Hooray for no breeze and a marvellously still day for going out boat tripping. This morning we took off from our mooring to get to know the canal a little better aboard our girl, who today, behaved herself very well, with no naughty leaks or toilet problems.
Even the swans and ducks were still alive after consuming yesterday's Shreddies and delighted in eating half a box of Crunchy Nut as we left the marina today.
Ducks don't have teeth, so if you want a laugh, throw some Crunchy Nut at them, and watch their despair in trying to chew them. You can blame evolution for that one, not me.
The first part of the journey went well, and, pulling up at the swing bridge we decided to press pause and have a cuppa. One of our friends (another Dave) was moored behind us and came over for a chat.
We know so many Daves on the canal, including Glastonbury Dave, Solar Dave, Engineer Dave, Paint Dave and 'al' right Al' (he calls Dad Al') Dave, that I don't think my brain or Dad's phone book could store any more variations on that theme. My nickname at school was Dave. Lord only knows why.
This Dave (paint Dave) came over to admire our girl's glossy roof and chat paint with Dad. Paint Dave is very space-age modern with his own hydroponics bay at the front of his boat with green leaves poking out of the air vents on the side. We questioned the 'bushiness' and he grinned. 'I grow tomatoes and chillies - really hot chillies. Do you like them?' I shook my head. Last time I had chillies I had at least ten pints of water next to me to wash it down with. And that was only the mild version.
Paint Dave patted the roof again. 'She's big, isn't she? She's like an aircraft carrier!'
Looks like next year we'll be painting a runway on top, in case the Navy need to practice inland waterway landings.
I'm sure our boat will be the butt (yes, big arse) of oversized jokes for months.
Kindly, Dave opened the swingbridge and we carried on, keen to get through the set of locks and down to the pub. I sniggered at a narrowboat behind us that used a bow thruster to manoeuvre away from the drop off point. We've driven in 40mph winds and never felt the urge to use one. A bit of welly usually does the job. And a bump or two.
Before we reached the pub, Dad turned around above the final lock, whilst Mum clung to the TV aerial, desperately trying to stop the low-hanging willow from pinching her only link with Emmerdale. Never get between Mum and Emmerdale, it's dangerous, especially if the aerial is within reach.
Dad reversed into the lock, slightly disorientated at the peculiar sensation of using a lock back-to-front. Remarkably, he even reversed the boat into a mooring right outside the pub (you don't need to do it twice if there's a drink at the end of it). He asked me to catch the rope on the bank and I did so with my teeth, the rope landing smack into my mouth. Dad asked me to catch it - he just neglected to say which body part I needed to use.
Shortly after mooring, Mum dished up a picnic lunch, and we sat out on the bow in front of the other punters who looked on as we ate in front of them, raising our drinks (from the pub, of course) into the air. Cheers!
There's nothing better than your own personal seat at the pub and your own decent dinner - no wonder the punters looked envious and disappointed when their dinner came out half an hour later. I'm not actually sure if we were allowed to do this in full view, but we did it anyway. Just for fun.
Our girl creaked on her mooring as if she had a bad case of wind, rushing backwards and forwards as boats flicked by in and out of the locks past her. The willow we were next to patted us on the head and got tangled in our rice puddings and jelly pots. We forgot to bring spoons with us (limited utensils, you see). Try eating jelly with a fork. It's not funny. Especially in front of others.
As I was about to tackle mine, the willow shuddered and a strange chap walked over to say he liked the name of our boat. He was dressed in bright colours and wore a leather pouch around his neck, which, Dad being naturally curious, asked what it was. Apparently it was an amulet to keep nasty things like ghosts and ghouls away. We smiled sweetly at him and he disappeared, then rematerialised twenty minutes later and told us that the willow above us was rattling its leaves, so it was going to rain that afternoon.
Dad shook his head. 'Nah, dry all afternoon.'
The man said that trees don't lie. Fortunately this one did and it stayed dry.
We took charge back to the locks on our girl (after returning the pub glasses of course, don't accuse me of stealing them) and headed home. I did consider perhaps borrowing some spoons long-term though.
A less-experienced set of narrowboaters asked if they could share the first lock with us. We raised our eyebrows and looked at them like one would eye up a strange beetle's behaviour under a magnifying glass, heads tilted to one side.
'You'll only have a few inches.'
They looked back, confused. 'That'll be okay, we don't mind.'
They didn't understand that we weren't on about the space in the center of the lock you would normally have between two skinny boats.
'No, we mean, literally, you'll only have a couple of inches, and you're just a bit wider than that.'
Their faces sank, then they realised their mistake and giggled. It's impossible to be grumpy on the canal, even if you get it wrong.
Mum isn't fond of locks, so spent her time in each one as we went home sanding the railing in the kitchen to take her mind off of it, and ended up sanding off all the varnish in fear. I dread to think what might have happened if we had ascended Caen Hill Flight today. There wouldn't be a railing left.
Dad let me take control of the helm as we neared the marina, and two cyclists passed. One nearly fell off his bike doing a double take. 'Bloody hell, look, there's a girl driving that boat. That must take some steering!' I just smiled back. Little did they know that actually, it doesn't take much steering and it's easier than driving a car. For me, anyway. You haven't seen my driving yet. Spacial awareness can be a bit of an issue though. Apparently men don't think us women can park a car. Well guess what, I can park a fat boat - BEAT THAT.
At least on the canal everyone gets out of your way if you have a fat boat (don't worry, I always say thank you). Cue sarcastic wicked laugh.
Even fat boats get stuck in the mud, however, and under a bridge our girl's sixth sense alarmed her temporarily and she refused to budge, her propeller stirring up blankets of brown from the deep as if she had crapped herself in fear. I nearly did, forgetting that the gear shaft has more than one forward point and it could go faster. With a sigh of relief, our girl squeezed through the bridge and we made our way back to her mooring in the marina.
We stopped, exhausted and tied her up, patting her and emptying the other half of the crunchy nut box into an excited fray of swans who now turn their noses up at bread offerings. Sugar rocks. Bread's boring.
We patted our girl once more and left her cuddled up to the other fat boats, once again amongst her own kind and without discrimination amongst those other skinny boats. Bless her.
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