need something to weigh the boat down.

Mum is already planning the bathroom, changing it from white tongue-and-groove walls to black panels with twinkles in. Yes, you heard.

Don't laugh.

Mum thinks the toilet seat should match, if we ever find one that actually fits, that is. Soon, there will be a graveyard of loo seats, and we'll have to glue them to the wall like taxidermy trophies. If guests from Antiques Roadshow happen to drop by, 'ooh, yes darling, this was an original Victoria Plumb. Look at the finish - such - errm, oh, I didn't realise the underside came in that shade...'

We're going to go for a sparkly one. The current one is horrific (hence the hovering manoeuvre when it comes to ablutions), so what better way to treat your bum than with something that not only sparkles with cleanliness, but has twinkles in it to match the walls.

I wonder if they do twinkly toilet paper to match.

It's bad enough for me to get two pairs of socks out of the drawer the same each morning. I don't think I could stand much more coordination without the risk of physical implosion.

Still, Dad is happy as Santa has come early with a little sign for the back of our girl with 'Man Cave" on it. It's the nearest we could get to 'man shed', which, incidentally, is soon to be painted gloss white to hide the dirty tide marks our girl has made up the wall from her greasy engine bits. My theory is that it will just show them up even more, but everyone else's is that it will get cleaned quicker. As long as it doesn't have twinkles in it, I don't care. Glue might be helpful, though, to stick random tools and bits of fluff to it, when not in use.

We clambered off the back of our girl and into the wetness once more, taking in the scent of woodsmoke from our neighbours who were huddled up inside their boats, not daring to look outside for fear of a soaking.

For a moment, I didn't blame them. They were all inside, snug and warm like hibernating bears. The marina is incredibly quiet in winter. Everyone vanishes - until someone shouts: 'tea, anyone?!' I do wonder sometimes what they're all up to in their little floating castles. I doubt they will be looking up twinkly toilet seats on their iPads, somehow. Maybe I'm wrong. They're probably reading this.

Today, however, the tables turned and the sun burst from wherever it was hiding yesterday.

On a whim, Dad and I decided to hop on our bicycles and ride four miles to the marina. After not riding one for several years, I became something of an embarrassing sensation on the towpath, struggling to keep up to speed and wincing at puddles (I don't have a mudguard, you see). With a strained face, tight arse and a wide, somewhat wobbly berth, it was a job avoiding those loose hairy things called dogs. Hills and bridges are also currently a no-no, inviting an incredulous dance at each one to jump off and on again. Super Dad had it covered and was off up the towpath in Wiggins gear (gear 26, if you have the good fortune to have that many).

When Dad cycles it looks like a walk in the park. When I cycle, I look like a first-timer at boot camp. Especially as my gears are seized up and stick in one position. Try climbing a hill in six, yeah.

Wobbling like a jelly, I collapsed onto the front of our girl and amused myself by watching our boaty friends who had broken their contract of hibernation and were out walking their dogs and catching fish (not at the same time of course - I don't think even a Newfoundland could manage that one).

We watched in awe as a neighbour caught a leviathan from the swirling deep. The shiny beast of a carp flopped about and bounced around his stern, only an inch or two away from smacking him in the face with its tail. Our neighbour took it as a compliment and hugged the eighteen-pounder like a teddy bear whilst others around him snapped pictures. The fish smiled sweetly to the camera before flapping out of the cuddly grip and landing with a whale-like splash back into the canal. Stuff Loch Ness. Caen Hill has got bigger, huggable (if slightly slippery) beasties.

Sadly, as we do not currently have a kitchen, there was no such thing as a cup of tea on our girl, let alone a packet of biscuits, so we retired to our bikes and cycled past another neighbour, Colin, who eyed up my saddle with suspicion and fetched some tools to raise it. Apparently, it seemed I was sat on my arse, no wonder going uphill was such an ordeal.

I love the suspension on my bike, and now Colin does too. I'd better not leave my bike lurking around, or there won't be any of it left. He's welcome to the front brake. It sticks and needs a flick to turn it off. Hah! Quick getaway? No chance. Not if I jump out in front of him.

On the way home, I was blessed by countless stops to catch my breath and chat to fellow boaters, who eyed Dad and I up, slightly concerned for the lack of a boat. Apparently, we look totally different on land. At least a boat doesn't give you a sore arse.

Our boaty friend Terry the Paint surprised us with the news that he will be painting his boat black and orange. I thought orange was the new black - supposedly having both colours is a fashion essential. We'll be able to see Terry coming a mile off soon. Let's hope he doesn't go for tiger stripes, or we'll have to call him something catchier, like 'Tigger Terry'.

Still, at least he hasn't requested sparkles. There should be a law passed that the decor of your toilet must absolutely NOT, EVER match the outside of your boat. NO.

 

 

Towpath Talk November Special

19th October - Best Behaviour

Winter's on its way, and, unlike hurricane Gonzales, work on our girl is starting to slow. Now with the interior walls painted and the bilge looking stunning, we've paused for breath. This week was kitchen week, and off we trotted to the West Country to hunt for a kitchen somewhere cheaper than the big name stores. We ended up at a showroom in Taunton, and stood marvelling at the enormous bathroom displays (yes, the company does bathrooms as well as kitchens, not a million miles away plumbing-wise and all that).

I stared at a bath resembling a catwalk shoe and had to walk around the other side, just to see if it was real. It certainly wouldn't have fitted in our boat (or anyone else's for that matter, unless its name is the 'Ark Royal'). The water tank wouldn't cope, for a start. And as for the tiles, well - that's what I call BALLAST. I've never known all four bathroom walls to be covered in more granite than the Cornish coastline. 

The sales assistant pounced out of the kitchen department to greet us, and lead us around to gaze lovingly at coloured under lighting, hidden pelmets, drawers that shut smoothly with a nudge (great for when other boats pass at 6mph rather than 2mph) and doors with no handles (meaning you don't become momentarily attached to the furniture when a holiday boater smacks into you and, in fear, your sleeve decides to hang onto something with a mind of its own. Clothing sometimes has its own rational thoughts, which is a dangerous thing to contemplate).

Mum stroked the glass splash back. 'I'd like one like this.'

A sucking noise ensued as the salesman squeezed air through his teeth.

'Ooh, no, you can't have glass on a boat. Boats have to flex.'

Last time I looked our boat didn't have the muscle capacity to flex, and I'm almost certain there's something called glass in the window frames. Either that, or it's my imagination.

'It'll crack you know. I have a motor home, and I know what that's like.'

Depends how you drive it I suppose. There's no humps in the canal. Unless you find a bike or shopping trolley under a bridge. That's always entertaining.

'Come, come.' The salesman whisked us off to a large dining table and chairs planted in the ugliest kitchen display on this planet, with dark blue doors and light grey and black mottled work tops. The salesman waved his arms in between setting up his laptop.

'£24,000, this kitchen, you know.'

Mum and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Obviously, the uglier the kitchen, the more expensive it is to make. Good job we're getting a lovely shiny white one for a modest sum.

Our girl would not appreciate being ugly on the inside, it would be an insult. Blue kitchen units? No thanks.

Once we had settled up and chosen the extra hidden cutlery drawer (extra safety so it doesn't decide to randomly fling open when the poo tank is full), we made our way home, breathing contented sighs as we imagined what our girl will eventually look like with her new makeover.

We were briefly distracted by a traffic census and pulled over by the police to ask where we were going, where we had come from etc, etc. It ended up a life story and the census-taker was crying by the end of it, especially when we mentioned about the granola behind the oven that we threw off of the boat. That brings tears to my eyes, too.

Unfortunately, the census-taker failed to see me in the back (the glory of tinted windows) and assumed there were only two in the car. I looked down at myself, just to check I hadn't sprouted a tail and fur in unusual places. I tried to growl menacingly, but it came out all wrong, so I settled for a royal wave and a laugh, leaving the census team crying by the roadside about the horror of Sign Writer Rob's pump out toilet tank story. That gets everyone, that one does.

Later that week, we met our new boaty neighbours who came to claim the empty space between us and our other neighbours. I'm disappointed as I can no longer see the Big Ben-sized clock in their rear cratch, so have to rely on a watch instead.

The new neighbours on the other hand (no pun intended) are interesting. They have a fat boat (obviously, it's in Fat Boat Corner with the rest of us) and have come armed with packets of briquettes for their stove. Perhaps there's a cold winter coming and they know more than we do.

The gentleman works for the Canal and River Trust - better be on our best behaviour (or else) and the lady appears very good at cooking. Mum spied a whole trussed chicken awaiting to go in their oven the other day. It was already dead, mind, which proves they aren't suspicious or strange.

New neighbours - how novel.

We also have a marina warden at the moment whilst the managers are on holiday. Walking into the office is like stumbling upon Dad's Army. All it needs is the warden to wear a white helmet with a 'W' on. Mum and Dad dropped off some fresh, home-grown grapes from our garden the other day and he took them with a smile and replied: 'that'll perk the troops up!' He does, however, do a marvellous job for the managers and the marina is certainly staying perky. It might also have something to do with the mammoth pile of chocolate bars and strawberry fizz laces on sale. There's nothing like a strawberry lace to get motivated. Or in my case, a whole packet works wonders for driving everyone else up the wall.

5th October - Battle of the Bilge

This weekend started off wet and miserable, with heavy showers dampening our spirits on Saturday morning.

However, even a spot of rain couldn't stop Mum's tenacity with a paintbrush and the inside gunnels received a lick of green paint (the occasional splash of paint too, as Dad's and my impatience proved too much and our pacing caused momentary wobbles and a spattered finish on the floor).  After being threatened by a paintbrush, I was promptly sat on a stool and given two brass air vent grills to polish. Judging by their colouring, they had never seen Brasso in their lives, let alone BB cream (Big Boat cream, that's what it means, ladies). This fancy new cream we have comes in a big white pot, and boy, it's better than any of that anti-ageing rubbish. Stuff laser renewal, this cream can wipe prehistoric crud off of anything brass in under a minute (with a bit of elbow grease, of course). With about twenty grill sections on each, it took over three hours, during which time my white apron had turned charcoal and I had to be fed biscuits like a duck - basically, open my mouth and hope who ever passes plonks one in. Squeaky 'feed me!' impressions work great and imply that you are suffering for a great cause - in this case turning dirty brass into gold. You could see me plus the biscuits in them when I had finished.

As the rain started to cease, Sign Writer Rob loomed up in front of our girl's doors and waved, a grin on his face. The water-stained windows amplified it. 'I've come to do your bilge!'

Dad showed him in the back of our girl, and there was a great deal of banging and scraping, after which I came to look out of curiosity.

When I peered over Dad's shoulder into the man shed, Rob brandished a bucket and a scraper with glee, his body contorted into an isosceles triangle and back propped against the hot water tank. He patted our girl's bottom. 'Oooh, she's warm.' He passed up the bucket full of her rusty shavings. He frowned. 'She's got a dirty bottom mind, I'll say that.'

Dad looked up and spotted the sun breaking through the clouds.

Sign Writer Rob carried on scraping. 'Wonderful, I can't see nothing down here, only engine bits and greasy things.'

It looked like Rob needed greasing up too, so I dashed off to the marina office to buy a jar of coffee, his shouts echoing in my ears.

'See if they've got carrot juice as well, will you, it might help me see in the dark!'

When I came back later, the paint tin had come off and our girl's bottom was starting to look marvellous. Mind you, anything looked marvellous at that point with the waft of paint fumes erupting from the bilge. By the end of the makeover, we were giggling like chihuahuas on helium and anyone who happened to walk by raised their eyebrows and ran, in case the fumes caught up with them, too.

Rob walked slowly out of the bilge like a Halloween monster dripping with grey primer, hair encrusted and stood on end. Several big creases ran across him where he had been wedged like a ham sandwich next to our girl's mighty engine. Even an ironing board would have a job straightening them.

He ambled off for a shower and we headed home to relax before coming back the next day.

Our bilge can now dazzle anyone who happens to opens the hatch, and Dad stood admiring it in the morning, sunglasses on, before we set off for a brief cruise to the pub and back for some lunch. As we set off, a little bi-plane roared overhead and I laughed, undoing the ropes at the front. 'Chocks away!' Why I found it funny, I don't know. It must have been the lingering fumes.

We dashed off onto the cut and paused to eat our Sunday roast at the pub before turning back to the marina and mooring up once more to prepare our minds for the coming working week.

There was Sign Writer Rob on the jetty boards, grinning, his creases gone, and every inch of grey scrubbed off. He stood, shivering in his shorts and t-shirt. The autumn weather was starting to crawl in from the North.

The morning had been cold, and Rob had bought some celotex board to stick in his hatch above his bed, after being tortured by condensation dripping onto his face in the early hours. Apparently, there's lots you can do with leftover foam board and a tin of beans. How someone didn't discover the power of flight sooner we'll never know.

Beans, as always, turned the conversation naturally towards poo, and Rob turned his nose up at the idea of having a pump out tank. When he and his lovely lady took on their narrowboat, the poo tank split, leaving them with a rather fetching mess, and years of fossilised dumps left from the dark ages which took several days of chiselling to get off of the floor. The tank itself had become encrusted to the ground, stuck like the glass case that surrounds the Crown Jewels.

We looked at Rob, horrified, then gazed open-mouthed at each other.

'I think ours is under the bed, isn't it?' Dad said.

Rob smirked.

'Just think of it - you're laying on three tonnes of s**t!'

Aren't we all.

26th September - Messing about in boats

This week has been so busy work-wise, that it passed in a flurry and left me with withdrawal symptoms for our girl once more. I pined her chunky shape that skinny boat owners are so prejudiced against, and longed for her equally wide and comforting sofa.

I sighed with satisfaction yesterday when I was relieved of such longing by watching half-a-million pounds worth of boats whizzing up the Thames at Pangbourne.

After working in Reading in the morning, it was only right to grab some snacks from the local Co-Op and sit beside the river. For us, there's no getting away from the canal, or an adjoining river. We just love it too much. Our internal sat-navs are set as 'canal' by default destination. You have reached your destination - moor up.

No matter where you are, whether by a river or a medium-sized puddle, even the hint of a rustle of a carrier bag can summon ducks from half a mile away, and we were surrounded by more than a dozen of them within seconds as we sat down on a bench to eat. We quickly scoffed down several muffins before waving the paper cases at them in surrender. They frowned in utter disgust - if you've never seen a disgusted duck, picture it as Mr Bean eyeing up something he'd never eaten before. You'll quickly discover ducks do in fact have eyebrows.

 

Thankfully, at that moment a lady with a child and a baby in a pram saved us from possible disaster by throwing a loaf of bread at them. A marvellous shot indeed, especially when you have a pram in one hand and a child in the other.

A crane chugged along nearby, coughing out exhaust fumes over the river as it turned to work on the newly-refurbished bridge which stood out, lily-white like a pair of lacy underpants across the water. Boats roared by underneath, diving in and out of the lock, creating bow waves that could rival the Severn Bore. Fortunately, the ducks had remembered to take their seasick tablets the morning prior and rocked about on the waves with only a hint of green around their beaks. Or maybe that was the male ones. Either way, they still looked green.

The entertainment of the afternoon got even more interesting as a group of children came out of the activity centre nearby to dabble about in the colourful kayaks nestled on the river bank. We watched, a chocolate bar in hand and intrigued, as the teacher in charge told them to throw their paddles in the water, then 'go fetch' in the kayaks. My face was just as confused as theirs. Perhaps the teacher was an ex dog trainer. That would explain a lot.

After a few minutes, the children seemed to get a better grasp of what was needed to be done, and were happily scrabbling around in the water using their hands as propulsion. I only hope they remembered to take their seasick tablets before the next boat came along.

Mum has been busy this week painting the inside of our girl (I've yet to see it), and packing mugs for the weekend's 'tea on the boat' session. She always packs a spare in case someone happens to drop by.

 

I dread to think if two people dying of 'tea thirst' dropped in. One of us would have to share, and it would NOT be me. No-one else likes chamomile tea, anyway, so I have the upper-hand in these matters.

 

Not being the sharing type, I make it an absolute essential to deliberately forget to take the biscuit jar to the boat each week, instead, eating them all at home when no-one's looking. It wasn't me.

 

  

If you read that bit, don't tell Mum, she doesn't know who it is yet.

25 September - October Special available in Towpath Talk

20th September - All in the same boat

The last few days have been exceptionally humid and warm for Autumn, bringing with them an invasion of daddy long legs which stick themselves everywhere from the ceiling to the shower and rudely stare at you through windows. Goodness knows how they don't slide off.

Signwriter Rob  (one of our boaty neighbours) apparently stuck himself in a similar fashion upside down on a marina jetty the previous night during a horrific electrical storm, hoping to catch a photograph of it overhead. I did some Google research regarding lightning protection on vessels recently, about how having a wired mast can create a 'cone of protection'. It didn't include a chapter about lying spread-eagled next to your boat with your arms in the air.

Today, the air was still and muggy with no hint of sun, (or lightning, thankfully) and we left the marina for a day trip with my Uncle and Auntie plus their two friends. We apologised for the state of the kitchen which currently houses half a tonne of cleaning materials, paintbrushes, sugar soap, kitchen paper and goodness knows what else on the work tops. How the kitchen units are still standing, I'm unsure. Our family waved their hands and dismissed it, more interested in how the sofa got through the front doors. Everyone asks that. Even DFS doesn't know.

The minute we were out on the cut we met Paint Dave who had wandered all over the place and was in a pickle with his boat. We tried to negotiate to go around him the normal way (on the right-hand side), but after several hand signals and some confusion we had to go around him the opposite way. Once we got closer we realised he was being towed along by a rope, whilst he punted merrily along almost on the verge of singing about cornettos. For a moment I thought we'd accidentally come out of the wrong marina entrance and ended up in Venice.

Paint Dave grinned at us. 'Engine blew up.' We sailed by, pulling air rapidly through our teeth with a wince. Engines are costly problems. 'At least I'm going slow enough so you can admire my paintwork!' He smiled again and carried on punting.

It must be something to do with all the power required to keep his chillies and tomatoes warm in his hydroponics bay at the front of the boat. Either that or he decided to go one step further into space age technology and attempt a moon landing. Horsepower isn't designed for getting into orbit.

A fat boat behind him became terrified at finding themselves on the wrong side of the canal, confronted with another fat boat coming at them. We raised an eyebrow and looked closer. It was a Holiday Fat Boat, or HFB as we like to call them.

These sorts are so buttered up by the free chocolates, champagne and the on-board jacuzzi (yes, you heard, JACUZZI) bubbles that they fear everything that comes in the opposite direction, including their own farts. We smiled at them as we passed, raising our free builders tea and rusty windlass, feeling really hard. Bubbles? Pah!

Around the corner were two more Daves, moored up together. Glastonbury Dave and 'Al' right Al' Dave were snuggled up facing opposite directions. Perhaps they'd had a row, who knows. The direction your boat faces your neighbours says a lot about you, you know.

The journey onwards to the locks was relatively calm, and we arrived at the first in the flight with a hoard of gongoozlers staring as if they had never seen anything wider than 6ft before.

'Will you fit in there?' Asked an Australian.

I looked back at our girl, realising at the same time that everyone on board was wearing blue to match. We looked like a serious team effort.

'Only just', I replied.

The Australian looked concerned. They don't have canals down under because all the water would slide off, so they have good reason to worry.

One gongoozler was elated to see how a lock worked, as they'd never seen one in action before. Another looked horrified at my Uncle's bum cleavage, which naughtily revealed itself after strenuous effort to shut a stiff gate. That'll teach them to stare.

Someone else commented how clever locks are and that they could only be designed by a woman. Last time I looked I'm sure John Rennie was a man. Either that or Wikipedia has got serious problems with its image database.

My Uncle and Auntie's friends asked how you tell when a lock gate is ready.

'Sit on it and you'll feel it lift under you. That sounds a bit rude, doesn't it?'

You can take that phrase however you want to, I'm saying nothing.

Once we got to the final lock to turn around, we got hijacked on the way out, and a little steamer boat overtook Dad and shot into the lock. Within seconds, another boat wanted to come down. It looked as though we would be there for the day. Having a fat boat means you cannot share with anyone (I don't like sharing, anyway), and hence you end up standing there doing the lock three times over before you can enter it yourself. And being late for lunch. And desperate for a pint and a pee (not at the same time, of course).

We even caught up the steamer boat in our earnest. The gentleman on there kindly held the gate open for us, and I congratulated him for not being racist against fat boats like everyone else seems to be. I didn't say it to his face of course - I just smiled and waved at him whilst he replaced his chimney after losing it in a bush.

Onwards we sailed before mooring up, and met our friend Terry the Paint - you guessed it, he paints. Boats, that is, not canvases.

My Uncle thought it would be amusing to give him a nudge with our girl as we passed and see if he could get Terry covered in paint. Amazingly, every time we see Terry, he never has a spot of paint on him. If I paint, I have more on me than I do anywhere else. Either he uses a magical brush, or I have an excitable twitch, one or the other.

A few gongoozlers strung around our girl, again bemused by her enormity. It triggered off a row between Mum and a strange fellow who was absolutely certain our girl was bigger than 12ft and INSISTED it was so. Mum was almost tempted to get the tape measure out to prove it. The chap must have the same problem with eating - his eyes being bigger than his belly.

Being late for lunch and all that, we dashed off to the pub, arriving panting at the bar. When lunch came to our table, I was intrigued that my Auntie's naan bread looked uncannily like a bicycle seat. Apparently it tasted like one too, but thankfully everything else was fine apart from the sausages. They were so overdone that throwing them at a duck might kill it, so I left them on the side of the plate so that the chef could used them to catch some ducks for his specials board. I hope he's a better thrower than Mum, or he might kill himself instead.

After pudding, we whisked back up to the canal and began the journey back to the marina. A skinny boat was having trouble staying moored, so we passed her gingerly whilst a kind gongoozler tied her back up again. Unfortunately, even on tick over, our passing was enough to suck it back out into the canal again where it drifted across like a closing gate. The poor thing looked terrified.

We left the skinny boat sobbing whilst someone else on the towpath came to her aid, and continued onwards, my Uncle steering our girl with a big grin past some fishermen. I've heard that coarse fishing isn't to do with the type of fish. It's actually the type of language a fisherman uses.

 A friend of mine taught me how to deal with this (not that I EVER will use this technique). He revved up his engine so much that a tidal wave from the rear of the boat washed the fishermen and their gear across the towpath.

Don't try this at home, and do not blame this blog for any silly ideas you might have regarding fishermen. In general, they're very nice. Even if their smile looks as though they might be constipated - they probably are, after holding in their arse muscles, just in case they miss something when they go.

Back in the marina, our boaty friends waved us in and we were home, amongst the protection of fat boat corner. Being in the marina is great and everyone is on the same level, or, excuse the pun, 'in the same boat.' Our girl rested in her mooring whilst we chatted away the hours with a cup of tea, reminiscing of our day, and the light faded. Oh such a pleasure to go out on a fat boat.