Portsmouth
2nd Navigation: Uxbridge to Rickmansworth
Batchworth Lock, Rickmansworth
Archive Photo: Rickmansworth Festival, 2018
Like most journeys, the picturesque voyage from Uxbridge to Rickmansworth, Ricky to its mates, was not without a minor incident or two. The first was when I came across an unaccompanied boat tied to one of the lock landings. Black Jack’s lock, for those in the know.
For those not in the know, a Lock Landing is a row of white topped bollards approaching a lock which is to be used, and only to be used, by boats which are travelling through the lock. They are not to be used as seats for fishermen. They are not to be used for people to tie up while they make a quick sandwich down below, then eat alfresco on the deck while wistfully watching the swans gliding under the dappled light below weeping willows, no matter how how pretty the day. And they most certainly are never, ever, to be used as a mooring while you nip up to the local cafe and enjoy a ‘cheeky’ cup of tea – which is where I found the owner of this tiny vessel.
The upside is that, once I found him, he agreed to go take his boat through the lock alongside mine which, especially for a solo boater, makes the process a lot easier. Unless, that is, the skipper of the other boat suddenly announces that he has a broken arm, possibly associated with his raging hangover, so can’t really wind the windlass properly – and, anyway, he isn’t entirely too sure about the mechanics of operating a lock.
Poor chap. I left him at the next lock, not out of rudeness or impatience, but because it happened to be adjacent to a water point and I was desperately low. There he asked me how long I thought it would take him to get to Tring. When I estimated, at the speed he was going, about a week and a half, he looked most perturbed and mumbled that he had arranged to meet his wife for lunch there the following day. Perhaps, if he found some help, he arrived only marginally late: the journey would usually take about two days at a casual pace. Whether he and his wife will, as he also stated was planned (there’s God laughing again), manage it all the way to Manchester with their boat, sanity and marriage still intact is another matter. I suspect something will have to give.
As I intimated in the opening of this instalment, this is one of the most picturesque journeys in the London area. Sadly, however, one of the prettiest stretches of this leg, the first couple of miles which goes from Uxbridge to Widewater Lock in Denham, is in the process of being horribly violated by the savage slice across the nation that is HS2. It’s an area I know well: as mentioned in the introduction I left Junie in the charge of Harefield Marina, which is adjacent to Widewater Lock, for much of last year. When I fled the mainland for the island Alderney, at the beginning of Lockdown Two, it was still the pretty, quiet collection of lakes, streams and light forest that I have known for the last decade. Six months later, when I walked the mile or so down the hill from Denham train station to the marina, I was both horrified and deeply saddened to see that acres of trees had been flattened to make way for a battery of bulldozers and heavy duty pile drivers. I also noted that the canal was patrolled by security guards, almost outnumbering the destruction workers. Surely, if you need to employ an army of security guards to fend of protesters and angry locals, you must know that what you’re doing might not be quite right?
But I digress.
Ricky is to me, as it is for many boaters, an old friend – in no small part because of The Rickmansworth Festival. An annual event, except for years when the world is on the verge of annihilation (the last two, I believe, have been cancelled), which is penned into many-a-skipper's calendar.
For me, Rickmansworth is the first town on the way out of London where the surroundings start to feel rural. As you approach there’s a beautiful, postcard-perfect farm with barns and buildings that boast terracotta-tiled, sagging pitched roofs over slatted wooden walls, above which lush, green fields play host to teams of beautifully sculpted horses. Often, the fields on the hillside are also crowded with camera and prop trucks as it seems to be a favourite for film productions. Most notably, in recent years, Bohemian Rhapsody and, in years gone by, the 1970’s series adaptation of Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty.
And what does the town itself have to offer? I hear you cry with eagerness and anticipation. Well, the high street comes equipped with most of the basic, essential features for any modern, mid-sized town: an Iceland, a Wetherspoons and a raft of charity shops. But nestled in amongst them are a few gems – mostly, I know you’ll be thrilled to learn, associated with food and drink. Next to the ‘Spoons is a superb little butcher, Meat As It Used To Be, which stocks cuts so local that the master butchers would probably be able to tell you, not just the former address, but also first and last name of your next meal. “Well, sir, this succulent rack of lamb came from Bobby Cottonsocks of Mr Flumperton’s farm just down the road. His favourite pastimes were leaping, frolicking, and getting stuck in hedges”.
Nearby there’s a bottle shop, with the almost perfect name of F.L. Dickins Wine & Spirits, purveying fine wines from afar along with craft beers, ciders and honey from anear.
But perhaps the shiniest of Ricky’s gems is the new(ish) tap room, Wishful Drinking, where one of of the walls is a collage of joyfully bright bottles and cans. Some from all over the world, others from just down the road, the entire collection under the stewardship of friendly, knowledgeable staff brimming with wide-eyed enthusiasm. A fine place to spend a quiet, last evening in one of my favourite towns.
Meanwhile, the boat refit continues with another crucial baby-step: thanks to the fine work of Des and Tom of Shipshape, Junie now has a new (well, refurbished) Morso Squirrel solid fuel stove, which almost makes me look forward to the long, dark evenings of the winter to come.
Almost, but not quite, which is why instead of accompanying this chapter with a photograph of the stove I’ve opted for an old image of Ricky during the last festival I attended – back in the pre-apocalyptic, giddy days of 2018 when sneezing in a lift was merely antisocial, not an act of terrorism, and covering your face in public was on the verge of being criminalised as opposed to mandatory.
It’s always sad to leave Rickmansworth but leave I must: at the time of writing I’m moving on from dear Rickey, although admittedly only a couple of miles, to the no-man’s land of Croxley Green and Cassiobury – up Watford way. There, in the coming weeks, I hope to see a man about some floorboards, hinges and possibly a window.
1st Navigation: Bull’s Bridge to Uxbridge
Shiny, Happy Panels in Uxbridge
The truth is that there isn’t much to say about Bull’s Bridge. It’s a bit of a no man’s land, on the edge of Southall, and other than that it is the gateway to London via the Paddington Arm, which I hope to get to at the very end of this journey, and there is home to an excellent Tesco’s superstore, is of no interest to anybody.
The journey from Bull’s Bridge to Uxbridge is a relatively picturesque one, especially at this time of the year, and does have one, for me, two interesting points of interest. Just past Bull’s Bridge, in Hayes, is the now defunct Nestle chocolate factory. Apparently, the last cargo to be taken there via barge, along the Grand Union, was a consignment of lime juice, which went from the aptly named Limehouse Basin to this factory in 1990. I know it sounds a bit unlikely, especially the recent date, but I heard this from a source who I consider to be impeccably reliable, as I do most drunken boaters I encounter in the various canal side pubs, so it must be true.
It also touches on my second point: Bull’s bridge and the site of the Nestle factory are both located in what is known as The Long Pound – a pound being a stretch of canal between locks. The Long Pound, the longest on the entire canal network, is, I believe, about twenty-three miles. It stretches all the way from Cowley Lock, just below Uxbridge, down the main Grand Union to Norwood Top Lock, which is near Osterly Park in Ealing. Via the Paddington Arm it then stretches all they way into Camden. But it is the Western section of this long pound, around Hayes, down towards Osterly and, via the Paddington Arm, about as far as Greenford, that is of interest here. For in this area, back when I started boating in 2011, there use to be an inordinate amount of floating coconuts. Flocks of them, which would merrily bob along, sometimes gently tapping along the side of the hull and, occasionally, getting caught in the propeller – making a helluva racket and, just for a moment, giving me both the heebies and the jeebies. Word had it that these wild coconuts were escapees from the Nestle chocolate factory where they had been taken, sadly by truck and not canal, to be butchered and turned into Bounty bars. I don’t know if there’s any truth to the rumour as I have yet to encounter a boater, drunken or otherwise, in any canal side pub to confirm or refute. But I do rather like the idea and, whenever I navigate this stretch, I still find myself happily singing, “Oh, give me a home, where there co-co-nuts roam; and the swans and the geese, they do play.”
Speaking of canal side pubs, there are two in the Uxbridge area which I patronised on this journey. The first is The General Eliot, relatively near the centre of Uxbridge, which is a fine place run by decent, boater-loving folk. They pour an excellent pint of ale, always served with a smile and, if there’s time and the customer has the inclination, a chat. It’s a place I highly recommend. The other is called The Malt Shovel, adjacent to Cowley Lock and an establishment I remember as a friendly dive. During lockdown, however, it’s had a refurbishment, gone posh and, with it, developed delusions of adequacy. The beer is overpriced and the bar staff, who in this age of facemarks and sanitisers act more like wardens, are surly. Don’t go there if you don’t have to.
On the refurbishment front: I’m thrilled to report that I am now the proud owner of two deciduously large solar panels which, apparently, are capable of generating up to four hundred and twelve Watts each. I’m sure that means absolutely nothing to all you gridders reading this but, trust me, to us off gridders it’s a pretty big deal. I may include a photograph of them, just to show off, as they do look rather magnificent – mainly due to the sterling work of PJ of The Floating Workshop.
I came close on having the water heater put in but, sadly, came a cropper due to a supply shortage of essential parts which, depending on their political stances, various suppliers blamed on either Brexit or the Chinese.
Some progress was made on the solid fuel stove, thanks to Chris the Gas Man (who will be seeing to my water heater, once either the dust settles on Brexit or the Chinese become more cooperative) and his recommendation of a company who shall carry out the work in Rickmansworth: my next stop.
Introduction: Floating Around The Long Pound
Cowley, seen from Cowley Lock
Question: How long does it take for a brand, spanking new narrowboat to become a project boat? Apparently, the answer is nine and a half years. Or, rather, that was how long it was before a passing gongoozler asked me if my dearly beloved, fifty foot home of the last decade was such. The painfully blunt, and I thought rather impertinent, question was put to me towards the end of last autumn, just before I fled the impending apocalypse facing mainland United Kingdom for the safety of the Covid free island of Alderney.
There, I ended up for exactly six months and a day, leaving the good ship Junie safely birthed in Harefield Marina – on the Grand Union Canal near the town of Denham. Like many, I spent much of the lockdown period(s) over indulging (every day really did seem like Sunday) and watching Bargain Hunt, while picking away at my second novel. I also whiled away many hours making various boaty “to-do” lists. This included such seemingly simple and mundane tasks such as replacing the curtains, fixing a hinge or two and painting the walls, to some really quite serious and, as it turns out, gut-wrenchingly expensive undertakings: including but, sadly not just limited to replacing a crumbling and decrepit sold-fuel stove, finally putting in solar panels and installing a gas water heater.
Throughout the seemingly endless Sundays I also began to ponder my canal journeys over the last nine years – and I found them depressingly wanting. I’m ashamed to say that after living on a narrowboat on the Grand Union Canal for all this time, with more that two thousand miles of canals and rivers at my disposal to explore across the Kingdom of England and the Principality of Wales (the future Republic of Scotland does have canals but, just to be stereotypically difficult, none of theirs are connected to anyone else’s) I have barely ventured beyond any town that doesn’t have a tube station. In all that time the furthest I’ve managed is Milton Keynes – although, in my defence, it did turn out to be just as much of a shit-hole as everyone had warned me, which is probably the reason I swiftly about turned back towards the comforting civilisation of London.
My fault entirely, of course. As the last sentence of the previous paragraph implies I have always been very London-centric and, to paraphrase Woody Allen’s famed comment on New York, have always felt that people who don’t live there must, on some level, be kidding themselves. Nevertheless: my lack of adventuring beyond the commuter zone is an oversight which I intend, over the coming weeks and months, to put right. It is my intention, over this summer season of renewed hope and freedom for us all, to find out what lies beyond the hellacious cultural vacuum that is Milton Keynes as I commence on an embarrassingly modest journey that narrowboat enthusiast’s call The Oxford Loop, otherwise known as The Thames Ring.
According to the map I recently downloaded from a very useful website called CanalPlan.co.uk, the journey is two hundred and forty-six miles, three and a half furlongs. (Yes, it actually says ‘furlongs’ – I hope that tickles you as much as it does me). There are one hundred and seventy-five locks, which does not tickle me, and at six hours per moving day can be done over about twenty days. I shall be taking a lot longer than twenty days, pitching up in various towns for anything from a day to a fortnight, the latter being the Canal & River Trust’s time limit for visitor moorings, depending on how interesting the various destinations or how much work I’m having done on the boat’s ongoing refurbishment.
Traditionally, the journey would begin in Brentford, where the Grand Union Canal meets the River Thames. One would then then journey The Grand Union Canal through Hanwell, into Southall and then passed Bull’s Bridge Junction, where the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union diverts into London. I started the journey, for the purposes of this writing endeavour, at Bull’s Bridge, since that is where I happened to be which when I began writing this introduction. It’s also where I’d quite like to end it as I’m sure, by the time I’m back, I’ll be itching to take a quick trip into the Big Smoke.
From there I shall travel at a mind-bending four miles an hour, which is the speed limit on the canal, through West Drayton, Uxbridge, and onwards through Rickmansworth, Leighton Buzzard and, of course, that previously mentioned arse-hole of nowhere, MK. (That’s what the local’s call Milton Keynes. Often with oozy, suave undulations followed by a forcefully relaxed, “baby”, as if they’re sun drenched, beshaded, film producers talking about, “LA, baby.”…Says it all, really.)
Beyond MK, as far as I know, there might well be dragons. But regardless off the dangers, I shall continue North. Past Northampton, then curve down South to Banbury (which sounds familiar, I suspect a friend of mine might live there), to another place with the rather unlikely name of Thrupp, and then on to Oxford: a fine and civilised city I know well, although I usually arrive by train with a return ticket to Marylebone.
In Oxford I shall leave the canal system and, for the first time, take my very little boat onto the very large River Thames. Via The Thames I shall venture through Windsor, Reading (only because I must – I suspect it will be a bit like MK) and finally back rejoin the Grand Union in Brentford.
From Brentford I shall ascend the Hanwell Flight, a navigation I know well as it’s where I bought my boat back in November 2011 and was the first set of locks I attempted. I shall end the journey by returning to Bull’s Bridge, closing both the loop and this project.
As I say, this is only an intention. I hesitate to use the word ‘plan’ for fear of coaxing the Almighty into mirthful mischief. Although the journey can be done in a few, short weeks, I dare say I shall be stretching mine out over several months.
I suspect I shall speed through some of the early destinations, which I already know, fairly quickly, perhaps moving and journaling once weekly. Sharing with you various anecdotes, tales of local customs, highlighting points of interests and even sharing a local a secret or two. Hopefully, while doing so, meeting and introducing you to a few friends, old and new. I shall also endeavour to accompany each entry with a photograph or two, as photography is also one of my dearest passions.
But I’m getting ahead of things. It’s all a bit amorphous and ill defined at the moment: all I do know for sure is that, at the time of publishing this introduction, I have been spending several weeks shuttling backwards and forwards from Bull’s Bridge to Uxbridge, the Western part The Long Pound in an effort to have at least one the three first major tasks for Junie’s refurbishment completed: solar panels installed, her crumbling solid fuel stove replaced and the installation of a gas water heater.