Born and raised in Durban, South African Verne is a writer and editor. She and Roy met in Durban in 1992, got married four years later, and moved briefly to London in 2000 and then to Singapore a year later. After their 15 or 16 years on that amazing island, Roy retired in May 2016 from a long career in shipping.
Now, instead of settling down and waiting to get old in just one place, we've devised a plan that includes exploring the waterways of France on our new boat, Karanja. And as Verne doesn't do winter, we'll spend the rest of the time between Singapore, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand - and whatever other interesting places beckon.
Those round-the-world air-tickets look to be incredible value...
As Marlow is just one stop away from Bourne End, and it’s an hourly service, by train seemed a good way to get there.
Naturally, we arrived at the station two minutes after the departure of the 10.53am train, so we explored Bourne End’s useful but not terribly exciting high street: a Costa, another café, a Sainsbury’s, a shoe-repair/key-cutting/photo-printing shop and so on.
Marlow station isn’t in the centre of the village, as the Bourne End station-master had kindly warned us. From when you turn left at The Marlow Donkey pub (named for the affectionate local term for the original choo-choo that plied this route), it’s about a ten-minute stroll to a seriously chi chi high street. Here you’ll find some interesting clothing boutiques, a couple of art galleries, cafés, restaurants, aesthetics clinics and nail salons; plus several decidedly upmarket charity shops – we counted at least two Oxfams! – selling cut crystal glasses and Royal Doulton tea-sets.
At the end of Marlow’s high street, cross the bridge to The Compleat Angler
Wounded bulls
At the end of the high street, you cross Marlow Bridge to get to Macdonald’s Compleat Angler Hotel – named for the book by 16th-century English writer Izaak Walton, who stayed there in 1659. Amazingly, The Compleat Angler is the second-most reprinted book in the English language, after the King James Bible!
On this, the hottest day of the year, the terrace was fully occupied; we contented ourselves with a large G&T in the bar lounge. At GBP15 each, we felt almost as though we were back in Singapore.
Drinks had been drained and a table not yet forthcoming; so we took the very next train back to Bourne End, crossed the bridge, turned right and followed the river for cod and chips at the The Bounty Pub. (For more on that, see my previous blog.)
Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler has been the fisherman’s bible since the 1600s
An idyllic riverside location in a picture-perfect village isn’t enough. When you’re forking out for a gastropub on the Thames, you want really good food and service, and – after trying a few along the way – that’s what we eventually found at The White Oak, Cookham.
Though our mooring at Bourne End looked to be a bit “ulu”, as they say in Singapore – meaning inconveniently far-flung – it was in fact only a ten-minute walk from Bourne End village, and five minutes from The Spade Oak pub. On the plus side, The Spade Oak has alfresco seating and an interesting menu; disappointingly, both the food and the service were patchy: over-brown chips came with my cod (£11); Roy’s delicious fillets of sea-bass (£16) were served lukewarm the first time round; and other people’s drinks took forever to arrive. (Intrepid Roy got ours directly from the bar.)
There must be a connection between The Spade Oak and The Ferry at Cookham Bridge, nearby: the menus are identical, and the service equally poor. We’d stopped in at The Ferry on our new bikes for a couple of halves of cider, which did eventually come; but having witnessed the sorry confusion, decided not to return for dinner. A pity, that, as it has a nice alfresco setting right on the river and was literally 150 metres from our mooring.
Cookham High Street
The Crown, young and buzzy
Instead, we tried our luck along Cookham High Street. I loved the ambience of Bel and the Dragon, which came highly recommended by a couple of our marina friends,and could have spent a week curled up with a few of its marvellous collection of old books. Disappointingly watery cocktails (£8) – especially Roy’s martini, even the second time around – drove us away after one drink.
Across the road, the menu at The King’s Arms was almost identical to both The Spade Oak and The Ferry – just laid out differently. So, after a glass of French chardonnay (£6) at young and buzzy TheCrown, which marks the end of the High Street, we headed back to the boat for a chicken curry that I’d made “just in case” – fortunately, as it turned out.
The White Oak
Finally, we made it to The White Oak in The Pound, Cookham, a pleasant 15-minute walk from our mooring near the bridge. It fully deserves the moniker “gastropub”; it’s #1 on TripAdvisor, and you can see why. Spacious bar, well-proportioned restaurant and lovely garden were all full to capacity on Friday, 22 July – the first day of the summer, according to the manager. (The last day of the school term?) Even so, the service was lovely, the atmosphere convivial and the food excellent.
The White Oak, CookhamChilean chardonnay, eminently drinkable
We opted for the day’s set menu (£15 for two courses; £19 for three). To start, breaded beef rib, horseradish and carrot salad for both of us. To continue, we shared both the slow-cooked pig cheeks, sultana and caraway ragu, mash and burnt savoy, and the smoked haddock, squid ink and leek risotto.
For dessert, just one sticky toffee pudding with ice cream to share, and all washed down with the unoaked Chilean chardonnay (£20) pictured below. Fabulous.
The Bounty Pub
Marina neighbour Al (who, by the way, lives on a boat named “Alestorm”) said we should visit The Bounty if we found ourselves in Bourne End. You can only get to this popular establishment by boat, or by crossing the pedestrian and railway bridge*, turning right and following the river for a couple of hundred metres.
Cod and chips at The Bounty
The Bounty Pub, Bourne End
At this welcoming, relatively cheap and decidedly cheerful joint, shirtless mad dogs and Englishmen happily roasted in the sun, while Roy and I cowered under what little shelter there was to polish off some jolly good cod and chips (£11). Happily, the friendly service included a lift back across the river to the Bourne End Marina, just five minutes from our mooring.
* In the days when The Bounty was Al’s local, he recalls, it was only a railway bridge, and they used to walk across the railway track, flattening themselves against the sides if a train came along. The pedestrian bit was added later for a bit of ’Ealth & Safety. (He also recalls popping into the pub on a Friday night and not getting home until Sunday.)
After several exploratory trips both upstream and downstream from our long-term berth at Thames & Kennet Marina, it was time to venture a longer voyage: downstream, we decided, heading for Marlow.
Monday morning’s warm and sunny July weather made for an auspicious start, but only after we’d headed up to the top of the marina for our virgin pump-out – i.e., clearing our black-water tanks (see previous blog titled “Pump-out”). Feeling virtuously clean on the inside, too, we finally set off at 10am.
Somehow, I thought we might stop off along the way for elevenses at Sonning, a bit of sight-seeing at Henley-on-Thames, an ice-cream at Hurley or Hambledon, or a spot of shopping at Marlowe. Silly of me, really. Even if mooring had been easy to find on such a popular stretch of the Thames on such a beautiful summer’s day, it’s not in Roy’s nature to stop. He hates to stop for photographs or bursting bladders when he’s driving a car, so why would this boat-driving business be any different?
Some stupendous property lines the river, as you can see:
Fancy this one?
Or how about something in black and white?
Not bad, either
OK, this one’s a nursing home…
And, for good measure, some classic scenes of Henley-on-Thames:
Approach to Henley-on-Thames
Henley Bridge
Post-Henley Regatta tents still to be taken down
What a beautiful, wide stretch of river – perfect for the annual Henley Regatta
Temple Island, just downstream of Henley-on-Thames
Six hours and seven locks later – Sonning, Shiplake, Marsh, Hambledon, Hurley, Temple and Marlowe – it seemed that all available mooring had been taken by earlier birds. With relief, we spotted a gap to port just before Bourne End, between a barge and a cruiser. “I can get in there,” declared the optimistic Roy, and so he did. It helped that both of our putative neighbours kindly rushed out to grab ropes, move their own vessels a bit and help ease us in – their hospitality possibly motivated just a tiny bit by fear of imminent collision.
Neighbours at Bourne End
The new canopy is fairly easy to erect, provides welcome shade on the deck, and, importantly, didn’t blow away in the wind
Speaking of hospitable neighbours, Bill, Maria and their wholly lovable golden retriever have been living on their barge for four years. This week, they also had with them two primary school-age grandsons, whose parents would be picking them up on Friday. Were the kids enjoying the trip?, I asked him.
“I think so,” he said uncertainly. “It’s hard to tell. They’re a right couple of little sods at the best of times. I reckon we’ll be swigging gin out of the bottle by Thursday.”
Apart from The Spade Oak pub a few hundred metres up the road, and the long stretch of Thames Path for hikers, runners, dog-walkers and fishermen, our Bourne End mooring had one attraction irresistible not only to Bill’s grandsons but to everyone else, too: a soft-serve ice cream van stationed in one corner from nine to five. You don’t get to bond with all your neighbours at a mooring, but Mr Whippy is something different.
On the hottest day of the year, Mr Whippy is everyone’s favourite neighbour
Pumping out your black-water tank – that’s where the toilets flush into – is easily the least glamorous thing about living on a boat.
Fortunately, it doesn’t have to be done very often. How often is safe? Our marina neighbours Fairy and Duncan do theirs every two or three weeks: “Duncan doesn’t believe in gauges,” says Fairy. (Duncan, for the record, was previously a yacht master.)
We inexperienced types, however, do have to rely on gauges. So when, a few days ago and exactly a month after the launch of our Dutch barge Karanja, her waste gauge indicated that the 1,000-litre tank was three-quarters full, we reckoned the hour had come – especially as we were about to embark on a week-long cruise down the Thames.
Virgin pump-out
You’ll be able to identify the pump-out hose by its strong resemblance to a coiled intestine, albeit a giant one
Fortunately, we were able to observe neighbour David pumping out his barge, Elysian, just the day before, with the help of his neighbour, Andy. David (an ex-Army colonel) was quite comfortable with Roy being there, but seemed unsure that a lady should be witness to an operation with such an embarrassing potential for whiffiness.
Pump-out protocol
Move your boat to the pump-out station.
Get one or two coupons (depending on boat size) from the marina office – free for berth-holders, GBP15 for visitors.
Insert nozzle of pump hose into your boat’s discharge outlet.
Feed coupons into pump machine to start the pump.
After suction has built up – it takes about a minute – open valve on pump machine.
Observe exodus of shite through viewing panel at boat end of hose; when complete, push pause button on pump.
If you like, use water-hose provided to run some rinsing water into the tank, then complete your pump-out.
Now feed in a little water – just for a minute or two – to cover the bottom of your tank.
Feel pleased and proud that your ducks are all in a row.
It’s good to know that all your ducks are in a row
Living on a boat, this is by far the most cleaning I’ve done in my life so far.
Some chores I’m doing for the first time ever – like vacuuming and mopping floors, not to mention cleaning toilets (and boat toilets are a whole other nasty ball game).
Even during relatively poverty-stricken student days in the eighties (kicked out of the parental home for alleged inappropriate behaviour and forced to live with admittedly unsuitable boyfriend), I could afford a cleaner, courtesy of my waitressing job, not to mention the attractive apartheid-era cleaning rates. And, happily for me, that’s how matters continued.
Sixteen years of expatriate life in Singapore did nothing to expand my cleaning repertoire, of course. A succession of more-or-less delightful Filipino women continued to keep my life shipshape, with very little effort on my part.
Now I find myself in England. Here, having a cleaner is clearly not the norm, especially for an almost-retired couple living in a 49-foot, one-bedroomed home – albeit one that floats. Indoors are expanses of wooden flooring and cabinetry, a full kitchen, one-and-a-half bathrooms, ornaments and pictures and more. And, as one of my neighbours warned me darkly from Day One, we’re surrounded by Nature, and the air that blows in is full of willow-pollen, insects and dust.
Problem is, I find I can’t just live with dust, let alone those mysterious dust-bunnies that collect in corners. It creeps me out to pick up something from the floor and find it covered in dirt, bits of fluff and strands of hair – and that includes my own.
What can that remaining 0.01 percent of germs be?
Fortunately, I reflect, as we trawl the supermarket aisles, cleaning products seem to have come a long way. And later, I thank goodness for Waitrose rubber gloves (the thin latex ones for sensitive skins and improved sensation – what does that remind you of?), as I gingerly work my way through packets of wipes for leather, wipes for wood, wipes for stainless steel, wipes for granite and wipes for lavatorial surfaces – most of which promise to kill 99.99 percent of all known germs. (Incidentally, what can that remaining 0.01 percent of germs be?)
Resolved to be happy in my unaccustomed work, I’m counting my blessings and naming them one by one. First on the list is Mr Dyson, whose eponymous sucking appliance has brought new life to the 12-year-old Persian rug I bought at a wine-fuelled Oriental Carpets auction 14 years ago. Second is our built-in dishwasher, and Roy’s ardent attachment to it. Third is a certain flexibility of character that lets me sleep in exquisite comfort on un-ironed Egyptian cotton bedsheets.
A woman’s got to draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at ironing sheets.
When we were contemplating living on a marina on the Thames for the summer, I never gave a thought to the other boat-dwellers who’d be there too – let alone that they’d become our friends.
As a fair few of our neighbours are smokers, every opportunity is taken to sit outside – especially on these long, summer evenings
“It’s like a village,” explained our neighbour Duncan over his customary pint at the Boater’s Bar, our local at the Thames & Kennet Marina. “I’m from a village in Scotland with a population of 1,200, where everyone knew my father, my brother and me, and I knew everyone too. Here, when you walk down the pontoon, everyone says ‘hello’, ‘how are you’, ‘how are you doing’ – I like that.”
The Boater’s Bar, social hub of the Thames & Kennet marina
This is not the norm in England, he agrees, especially the south. “But we think it is normal,” says Duncan. Whatever the reasons that brought us here, he explains, we share a commonality in our boats – “we have a similar interest and we all have similar issues”. That’s true – but I think there’s more to it than that.
Though he can be fairly charming when he feels like it, my husband Roy has always been of the “good fences make good neighbours” persuasion. Worse still, he can instantly assume a faintly hostile mien to discourage chit-chat in a lift, while accusing me of being able to extract a fellow-passenger’s life history between ground and the 22nd floor.
Life on a marina
This is very different from life in Singapore. For starters, there are no condos and there are no lifts. Instead of traffic noise from the East Coast Parkway, we wake up to the calls of swans, ducks and moorhens.
And we made friends with our neighbours on our very first day on D Pontoon. It didn’t hurt that our berth is directly opposite to that of Morag and “London” John’s barge, Alchemist, and that Morag runs the extremely popular Boater’s Bar, the social hub of the marina.
Though it’s farthest away from the facilities (bar, pump-out, rubbish bins, marina office, ablutions, parking lot), the denizens of D Pontoon declare it the best spot on the marina. They should know. I just can’t believe how lucky we’ve been to end up here, surrounded by this group of warm, generous and instantly accepting people.
To our left are Duncan and the gorgeous Fairy on BigBaloo; on Tranen, Heather and Kenny, party animals whose broad Scots accents I’m finally penetrating. On the other side is ex-army colonel David Watson on Elysian. His neighbours, tree-surgeon Doug and his wife Sue, live on heritage vessel Tedders, a 19th-century houseboat (with shutters!) that I’d love to find out more about. Moored closest to the marina entrance from the Thames, Tony and Ann on Initio are always ready on a windy day to offer incoming neighbours a hand with the ropes.
“Tedders”, a 19th-century houseboat that used to belong to Oxford University“Locksley”, Pam’s big old barge, has hosted some famous parties
The circle of friends includes a number of women who live alone; generally, it seems, on huge boats. Bubbly blonde art teacher Sarah says she spent the children’s inheritance on Sadie, a 70-tonne, 120-year-old barge built of iron. (No, they didn’t mind.) On the barge next to hers is recently widowed Aussie swim teacher Stella; and Pam throws famous parties on big old Locksley.
Several people have warned us – only half-jokingly – that T&K Marina is like Hotel California: you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. After our first month here, I already believe them.
David Watson, at the annual berth-holders hog roast last Saturday eveningKenny and Al, dittoFairy and PatsyAl, Sue and HeatherStella and Pam
Canal bridges tend often to be tricky – not so the much larger ones spanning the broad and beautiful River Thames. But Sonning Bridge promised to be a bit of a challenge.
We’re still very new boat-owners, so advice from the experienced and exceptionally friendly barging community at Thames & Kennet Marina is always welcome. Neighbours on either side hinted that it might not be a cinch to navigate Karanja under the bridge at Sonning, the very next bridge downstream from the marina entrance to the Thames.
Built in 1775 to replace an early-16th-century wooden version, Sonning Bridge – just after Sonning Lock – is relatively small, and you can only navigate through the middle of the three arches. It’s set at an angle, too. Going downstream, you have the advantage of right of way, but also less manoeuvrability. Coming back upstream is slightly more difficult, as you have to make a rather sharp turn to the left in limited space.
When daughter Wendy visited us from her home in Brittany, it seemed the right time to brave Sonning Bridge for the first time, and, happily, the exercise went without a hitch: Roy had no problem easing our 49-foot Dutch-style barge smoothly through that middle arch (while I helpfully kept my eyes shut).
Wendy having a Titanic moment on the way to Sonning
Please respect the privacy of this sign!Sonning Bridge in the background
After mooring just beyond The Great House (www.greathouse@sonning.co.uk) where Roy and I had also stayed for the mid-June 2016 night that Karanja was brought down by road from the Piper boatyard at Stoke-on-Trent), we lunched alfresco at the Coppa Club restaurant (www.coppaclub.co.uk), located just a gentle upward slope of lawn away from the Thames.
Sonning Bridge ticked off the list, we’re planning a longer trip downstream next week – at least as far as Marlowe.
According to our neighbours at the Thames & Kennet Marina, near the English town of Reading, the Bird in Hand, “just up the road”, is one of the best places to eat in the neighbourhood. That’s not surprising – the chef and proprietor is a Sicilian, Santino Busciglio, who cooked at several Michelin-starred restaurants in London before taking over proprietorship of this reportedly 13th-century country inn.
It certainly looked the part when we popped in last Sunday, partly for a half of cider but mainly to check things out. Having done lunchtime duty, Santino came in with his dog to commune with a table of diners and their own dog, who’d been slumbering under the table. We introduced ourselves, and then followed a delicious discussion with this delightfully charming man about the benefits of brining pork for several days; that day’s Sunday roast had been a gorgeous belly, and the diner who was finishing off his portion of it had such a look of glazed contentment that I could hardly wait to return for a meal.
So we were back the very next Wednesday evening, this time with daughter Wendy, who was visiting from France. It was the Bird in Hand’s weekly pizza night: From 5pm until sunset (around 10pm now, it being mid-summer), Santino creates his own authentic, slow-rising sourdough pizzas in the wood-fired alfresco oven out back, next to a verdant expanse of beer-garden. Pizza is not generally my first choice, nor Roy’s, but the signature Leggero (£12), thin of crust and topped with mozzarella, fresh tomato polpa, anchovies and just a hint of chilli, was everything we’d hoped for.
All our neighbours had recommended the Bird in Hand’s beef, and Wendy polished off her grilled fillet of aged Herefordshire (225g; 24); it came with a “divine” peppercorn sauce, mixed vegetables and fat golden chips that had been thrice-cooked in beef dripping (!).
From a mostly Italian wine list, we chose a nice Bordeaux (£28). The service was good – especially when you think that the chef was having to run between the alfresco pizza oven and the indoor kitchen; and did I mention what a lovely, picturesque old place this is to linger in? (It offers rooms, too, by the way.)
We’ll be back before long. The Châteaubriand for two (560g; 28 per person) is calling, and so are the various small sharing dishes – especially the grilled Galician octopus and the salt cod fishcakes. Who thought there’d be such a place in the heart of the English countryside?
This is the perfect place for a summer wedding – in fact, my stepson Carl and our daughter-in-law Carrie were married here on a perfect English summer’s day in July, 2009. We (but especially Roy) have stayed here many times since then; it’s conveniently close to Roy’s mum’s home in Alcester.
We come not so much for the accommodation as for the food, though this is a lovely old historical inn with oodles of atmosphere. Casual weekday guests like us are not the hotel’s bread and butter: weddings are.
Nevertheless, proprietor Simon does a great job in the kitchen on this quiet Tuesday evening in mid-summer, ably assisted by his friendly wife, Agnes. We’ve already had an excellent lunch today at The Bell at Welford-on-Avon (where Roy had an apple crumble that I suspect he’s going to be raving about for weeks to come); but both Roy and I thoroughly enjoy our delicious shanks of lamb, slow-braised for 14 hours. Wendy, more restrained, pairs a starter of cheesy mushrooms with a lovely salad.
Roy is always good at sussing out the best room at a hotel, and then making sure he gets it on his next visit; at the Arrow Mill, it’s Room 11: a corner location, up just one flight of stairs, away from any kitchen noise and with pretty views. It has a romantic four-poster bed and a fabulous corner bath to put a smile on my face – though Roy complains he has to jump around in the shower to get wet.
Overnight at The Bull Hotel either before or after the British Grand Prix – it’s 20 minutes from the Silverstone circuit.
People tend to sneer when you mention the “new town” of Milton Keynes, built in 1967 as one of several to relieve London congestion. But there’s more to the place than ugly concrete facades and bewilderingly endless roundabouts – it also encompasses Stony Stratford, whose Watling Street was since Roman times the main thoroughfare from London to the north, and later famous as an overnight stop for stagecoaches.
The Bull Hotel (1609) is one of a handful of old hostelries that remain, and Roy and I spent the night there after the 2016 F1 British Grand Prix. Just along the High Street is The Cock, and this is apparently the origin of the expression “cock and bull story” – it refers to the gossip and tall stories exchanged by travellers at these old inns in days of yore. You can almost hear the clatter of ghostly stage-coaches through its arched entryway into the courtyard; but it’s more likely the sound of a barrel of real ale rolling across cobbles into the adjacent Vaults pub.
View of the church from our window
One of just 12 rooms, ours overlooked the Parish Church of St Mary and St Giles. Furnishing and décor throughout this little hotel are in new condition, cosy, mainly comfortable, and in keeping with its history. Our room had a spacious bathroom with a good shower, plus a couple of welcome features such as armchairs, a safe and even a fan. This being F1 weekend, the GBP135 we paid was understandably over the odds; happily, it included a full English breakfast, served all the way through to a civilised 11am.
Who names these beers?
Less civilised was the Bull’s kitchen closing at 6pm on a Sunday night. After a half of Wight Squirrel (lovely name!) at the Vaults, we had another of Hop Goes the Beagle (!) at The Old George Inn (www.theoldgeorge.com), a cosy 16th-century pub offering accommodation and known for its live music.
The Old George Inn
After that, dinner at the decidedly 21st-century Indian-Bangladeshi Kardamom Lounge (www.kardamomlounge.com), mainly because it was still open. Its ten-quid Sunday Gourmet deal included starter, main, side dish and bread or rice. Good service, good value and generally good and plentiful food, though the chicken vindaloo was, we agreed, so volcanically hot as to be virtually uneatable.
Gratuitous Limerick
A sign for Buckingham on the route back to Reading made me wonder aloud to Roy whether there might be a dirty limerick about that first-mentioned town. There was, yes, and the old sailor in him recalled and recited it at once. It’s far too filthy to repeat here, but I’m going to do so anyway:
