On occasion, a lock-keeper was there to help and sometimes they were a bit keen. I was glad when they weren’t there as a race would ensue. With an evil twinkle in their eyes, they’d pull the blue cord just a few seconds before we were ready, creating superhuman efforts to make the boat secure while not panicking. When the water was let into the lock (by pulling the blue cord), the water swirled and caused the boat to whirl against the lines. At times, the water gushed in so quickly, it would create a bow wave, up and over the boat! The lines had to be tight, and you had to maintain that tautness as the boat rose. Our sailing gloves wore through, and my upper torso would have had the best body builders worried!
We were having fun, though, and at times the canal was much higher than the surrounding plateau. To be on a sailing boat and to look down at a magnificent view falling away from you was strange.
It was the middle of August, and we were on downhill locks now. These were pleasantly gentle, with the water gently flowing out instead of in. Starting high up, it was so much easier to jump on to the wharf and tie up, each of us with a line each, paying it out gradually as we descended. A couple of the locks were manual, and there was not always a lock-keeper to help. The closing of the doors, opening the holes for the water to escape, then opening the doors the other side was done via a large wheel that resembled a steering wheel. The locks were decorated with flowers, and we could purchase local fruit and vegetables from the lock-keepers.
We were once again a finely tuned team and relaxed in whatever the locks threw at us, until we nearly lost the boat – twice. The first incident I awarded solely to Noel. We were traversing an aqueduct, a large, narrow bridge some fifty metres above tumultuous water and rocks; they were narrow and perfectly safe. I had jumped off onto the path that ran alongside to run ahead to take a picture. Noel was taking a picture from the boat and forgot that one of us was meant to steer. He also forgot that he was the only person on the boat.
Mariah
hit the wall of the aqueduct. I had visions of the headlines, “First flying boat.” Fortunately, one of
Mariah’s
owners had put the fenders in a good spot (excuse me while I rub my halo) and the fender was the only casualty, (which we actually managed to rescue later).
The second incident occurred at another aqueduct, with helmsman firmly in place. We had the green light to go. Right at the other immediate end were two locks and what looked to be a drop in total of about nine metres. Two cruisers were ahead of us and the locks didn’t look that big. The lock master had different ideas and crammed all three of us in together.
Mariah
had to squeeze her bow alongside the cruiser in front (skippered by a Brit called Simon). I had nothing to tie the bow onto, so I stood on Simon’s boat and hoped he had some control, as I didn’t have much. The stern was tied onto a ladder, making us diagonal. When the water was let out in front of us, the over flow kicked up quite a stink behind us. Normally we didn’t notice, but it created a waterfall, which this time, our stern was beneath. We were thinking we might just make it, when the lock-keeper bellowed, ‘Avantez!, Avantez,’ and explained by furious signing that there was a huge concrete ledge right below our stern. Noel powered on our engine, which in turned rammed us into Simon’s boat, which in turn rammed the first boat. These boats retaliated and pushed back. Vying for space,
Mariah’s
wind vane cleared this ledge by just half an inch. All in all, we had just one-inch gap on port, where I was fending off (with, I might add, a huge bloody great spider alongside me), and half an inch gap at her stern.
Mariah’s
starboard toe rail scraped down the wall, despite the half a dozen now squished fenders. Luckily, the wall was completely covered in slime, so there was no harm done.
Simon, on the cruiser in the middle, was repeatedly shouted at by us to move forward. He was standing on his boat’s port, holding onto his line for dear life (as I was pushing his boat this way and that). But at times, when he couldn’t take our pleas for help any longer, he’d haul himself up by his two lines, so he was hanging by his arms. He’d walk his body across parts of his boat, so he was then hanging horizontally. His toe could then push his accelerator forward!
As we came out of this lock, we blew huge sighs of relief, only to realise we had to do it all again on the next two locks! Needless to say, later that day the three of us headed for the nearest bar.
We’d almost finished the Loire and were heading towards the Briare Canal, which is about fifty-four kilometres long with at least twenty-four locks. The Canal Lateral a la Loire is slightly wider, which was good as we met a few peniches (big barges). We did become well acquainted with the mud at the bottom at times though. But, it was all pretty easy, going down in the locks and they were becoming fewer, leaving us to enjoy the beautiful scenery.
Eventually, we found ourselves in Paris. Not near, or pointing at it in the distance, right in the heart of the most romantic city in the world. Arsenal Marina was a huge basin that housed a multitude of esoteric boats. Surprisingly, the marina was reasonable and we tucked ourselves into a good spot and jumped, literally into Paris. Becoming tourists, we ventured to the Arc de Triomphe, the top of the Eiffel Tower, every corner of the Louvre (our feet nearly expired), and plenty of yummy restaurants, cafes, and parks. I love the French and France, but even though Paris holds fantastic sights and sounds, some of the snotty waiters, shop staff, and local folk had their noses so high, they must suffer with neck strain later in life.
It was in the centre of Paris that I was run over. Our ever-faithful bicycles were used to the maximum around the city. It was rush hour, and the reputation the Parisians have of being the worst drivers in the world was justified. Admittedly, we were on the pavement, studiously avoiding the square-hatted policemen who had told me off earlier that day for riding on the path.
We were sitting at the lights, and when pedestrians were shown the green light, off I sped. A lady in a small car hurtled around the corner through the red light, we collided. Actually, I pushed myself off the car, only knowing too well that I could be sucked under. All eight lanes of traffic came to a halt; Paris came to a standstill. The lady in the car was distraught; I was shocked.
Without really knowing what happened, a tall, handsome man picked me up and almost carried me to the pavement, while crooning, ‘Madam, you are ok, non? You are not hurt, non? Madam, you fell like a ballerina, like poetry. I am so sorry. You come all this way to our country to visit and this is what we do to you? I am so sorry, madam. What can we do to make it better?’
My knees were weak, not from the accident but from the smooth, poetic voice that caressed my ears. As I stared up into the handsome, dark face of my saviour, letting him lead me to wherever he wanted to go I felt a sharp pain in my ribs.
The magic of the moment was shattered with a, ‘She’ll be right, mate,’ from the unmistakable Aussie twang from my husband as he elbowed his way between my saviour and me.
Reluctantly, the man let me go. As I thanked him, my heart sank as he disappeared. I think I loved him for a short time, if not him, then certainly the romance of the situation. In true Aussie form, Noel handed me my bike and said, ‘Come on, let’s go!’ And off we went. I was somewhat shaky on my bike.
After a few minutes, the last twenty minutes of events caught up with me and once I realised that I had actually just been knocked down by a car, I demanded we stop and have a wee dram to straighten my nerves. Never one for turning down a drink, Noel stopped at a café and had a cool beer. I was still a little shaky, but Noel and I had a good laugh at the event.
‘I had to hand it to him,’ said Noel, ‘he was smooth.’ Noel had watched with amazement as I was led off. He wasn’t sure what he was most amazed by: the skill of the Frenchman or his wife so easily led away with devotion in her eyes!
‘I wasn’t sure whether I should have punched him or shaken his hand!’ Noel said.
Alas, it was soon time to leave. We arranged for the small lock of the Paris marina to open for us in the morning. Under a bridge, but in a lock, we waited patiently for the water to rise enough to release us into the busy channels that snake around the heart of the city. I was a bit of a worrier and constantly checked important functions on the boat. One of which was the salt (raw) water outlet. When we were in port, the salt-water seacock is turned off. I always made sure it was on when we left, but I couldn’t help but check it every few minutes in the first hour of us moving. As we waited in the gloom of the bridge, I stuck my head over the side. No water spurted out. After a few more moments, I shut down the engine.
‘What are you doing? The gates are opening. We have to leave,’ said Noel, thinking I had sabotaged the boat in order to stay and find my rescuer.
We checked the problem. The return line on the heat exchanger had slipped off, and the water that should have been pumping out of the boat was pumping into our home!
The engine was okay to run. Noel completed a quick, temporary fix whilst we were tied up in the lock, and then we puttered into the canals. A foot of dirty water swilled around our home. As I was preparing myself for the cleanup, a police boat came alongside us, just a few metres away. They seemed to receive a radio call and suddenly on came the blue lights. The powerful boat was pushed into full throttle; they turned 180 degrees and sped off. Unfortunately, this had caused the stern of their boat to dig in so much a mini tidal wave headed our way. With no mast, we had nothing to stop us rocking and the boat flung herself side to side. Each side of the boat went under water, right up to the gunwales. The water within
Mariah
sloshed everywhere, the mast nearly came off the boat, and a lovely pot plant in the cockpit fell into the boat, tipping all the dirt out creating a quagmire. Noel had to do everything he could to stop me radioing up the police to give them a piece of my mind.
As I settled into the task of cleaning up, Noel was steering, following our charts. I could hear little comments, ‘Wow, that’s incredible, beautiful.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘You have to come see this Jack,’ Noel called down.
Reluctantly I peeled myself away from the boggy-muddy marsh inside our boat and stuck my head out; the Eiffel Tower, the Notre-Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe all stood near the banks, as if seeing us off; an incredible sight. I watched the beautiful buildings ease by.
‘Lovely,’ I said, as if I’d swallowed a lemon and grumpily got down to mucking-out the boat.
We were north of Paris, and it seemed to rain constantly. We rigged up more tarps, donned wet weather gear, and battled each day with our goal of England becoming keener.
We reached Dunkirk on a grey, rainy day. Tying easily into a marina, we looked back from where we’d come and sighed. I knew I’d miss France. We promised to return one day. That afternoon, we walked ashore and decided on some chips for lunch and a cup of tea. Standing in a small, steamy cafe, we ordered lunch and perused the French newspapers. We saw pictures of planes near tall buildings, explosions, death. Through broken French and English, we learned of 9/11. It had happened a few days before. With no newspapers or TV on board (and the radio hadn’t been listened to for sometime), we knew nothing of this horrific event. The entire town was sad; the entire world felt sad, brittle. I cried a little. Disbelief hung over our lunch. I rang home.
‘I haven’t turned the TV off for three days,’ said my mum.
The grey clouds seemed to darken further.
What struck me most as England appeared on the horizon and slowly glided towards us was its magical scents. The grass, dust, rubbish, trees and flowers flowed across the salty water and invaded my senses. I smelt the perfume of home. Tears pricked my eyes, and I foolishly grinned all across the entire English Channel.
At Ramsgate, we eased into the narrow entrance with the firm, but polite, British accent from the Harbour Master guiding us through.
In the secure haven of a near empty marina at dusk, we carefully secured
Mariah
. Noel handled the bow lines, and I was fiddling about at her stern. We stopped in unison, looked at each other, and at the same time realised we were both on shore. We were on terra firma. We were standing on England. We both did a ridiculous little jig and hugged, relishing our achievements. Actually, we were still on the water, standing on a floating pontoon, but we were in British water, British docks, and smelling British air.
Noel was champing at the bit to get to a pub, but we had to check in first. Customs came on board and stared at the white powder on our table. I blushed a little and said, ‘It’s talcum powder.’ We had just taken a quick ‘shower’ in the sink and had dusted off in talc. They believed us and just thought we were a bit odd, but we were used to that.
They declined the proffered beer, and I batted my weary eyes to convince them to take a couple of pictures of us on English soil.
It was Noel’s first time in England. What I found remarkable, and still do, is that Noel fulfilled a lifelong dream. He had always wanted to sail into England, not fly, and he had achieved that. How many of us have an unattainable dream, or even an attainable one, that we never achieve? I was very proud.
Once customs had cleared us in, we were free to roam. On the way to the pub, Noel wanted a meat pie.
‘Remember,’ I said ‘if you ask for chips, don’t ask for hot chips. You’re likely to receive a smack.’
Across the oceans, I had been training Noel in English-speak. To ask for chips in Australia, you asked for hot chips. That is because they don’t say crisps; they say chips if they want crisps. I giggled all the way to the pub while Noel practiced saying ‘Crisps,’ his lisp became heavier and thicker with each step.
‘A pint please and some ccrrrrispssss,’ announced Noel, as if he was an actor enhancing his esoteric character for the sake of an audience.
Nowhere in the world, do they have pubs like English pubs. Australia ruins its drinking holes with TVs lining bars with the volume up high, blaring out horse racing events, betting, and slot machines.
The low beams, dark cosy atmosphere, wrapped in hundreds of years of history and the occasional real fire is unique to our land; I love these places, the food and drinks are heightened in the palate by the splendid ambience. In one of these quaint English pubs, I rang home; I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
‘We’re in Kent!’ I exclaimed excitedly; Mum cried, which made me cry.
The following day, we untied and made our way up the mighty Thames River to where we would spend winter in St Katharine’s dock in the heart of the city. Ironically, we had one of our best sails ever as we trickled past the Millennium Dome and sighted the London Eye for the first time.
‘I’ve only ever seen this in books. I’m really here,’ Noel said, a tear in his eye. ‘I feel like I’ve come home,’ he said, which caused a tear to appear in my eye. Some of the sights were new to me; I had come home, too.
As we expected, as well as being home, we were also in the land of uncertainty; otherwise known as planet numpty. It’s that old familiar place, where one is not too sure whether to lead with the left or right foot. Where do we go now? How long do we stay? What do we do for work?
We arrived in London amidst great fanfare. Crowds thronged the foreshore. Tugs hooted, the masses where cheering. Tears were shed. We had arrived. Yes, after fifteen thousand odd miles of sailing, we had made our destination; our welcome was much appreciated. Success was rewarded by that rare bonhomie that we humans show when a spectacular and daring feat had been achieved.
Once we moved out of the way from the protesting tugboat, we dried our eyes and thus improved our eyesight. We could see that the crowd was cheering the streaker on the other bank. The long and short of it being that the welcoming committee was our heartfelt supporters, Roy and Valerie, my mum and dad.
In October 2001, we puttered
Mariah
into her last lock for a while, the gates slowly closed behind us. Noel stared at those gates. I was smirking and itching to get off the boat to hug Mum and Dad. Noel frowned a little. Later, he admitted to feeling a bit sad, ‘Those gates closing behind me meant the end of a magnificent year; from here on out, I was heading back, not forward into the adventure.’
By the time we tied up in St Katharine’s dock, it was near nine in the evening. Momentously, I was given the choice as to what we do. I wanted to go home, to Mum and Dad’s house; it was late and a couple of hours drive, but I just wanted to get off the boat and show Noel where I had grown up. The house at Shenley in Hertfordshire was called a cottage. It sat on two acres of land and was a square, pebble-dashed block, completely deceiving in what it contained inside its esoteric walls. With five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two enormous lounge rooms, dining and kitchen areas, a utility room, additional cloakrooms, and an entrance hall that was the size of lounge, it wasn’t hard to believe that Mum and Dad were overrun with stuff. Until ten years ago, there had been four generations living in the house: us kids, Mum and Dad, Mum’s mum (my nan), and her mum (my great nan). A house of all women except my long-suffering Dad!
On the land, my parents’ owned were six breeze block stables, two double garages, a couple of caravans and various shapes of sheds. A JCB and a dumper truck added to the menagerie of fun. Various horses of different shapes and sizes were kept with various people of different shapes and sizes coming to look after, ride, and generally enjoy the countryside. Grazing fields, which were dappled with other horses, surrounded the house. It was blissful, and I loved it there.
Noel had heard about this house from Colin and his wife Brenda, who had both seen the house and added to its mystique by trying to explain the ethos of it. This is hard to do; it is hard to understand just how the house ran unless you’d seen it. It was an open house and the best way to describe it came from my childhood friend Sharon.
She said, ‘If a stranger is sitting in your mum’s lounge with a cup of tea, none of you would ask, “‘Who are you,”’ You simply say, “‘Hello, would you like a biscuit with that!’” She added, ‘On a second visit to Shenley, everyone is issued with a back door key.’
None of us ever used the front door. It was bolted from the inside, and you could not open it from outside. The back door was entrance and exit. Noel found it a bit disconcerting getting used to strange people walking in and out of the house at odd times, with dogs, cats, and children. But the house was alive, living. It wasn’t tidy, but no one ever felt out of place or uncomfortable; everyone was relaxed and felt completely at home.
Amid the mayhem, Mum and Dad had kindly agreed to let us bring
Mariah
up to their garden for our stay in England. We had some savings left, and we could either continue our voyage and arrive back in Australia with nothing or use the money to buy a house, renovate it, and hopefully earn some rent, while completing our journey around the planet. Mum and Dad loved the idea of having a boat securely on land; it meant we were staying. There was an old, disused road that was now covered in earth and part of the garden, all securely fenced in with large trees and even larger black iron gates. It was here Noel and Dad dug and probed to unearth the road. We needed a stable base to sit
Mariah’s
ten tonnes atop.
The big day came; we had sourced the only crane that lifted boats out in London. We had also enlisted the help of my Dad and Colin to help out. The firm we hired for lifting and transporting
Mariah
on a low loader came with two guys: a father and son. There was much organisation to be done with arranging suitable times a safe route under low bridges. We also had to take down the mast. Noel, Colin, Dad and I squished on board Mariah for several days while we prepared the boat for hauling out.
The big day came. The marina handled the crane that loaded
Mariah
onto the truck; I felt sick as I watched our home swing in the air, with just two slings holding her several feet above hard, unforgiving concrete. The truck guys took
Mariah
under their wings and spent hours sitting her properly, tying her down, checking, rechecking, and then checking again. It took many hours, but they were absolutely brilliant – never had our boat been in better hands.
It still didn’t stop me becoming a jittery, clucking chook. I started fussing, asking, and pointing until Dad said, ‘How about you and me go get everyone some brekkie?’
Everyone was delighted at the prospect of Maccie D’s and wholeheartedly agreed that we should go. I loved adventuring out with my dad, no matter what we were doing; we always had a good time and a laugh. As we drove into the city to find some sustenance, I relaxed.
‘I was becoming a pain wasn’t I?’ I asked with a lop-sided grin.
He laughed, ‘You’re alright; it’s just a big day for you.’
I could streak through London naked, randomly shooting at people with an AK47, and Dad would understand and excuse me; he really is a special man.
Noel and I could ride in the truck with the lads. Colin and Dad were driving behind. As the huge lorry swept out of the marina gates, I cried, ‘Watch it!’
The truck driver stopped. Turned off his engine, put his hands calmly in his lap, and regarded me with his deep, gentle eyes. The low-loader cab was separate, so swinging around the corner it appeared that we were going to hit the wall. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
‘Look, love,’ he said, ‘I have been doing this for twenty years; you have been in my cabin for twenty minutes, I do know what I am doing. You are going to have to trust me.’
I did, and I shut up. Everyone was highly amused; I was embarrassed. Watching our ten tonne boat do fifty miles per hour along motorways was heart-stopping. I continued to wiggle in my seat, biting my lip.
Dad and Colin were driving behind the truck, but soon slowly pulled right back. When we stopped to check all was well, I asked them why.
‘As you approach a bridge, it looks like there is no way in hell you are going to make it underneath,’ my Dad laughed. They both held their hearts, the whole adventure was great fun, but adrenaline and minor heart attacks were part and parcel of the escapade.
At last, we made it to the narrow lane where Shenley Lodge Cottage sits. We eased up the winding road; we were greeted by family and many friends. It wasn’t everyday that an ocean-going sail-boat comes up the highest hill in Hertfordshire! The mobile crane was ready and waiting, a marvellous piece of equipment that everyone oohhhed and arrhhed over.
Everyone eyed the wooden props Noel had organised to hold
Mariah
up sceptically. But Noel had done this many times before; my confidence in him never waned. After just a few hours
Mariah
sat in my parents’ garden. Her cockpit was under an enormous, old oak tree, resplendently vivid green leaves dangled over her stern. Sitting in the cockpit felt like sitting in a huge tree house. Her mast was tucked beneath the eves of the stable block, the length fitting perfectly, as if the stables had been made to measure.
Much to everyone’s bemusement, Noel and I mostly stayed on board at night. The house at Shenley was huge, but we liked our home, our independence. We could watch what we wanted to watch on TV, have a drink, party, or sleep.
When
Mariah
was settled, we purchased a car and explored the lands looking for a house to renovate. We were about ten years too late to buy anything in the south and headed further and further north. In Staffordshire, we purchased a characteristic terrace house, which needed everything done to bring it back to life. We spent eight months lovingly renovating it and the successfully rented out the house to a lovely lad who loved the place as much as we did. We returned to the south and set about working, because now we had no money left at all.
Noel quickly landed a carpenters job, working in the glorious fields of Hertfordshire, converting old stables to offices. I refused to go into an office. I’d noticed that Mum and Dad’s house was bursting at the seams. Shenley housed furniture and belongings that were my great nan’s, nan’s, my (and my sisters’ gear), and now my nieces and nephews’ stuff, and of course, Mum and Dad’s collections. My parents and I came to an arrangement: I would clear out the house and renovate it. Dad was working full time and had just eased back to four days a week. He still could not keep up with all the repairs and renovations the old house needed. I set about clearing up. Auctions, garage sales, newspaper adverts… soon the gear was vanishing. Nothing was of any great value, but there was so much stuff that hundreds of pounds were earned by us all.
Dad wanted an en suite in the main bedroom. So Dad and I worked together three days a week, while the other days I battled on alone. It was glorious. I could give back to the house I had grown up in, the house that had looked after me all these years. The three days working with Dad were great fun; we both liked getting jobs done, no matter what time of day they ended. We always had a giggle and conversation, ideas and old stories bounded around the rooms while we worked in harmony.
Life was strolling along nicely, then it spiralled frantically downhill and made us all stare into the face of reality.
‘Jack, Jack, wake up. JACK!’ Thump-thump-thump on the hull. At 2 am, Dad had come running out of the house, across the garden, trying to wake me up in our well-insulated boat. I jumped up and followed Dad into the house. Mum was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, holding her chest, gasping.
‘Where’s it hurt, Mum?’ Her face was just a railroad of lines, the pain in her eyes almost tangible; she couldn’t speak. ‘Is it your chest? Does your chest hurt,’ I said forcefully, I had to get some sort of answer. She nodded. I looked up into Dad’s concerned face, ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’