Me first scurvy knave walks the plank!

The initial sale and taking possession of my home/transport/lifestyle happened lightening quick. Time and again I sat back in a fugue, trying to assimilate the turn of events. For sure it was a pipedream harboured for some years, but for Christ sake man, I owned my own narrow boat. I hadn’t prepared myself emotionally for what this involved. My vow had been to dedicate two years to living within the canal system, when I did eventually commit myself to buying a boat. A couple of times before I’d viewed a few boats, more as a process of refining my ideas as to what would be suitable. And so it was this time also, at least in my own head. I’d set aside more than enough money to buy a perfectly adequate boat, when was the only question. To me the perfect time of year was at the end of summer, when you’d expect the prices to be slightly lower. So having a trip to view boats in a couple of different areas was not supposed to see me relieved of my money so soon. But it was a good buy, so says all who’ve expressed an opinion anyway. (Photo: Just me and the birds about, an eerily quiet start to the day - Venetian Marina, Cholmondeston, Cheshire)

I suppose there were bound to be teething problems, despite trying to buy a boat I could board and go cruising without delay. Generously Lee Evans, the salesman at Venetian Marina, threw in a month’s free mooring to allow me a period to settle in before setting off. And I needed it. First of all I had to root through all the cupboards and storage space to discover exactly what equipment had been left, and any missing essentials that I’d need. Miraculously the previous owners had upped and left leaving it fully equipped, including a host of spares. Galley, saloon, engine compartment and cruising sundries were all well catered for, there was nothing to concern myself with. Only personal items were needed, as in linen, bedding, and my own personal possessions. Getting these from North Wales to Nantwich on a motorcycle wasn’t the easiest of endeavours, there was a lot more than I expected. Luckily a friend, a keen hand on narrow boats, agreed to show me the ropes. In doing so he also provided a handy vehicle to move the bulk of my possessions on board. (Photo: Typical lock with mitred gates at the tail end, that's the lower gates, and a single gate up top - Lock No. 10, Audlem, Cheshire)

Bearing in mind my complete lack of experience, having a friendly introduction to the ways and means of handling the day to day handling of a narrow boat was a godsend. As a precursor I familiarised myself with the workings of a lock. I knew the theory, but had never operated one before, let alone worked out how to handle one single-handed. So a while observing the local lock proved a tremendous help, and by the time my friendly expert came to guide me through my maiden voyage I could cope with locks no problem. It all makes sense, whichever direction you approach them from. Using paddles (sluice gates built into the actual lock) you raise and lower the water in the enclosed lock to suit your requirements. Once in the lock its easily filled or emptied, filled going up or emptied going down, making passage quick and efficient. Managing single-handed isn’t much more difficult, it just takes a little more thought to keep everything in control. Things can go wrong, don’t leave the paddles open otherwise the water runs straight through, and keep away from the cill, a ledge that juts out on the upper gate. If you fall foul of the latter you stand a good chance of sinking your boat and blocking the lock until the Canal and Rivers Trust can get a crane there to lift you out. (Photo: Phil at the helm showing me how it's done - Shropshire Union Canal, Nr Nantwich)

Thankfully we encountered no such problems, but engaging reverse gear did prove elusive once or twice. Unfortunately Phil found this particularly difficult to deal with, personally when encountering mechanical problems I tend to find ways around them, rather than getting flustered with it and giving up hope. Engaging reverse was a temperamental affair, but with a bit of perseverance it would generally get there in the end. OK, it wasn’t perfect, and certainly not reliable. Not what you want if suddenly encountering a difficult situation. It’s the closest you have to a brake on a boat, so it is pretty useful. It meant we didn’t tackle the twenty-one locks at Audlem, instead we turned tail and headed back to the marina. For me it was a useful experience, you learn more when things go wrong. I wasn’t to be perturbed, despite losing my lift home I stayed on alone and had my first jaunt solo. It wasn’t overly far, a couple of hours along the canal was all. But it involved setting a lock twice alone and having to perform a U-turn. I spent my first night moored out on the cut, and slept like a baby. For some reason I seem to be sleeping early and waking at the crack of dawn. Isn’t it so spectacular waking to a beautiful sunrise? (Photo: Morning has broken, isn't the world beautiful at the crack of dawn - Venetian Marina, Cholmondeston, Cheshire)

An essential skill to master is stopping without incident, pulling into the canal bank and mooring up, especially when cruising alone. Is has to be done under control, at slow speed, drawing close enough to the bank to step neatly on to the towpath. Using the mooring lines you must bring the boat to a complete stop and fasten it securely, with the most appropriate piece of equipment. This can be a metal ring, a bollard (both already in place at particular spots), or any one of the aids carried aboard. If the walls of the bank are reinforced with metal pilings a double ended hook can be used, otherwise you need to resort to mooring pins. The pins need knocking in, preferably with a decent lump hammer, ensuring a very secure point to hold the boat as long as necessary. One of my first mistakes pulling too solo, was not disengaging gear when stepping onto the bank, rope in hand. The outcome was nearly a disaster. I brought Pankina neatly alongside the bank, stepped off with the rope, and got dragged down the towpath, ever closer to the edge. Which was when I realised she hadn’t disengaged and was still driving forward. I nearly went arse over tit trying to leap back on board. Thank God I kept hold of the rope, otherwise I’d have ended up swimming after my boat as she chugged merrily down the canal. (Photo: Shhh, it's a secret! I was more interested in the reflections playing on the water - Hack Green, South of Nantwich, Cheshire)

By far the most memorable of occasions was a visit from my friends, Esther, John and Kaiden. Whilst we enjoyed the pure joy of cruising through magnificent countryside, as always it was the things that went wrong that mark (maybe I should say mar) the visit. We had a uneventful first day cruising to Audlem, John and Esther quickly mastered setting the locks, which left me to relax at the helm for once. Returning to Venetian Marina saw the tide turn. A near deserted stretch seemed perfect for lunch, so we pulled in. Swiftly hammering in a mooring pin I got hassled by something buzzing around my face. I swatted it away, a number of times, before getting stung around my eye. Lifting my head I became aware it wasn’t just one wasp but a whole swarm of them. I’d inadvertantly hammered the pin directly into a wasp nest. There was a cloud of the nasty little buggers angrily converging on yours truly. Time and again I bore the brunt of their attack, three times I got stung around the same eye. Then a silent assassin found its way up my trouser leg, and started a sneak attack on my leg. I abandoned the pin, my hat falling off in the process, leapt aboard and beat a hasty retreat. Luckily I travel with a good supply of anti-histamines, taking a quadruple dose and liberally applying a salve of sting cream went some way to alleviating my rapidly swelling eye. (Photo: Yours truly, before the stings. Those are well earned bags through years of abuse, not the result of wasps - Audlem to Nantwich, Shropshire Union Canal)

Not only had I forsaken my nicest mooring pin, one of my favourite hats still lay on the bank, covered by a heaving, droning mass of black and yellow; an insect death squad intent on inflicting the quick and painful demise of my poor hat. There was no way I was about to try and rescue it. Over lunch, some three hundred metres away, I decided the swarm would have settled somewhat. Plucking up the courage, and creating a sealed suit of defensive clothing, I resolved to reclaim my forsaken property. Thus protected and armed with an electric insect killer, I set off. What a sight it must have presented for passersby, I was so self conscious I felt compelled to explain to every one who passed what I was up to. You can never be sure in this day and age what panic you could initiate by hooding up in public. Anyway, stopping just short of the nest and having a brief pause to way up the situation, it became plain that hesitating was not a good idea. The swarm had gone but the scouts were still out and about. Sprinting up I scooped up my hat, and as an afterthought tested how firmly the pin was embedded. It gave with little resistance, so I tugged it free and legged it as quick as my legs would carry me. All in all it was a resounding success. I may have been stung half a dozen times, but many times as many wasps bit the dust. (Photo: No it's not a trendy terrorist, just me reclaiming what's mine, and dealing a little death along the way - Somewhere in the proximity of the secret bunker, shhh, don't tell anyone)

To all intents and purposes that should have been enough excitement for the day, but there was more to come. As I said, it’s great when there are people to share the task of handling the mundane aspects of cruising. None more so than having folks around to step ashore with the ropes and haul in the boat. I do make a point of explaining the basic routine, one essential aspect is to wait until I get the boat positioned then, and only then, to step ashore with the rope. I won’t caste dispersions, but I think Esther may have been a touch eager to get moored up so we could adjourn to the pub at the end of the day. One moment she was scooting along the gunwale, rope in hand, preparing herself. The next she transformed into a flailing mass of arms and legs, launching off the gunwale and plunging into the murky depths of the canal. Surfacing, rope still in hand, she struck out for the boat, valiantly trying to stay afloat. Only for a short while though, until she realised the water was only a metre deep. She stood up and the water barely covered her waist. I shouldn’t laugh, she could have been in danger of being squashed between the boat and the banking, but it was undoubtedly funny once the panic was over. Poor Esther, I’m sure she did actually see the funny side herself. If not I’m sure she didn’t begrudge us our amusement. (Photo: Cart horse, crafted from old lock beams and ironwork - Weaver Trail, Nantwich)

But all’s well that ends well, or so I thought. The phrase, “bad things always come in threes,” started being bandied around the following day. I was having none of it. Having left us a mere few miles to get back to the marina I was confident there’d be no more incidents. At least when the prophesy of doom rang true there was no fault on anyone’s behalf this time. We made it within sight of the marina, actually reaching the lock which discharges alongside it. The others had kindly set the lock for me, the gates were closed, the paddles were open, and the water level was going down. I’d scooted along the gunwale lifting the fenders up and was returning to the helm along the roof. Suddenly thick plumes of blue smoke started billowing from the stern cabin. Rushing to try and deal with it I pulled the engine stop button, to no avail. The engine kept turning over, I shut off the key, to no effect. Thick acrid smoke made it nigh on impossible to enter the engine room. I tried but failed to find the isolation switch for the electrics. With seemingly no other recourse I discharged a whole fire extinguisher into the engine bay, which still had no effect. Only by throwing a rope ashore could we get the boat to safety, by which time the engine had actually stopped turning over. And that was the third event, I so hate it when prophesies of doom come true, at least when they’re to my detriment. (Photo: A rare close up of a Kingfisher perching - Nr Hurleston locks, Llangollen Canal)

I thought the engine had died a rather ugly death. You could call it fortunate, but I’d have to rephrase that to say less unfortunate, that it wasn’t the engine. Instead, the whole of the electrical system had a terminal meltdown, to the tune of £1000. Which is definitely preferable to a bill of £5000+ for a new engine. C’est La vie, it could have been worse eh?