Buying a Dinghy – Part Two: Getting afloat
An inflatable dinghy like this 2.7m Zodiac comes with a foot-pump, but £100 extra for a compressor was money well spent, says Roy.
Buying a Dinghy – Part One: Why, and which one?
Our first trip by dinghy to the Tesco Express on the other side of the Thames was a revelation. This was such a cool way to do one’s grocery shopping! We simply had to get a dinghy, and soon.
After giving us a little tour by tender of the Thames & Kennet Marina, our generous D Pontoon neighbour, David, insisted we use his little dinghy for our next supermarket trip. By car, it’s six or seven kilometres away, through sometimes heavy traffic and over Reading Bridge. By boat, it’s a mile at most.
Like many others, no doubt, David shops online and gets his groceries delivered, so he only needs to pop across the river every couple of days for bread and milk and such. Generous to a fault, he’s also quick to offer a lift to King’s Meadow, just before the bridge, from where it’s only a five-minute walk to the train station.
That was how we got to Reading Station before heading to London to visit Chas Newens Marine Boat Co. Ltd, located on the embankment near Putney Bridge, in search of an inflatable dinghy of our very own. (David’s dinghy being temporarily unwell, however, he prevailed upon his friends Howard and Sarah’s son, Oscar (14), to take us in their much fancier and more powerful motorboat – shown at the top of this page.)
Three Days in Cookham
One guidebook describes Cookham as “sitting smugly” on the river. Well, we too were sitting smugly on the river last week, ensconced at the perfect mooring along Bell Rope Meadow: a gentle stretch of tree-shaded lawn dotted with benches, just before the blue bridge. So, when the sunburnt lady from the local council demanded £18 for three nights, we cheerfully handed it over.
Rowing teams, both boy and girl, flitted by with practised ease, sometimes (though not always, fortunately) pursued by a coach on a skiff with a noisy megaphone. All sorts of people came down to enjoy a picnic lunch, parade their infants, walk their dogs or admire the line-up of seven or eight boats; others were just on their way for a drink or a meal at The Ferry, located immediately after the bridge.
Biking around Cookham
Finally, we got out and actually rode our new Brompton bikes. Here’s where I have to admit I was wrong: I thought they’d be expensive toys that we wouldn’t use, and therefore a waste of money. Now I can see they’re going to be extremely useful, especially as Roy dislikes walking, but doesn’t mind getting on to a bike – especially if it means avoiding a walk.
Our first foray was around the beautiful old Cookham Churchyard (me respectfully trying neither to swear at the new bike on such hallowed ground, nor to wobble into the venerable tombstones). Then we headed into the village and along the narrow high street. From there, Roy followed his nose – mine having absolutely no sense of direction – to a path leading to the weir and Cookham Lock. Cookham Lock is exceptionally lovely, as the friendly lock-keeper agrees: “Just a pity the boats come along to spoil the peace and quiet.”
Our second was to forage for sustenance: first at a Londi’s superette, and then at the delightful little French deli near Cookham Station for a baguette (Honorine, sourdough and beautiful; remember the name), a stack of mountain-dried ham and some saucisson sec – plus a glass of chilled white wine on the house. Urged on (nay, nagged) by Roy, I attempted to practise my halting French on the man behind the counter, but he was having none of it. Deciding that he was probably trying to practise his English, I did my best not to take it personally.
After three nights in Cookham, we moored overnight near Temple Island, a few kilometres from Henley-on-Thames, and cycled into town for a couple of sangrias at Hotel du Vin. Despite the bumpiness of the path in places, the fading of the light and the potency of the sangrias, we made it back safely, apart from a little short-term damage to the bits that connect with the bicycle seat. So, I think we now declare the bikes a success.
Towpath walk to Boulter’s Lock
One extra day in a place can make all the difference. As we’d decided not to go further downstream this time – to Eton and Windsor, say – I set off solo to find the towpath to Boulter’s Lock, one down from Cookham. Find it I did, and followed it along the Cliveden stretch, deservedly described as the most beautiful part of the Thames – river wilderness to one side, pastoral idyll to the other.
The lock is unusually situated between a road and a river island with a restaurant; a cute bridge links the two. Parched by now, I couldn’t wait to buy an ice cream from the Italian mama presiding over the ice-cream stall.
Stanley Spencer Gallery
Just a five-minute walk from Cookham Bridge is this picturesque art gallery. Built in 1846 as a Wesleyan Chapel, it is now named after one of Britain’s most famous artists and currently exhibiting a special collection of his works. Spencer (1891-1959) was a son of Cookham, and had a special affinity with the place. Though it’s not his most spectacular work, I especially like View from Cookham Bridge, because it looks down past the little white Ferry House and along to Karanja’s mooring on Bell Rope Meadow.
Granted, we have the luxury of time. But the longer you spend in a place like Cookham – or anywhere else, for that matter – the better you’re going to get to know it, to appreciate it, to absorb its special charm and to remember it.
Brompton Bikes
From the start, I had my doubts about this bike business. I thought we wouldn’t ride them enough to justify the expense. But once Roy gets the bit between his teeth, there’s no stopping him.
Folding bikes would be more compact, and therefore easier to stow away neatly in a hatch built for the purpose on the aft deck of our Dutch barge, Karanja. Roy’s research showed that Brompton bikes were the best; Brompton bikes we would have.
Something else worried me about the idea of a folding bike – or a folding anything, really: It would have to be unfolded before use, and then refolded after use. You see, I’m somewhat mechanically challenged, to put it politely… which my husband sadly fails to do. Watching my ineptness with regard to anything from a re-sealable cardboard box to a toddler-proof stair-gate to a Magimix, his initial mild wonder develops into disbelief, frustration and, finally, intense annoyance.
“Just look at it, surely you can see how it all fits together?” No, Roy, I can’t. I really, really can’t. So, for me and others like me, here are the:
Instructions according to Roy – 5 steps to unfolding your Brompton bike
Note: Before you start, make sure you’re standing on the left side of the bike; that is, with the saddle pointing to the left. (You see? Already that makes no sense.)
Step 1: Release the pedal (from its misery, if not your own).
Step 2: Release the grip below the saddle; pull the saddle up to the desired position; secure grip once more.
Step 3: Swing handlebars out from clip (on front fork) and secure (with clippy, twisty thing).
Step 4: Release whole of front section with little plastic, hooky thing on front wheel hub, which attaches to the rear frame, and swing it to the front. (This may not actually happen the first time. Try again.) Now secure it with the same type of clippy, twisty thing described in Step 3. (No, not the same one.) Note: When you swing the front section forward, turn the handlebars slightly so that the front wheel does not catch the stowed rear wheel.
Step 5: With your left hand on the handlebars, and your right hand on the rear of the saddle, lift the saddle while swinging the rear section out until it clips into place. (This might take a few goes.) Then wipe away your tears, blow your nose, and ride off into the sunset. And be grateful that I spared you the video version.
And now – 5 steps to folding down a Brompton bike
Step 1: Release rear section with small lever under the saddle, and swing it under the frame. The bike will now rest on its two little stabilising wheels. Note: ensure the pedal that has the clip is on the top of its arc, towards the front of the bike. (If you forgot to do this, have a little cry.)
Step 2: Release front section and swing it back so that the little black clippy thing on the front wheel hub clips over the rear frame.
Step 3: Unscrew clippy, twisty thing for handlebars, and lower into place, clipping it into clippy thing on front fork.
Step 4: Lower saddle. (Can you remember how? No, I can’t either. Still.)
Step 5: Stow collapsible pedal.
In theory, says Roy, the whole thing – whichever way you do it, up or down – should take about 20 seconds at most, and 10 on a good day.
Hah!
By Train to Marlowe
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.
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.)
Down the Thames to Bourne End from Thames & Kennet Marina
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:
And, for good measure, some classic scenes 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
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.
How to Pump Out Your Boat
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
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.
Keeping it Clean
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.
Friends and Neighbours
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.
“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.”
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 Big Baloo; 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.
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.
Sonning Bridge
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).
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.
