When we left Oxford, on the first of May, it was cold. And it continued to be cold for quite some time. I even bought a new fleece; mostly because the one I had on the boat was about 15 years old and was getting a bit tight for me. Nonetheless, having to buy a fleece, and wearing gloves in May is a bit weird. Steve wore a buff and waterproofs, waterproof trousers and solid hiking boots. That was until we got to London at the end of May.
Suddenly the weather changed and slowly the layers came off. First the waterproofs, which we kept at the ready just inside the cabin. Then the buff and gloves. And eventually we were in shirt sleeves and shorts. All of that in the course of a day. Morning – winter temperatures, afternoon heatwave. The met office called it a heat spike.
With the hot weather, the river started doing funny things. It started to bubble and ferment, and grime and dirt and rubbish were pushed to the surface. On a clean river that’s not a problem. All you see is lumps of organic material floating by, and if you’re moored up it sounds as though the river is farting. That’s the bubbles from the bottom forming alongside the boat and then bursting in loud burps.
Unfortunately for us, we were on the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union when the water started to release it’s winter grime. There was a lot of it, inches thick, on the approach to Little Venice. Moorhens and coots were building nests out of plastic and ribbons and discarded man-made fibres instead of twigs and branches. They built nests on floating islands of filth. And the moored boats were surrounded by it. It was depressing.
And of course we had it stuck round our prop. A whole binbag full of it: a full—length curtain (still intact), 2 metres of rope, colourful ribbons, plastic bags, plastic, plastic and more plastic. What happened next is another story.
A few days later, leaving London along the Regents Canal and then up the River Lee, the weather just got hotter, and hotter and hotter.
We drank plenty of water, slapped on sun cream and wore hats. Even so, it was exhausting. For once we didn’t walk on to the next lock as we usually do.
And our poor boat! Having recovered from a broken gear cable only a few days earlier, our engine started to over-heat. For a while we cruised on, with the cover off and going slowly, but it wasn’t firing properly, leaving a trail of diesel in the water and guzzling oil.
There was nothing we could do but stop. Thankfully, and unexpectedly on that stretch of the busy London canal, we found a mooring spot just outside a pub.
After a couple of hours the engine had cooled down, so we moved on, ever so slowly so as not to rev too much. It took us five hours for a journey that would normally take three. I was despondent, upset and embarrassed that yet again we had engine trouble.
The temperature in the bow of the boat showed 430C.
Inside was even hotter. The fridge didn’t like it either. At the end of the day, the butter had melted, the cheese was runny and meat was ready for the bin.
When we stopped for lunch we bought some frozen breaded chicken pieces with the intention of having these with a salad. Saintly Steve put these in the oven and boiled some new potatoes while I sat outside in a soggy molten mess. The temperature inside the boat was from hell.
And then? Well, the weather turned after a few days. The temperature slowly came down to a pleasant 23 degrees. Perfect cruising weather. We enjoyed that all the way up the river Stort and back.
And now? For the past two days we’ve had thunderstorms and cooler temperatures. The wind is whistling round our boat and the water has waves on it, as if we were at sea. I’m back in the fleece I bought in early May, and the waterproofs are close by at all times.
For now we’re “enjoying” a few days in a marina, waiting for an engineer to come and do an engine service while Steve travels to Oxford for a few appointments. For the first time ever we have shore power, and we bought a new cool box. So all is well.
Towpaths and Turnpikes 
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