Stop Storting, eh
SATURDAY
After a bit of a false start, ie getting on the Central Line going the wrong way, I met Steve at Liverpool St to catch the train back to Sawbridgeworth and resume the trip. When we arrived, he discovered he had left his sunglasses on the seat.
We found Ganges as we’d left her – 40ft long and ready to go – but first there was the less glamorous side of boating to attend to. The chemical loo needed emptying and the water tanks filling. I only gagged twice emptying the toilet, which wasn’t bad considering the foulness of the job.
But then we were on our way to Bishop’s Stortford. It was good to be back on the river. The feeling of freedom from deadlines and demands and phones and life in general.
Only an old man in a plastic boat to bother us – he wouldn’t let us share the locks with him as he feared we would squash him. Ha! With my steering and Steve’s ropework there was no chance of that. Still, old men will be old men.
Bishop’s Stortford is the end of the road, as it were, for boaters. The river continues but it is not navigable. We moored up and went into town looking for food.
We must have passed about 12 hairdressers within 20 metres of each other, all of them with a queue of people. The townsfolk didn't have noticeably well-coiffed hair so the queues were either down to sudden communal bad hair day or it was the back-to-school hair cut rush.
We found a café for lunch run by the ubiquitous Saturday girl. Our waitress actually wrote down each individual ingredient of the sandwiches we ordered. I had the spinach special. "That’s bread with butter, cheese, roast mushrooms and roast peppers and spinach for you then," she said (and wrote).
And just as we were thinking there was a spare lockside for her when she retired, we went into Sainsbury’s and were served by a hysterical half-wit who had to "put this pineapple through as a coconut" and only charged us for a third of our shopping. Great for us, a bit of a blow for Lord Sainsbury.
After our little town sojourn, we got back on the boat headed down the Stort where I found my dream property sitting quietly in the sun. I would absolutely love to live here – it was a cute cottage and an all-river sided garden with a place to tie up the Ganges.
We moored up in Sawbridgeworth for the night. We had a game of Triv. Steve won as all my questions came from the hard box.
SUNDAY
We were late waking up this morning – 9am. We set off after a breakfast of croissants and jam and met The Other Half at Harlow Mill lock.
It was handy to have an extra pair of hands although he did insist on leaping across lock gates, and at one point threatened to leap off a bridge onto the moving boat.
We stopped at lunchtime to watch Amir Kahn win the silver medal in the Olympic boxing final on the snowy black-and-white television I have that runs off the batteries.
We continued on to Broxbourne, passing a herd of piglets splashing about in the river. Unfortunately, my camera was not to hand. All along the river we saw flashes of bright blue as kingfishers dived in and out of the water.
We moored up outside a pub at about 7pm, when we discovered it had stopped serving food. As had every pub we came to. After finding the only restaurant near the river was holding some sort of Cher party, we continued walking until we found an Italian place about three miles away. By then we were starving Marvin.
For regular diners there was a programme of entertainment for Tuesday nights consisting mostly of impersonators of singers from the 80s.
One guy, Richard "Listen For Careless Whispers" Carter, was singing as George Michael. Two weeks later, he was billed as Wham bam the dynamic man – Richard Carter is George Michael. I rather think he wasn’t. He was probably still just Richard Carter no matter how many pairs of leather trousers he owned.
We took a cab back to the boat. By the time we got there Jo and Sarah had arrived after an all-day drive down from Scotland and we discovered you can sleep five on the boat.
To be continued ...
After a bit of a false start, ie getting on the Central Line going the wrong way, I met Steve at Liverpool St to catch the train back to Sawbridgeworth and resume the trip. When we arrived, he discovered he had left his sunglasses on the seat.
We found Ganges as we’d left her – 40ft long and ready to go – but first there was the less glamorous side of boating to attend to. The chemical loo needed emptying and the water tanks filling. I only gagged twice emptying the toilet, which wasn’t bad considering the foulness of the job.
But then we were on our way to Bishop’s Stortford. It was good to be back on the river. The feeling of freedom from deadlines and demands and phones and life in general.
Only an old man in a plastic boat to bother us – he wouldn’t let us share the locks with him as he feared we would squash him. Ha! With my steering and Steve’s ropework there was no chance of that. Still, old men will be old men.
Bishop’s Stortford is the end of the road, as it were, for boaters. The river continues but it is not navigable. We moored up and went into town looking for food.
We must have passed about 12 hairdressers within 20 metres of each other, all of them with a queue of people. The townsfolk didn't have noticeably well-coiffed hair so the queues were either down to sudden communal bad hair day or it was the back-to-school hair cut rush.
We found a café for lunch run by the ubiquitous Saturday girl. Our waitress actually wrote down each individual ingredient of the sandwiches we ordered. I had the spinach special. "That’s bread with butter, cheese, roast mushrooms and roast peppers and spinach for you then," she said (and wrote).
And just as we were thinking there was a spare lockside for her when she retired, we went into Sainsbury’s and were served by a hysterical half-wit who had to "put this pineapple through as a coconut" and only charged us for a third of our shopping. Great for us, a bit of a blow for Lord Sainsbury.
After our little town sojourn, we got back on the boat headed down the Stort where I found my dream property sitting quietly in the sun. I would absolutely love to live here – it was a cute cottage and an all-river sided garden with a place to tie up the Ganges.
We moored up in Sawbridgeworth for the night. We had a game of Triv. Steve won as all my questions came from the hard box.
SUNDAY
We were late waking up this morning – 9am. We set off after a breakfast of croissants and jam and met The Other Half at Harlow Mill lock.
It was handy to have an extra pair of hands although he did insist on leaping across lock gates, and at one point threatened to leap off a bridge onto the moving boat.
We stopped at lunchtime to watch Amir Kahn win the silver medal in the Olympic boxing final on the snowy black-and-white television I have that runs off the batteries.
We continued on to Broxbourne, passing a herd of piglets splashing about in the river. Unfortunately, my camera was not to hand. All along the river we saw flashes of bright blue as kingfishers dived in and out of the water.
We moored up outside a pub at about 7pm, when we discovered it had stopped serving food. As had every pub we came to. After finding the only restaurant near the river was holding some sort of Cher party, we continued walking until we found an Italian place about three miles away. By then we were starving Marvin.
For regular diners there was a programme of entertainment for Tuesday nights consisting mostly of impersonators of singers from the 80s.
One guy, Richard "Listen For Careless Whispers" Carter, was singing as George Michael. Two weeks later, he was billed as Wham bam the dynamic man – Richard Carter is George Michael. I rather think he wasn’t. He was probably still just Richard Carter no matter how many pairs of leather trousers he owned.
We took a cab back to the boat. By the time we got there Jo and Sarah had arrived after an all-day drive down from Scotland and we discovered you can sleep five on the boat.
To be continued ...
posted by The WyeBird @ 5:33 pm
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