UPSTREAM
The Skiff Club Meander 2003
Ship’s Log
Day 1 (22 miles)
A quick mental inventory is taken as the crew assemble and it is immediately apparent that Coveney has misinterpreted both his crewmates and the point of a meander. Gaunt arrives with:
2 boxes of 20 bottles of lager (placed fore and aft for balance)
2 bottles of red wine
1 bottle of Champagne
4 packs of 10 Marathon bars
2 packs of dried fruit
1 dozen sachets of coffee
1 Thermos of Irish coffee
1 picnic hamper (this is quickly returned to the motor minus its stove)
4 other bags or containers, all thoroughly waterproofed
Gregory arrives late – time recorded as 8:30. There is a brief, terse discussion as to whether he is a quarter or a half hour late. The point, however, is moot. It is apparent that Gregory finds his tardiness acceptable. He begins toing and froing with his luggage and his tally amounts to:
1 dozen cans of beer (in two varieties)
4 bottles of wine
Assorted packs of biscuits and butter shortbread
Several large tins of cold meats, salads, etc
1 yard of stackable, throwaway, pre-prepared coffee, tea and chocolate cups
A variety of bags and containers that could contain more beverages or comestibles, we shall see
Various implements
No visible animals
Coveney’s contribution:
1 bottle of tap water
1 small bag of stout construction
Well done Coveney.
A mixture of horror and sheepish embarrassment clouds Coveney’s face. Horror at the prospect of shoving all this kit 126 miles upstream. And sheepish embarrassment, well, the reason is obvious. It is clear that Coveney is a meander virgin in veteran company, but no matter. He is equally consoled and ridiculed by his crewmates.
Morale is high. It is a sunny morning with no wind, and our club Captain arrives to see us off. Both facts are heartening. Gregory takes the helm first for the obligatory ritual of the photograph at the EA/PLA boundary stone, taken by some congenial passing walkers. The Teddington lock keeper is obliged to remove debris from the upstream gate of the skiff lock, including an enormous sawn trunk of a log, which he cheerfully refers to as “your log” to us on our return. It becomes apparent that the log started its journey somewhere near the Mushroom as evidence is seen of much needed bank clearance work by the TRA. Too little too late?
Spring is very much in evidence: trees (especially willow) are in exuberant bushiness, families of ducklings swim around their mothers, swans and coots are nesting, and Gregory is pointing out the “pretty crews” as we pass.
Further evidence of Coveney’s virginity is manifested in his difficulty getting to grips with the stringless tholes. He finds himself popping his bow blade nearly every stroke. After a while, and much helpful encouragement from his crewmates, such as “relax”, “drop your shoulders”, “grip it slightly further round”, “relax”, “lean forward”, “don’t worry about it”, “I was doing that my first meander”, “relax” and so on, his blade popping improves (as we knew it would) and by mid-morning it has reached a much more acceptable rate of about one pop in every three strokes. (On the Walton reach, in a post lunch haze, Gaunt in the bow seat pops his stroke blade four or five times in quick succession. A look of polite enquiry from Gregory in the Cox seat elicits a laissez-faire shrug of unconcern in response. A Gallic nod of acceptance from Gregory and the mute discussion is over).
Gregory enjoys his unscheduled diversions. He needs to drop off a pack of photographs at Liz James’ (why he couldn’t do this before we set off I don’t know). At his behest, we dongle back and forth along Trowlock Island while he tries to remember what her garden looks like from the river (dark mutterings emanate from Gaunt at this point) until in the end he gives up and tosses the photographs into the bow of another, passing skiff with brief instructions. He needs a Cox seat and this time rings ahead to Gill Thorp, who turns up at our lunch spot, The Anglers at Walton, with the contraption, so no delay on this occasion. It is an odd thing – a sort of truss, looping round the knees and the small of the back, and consisting of many straps, which can be tightened according to taste. Coveney does not care for it but both Gregory and Gaunt take to it with relish – something to do with a Catholic upbringing maybe. (It is noted that Coveney does not finish his one and only pint of beer at lunchtime. Oh dear.) Further on, Gregory obliges his crew to pull in at Chertsey Meads Marine so he can say hello to a mate of his – the poor chap’s name is Beverley. The mentality of his parents is briefly discussed.
Staines gives us our only rain of the day – a brief but drenching downpour followed by a double rainbow, which is nice. It is at this point that Coveney discovers he left his waterproofs behind, neatly laid out on his sofa.
The pace is upped on the racecourse at Wraysbury as Gaunt and Gregory stage a repeat of their triumphant performance the previous weekend for Coveney’s benefit – it is a stretch of the river we have grown to love.
As the day goes on Gaunt’s steady intake of beer inevitably leads to the need for regular micturation. At Shepperton Lock the presence of crowds of onlookers oblige him to make use of the toilet but when he gets there he finds the door can only be opened with the aid of 10 pence (change not given), so back he goes to the boat, hopping now in quiet desperation, to borrow the money off Gregory. No crowds, and no inhibitions at Penton Hook, two locks up, where he sprays forth with relieved abandon from the end of the mooring lay-by.
Praise must go to Coveney, who cured his blade popping well before lunch. Much of the afternoon is spent coaxing more length out of his stroke. It is rewarding to have a student blossom under one’s tutelage.
Journey’s end is Ham Island, exactly 21 miles above Teddington, in the cut above Old Windsor Lock, where we are welcomed by Christine and Charles and their son James – friends of Gaunt’s. We tie up, bring our wet things in, shower and change. James, aged 5, notes the quantities of empty beer bottles rattling around in the boat. He does not accept Coveney’s explanation that we had to make the boat lighter by pouring their contents over the side. No fool he.
Charles takes us to a curry house in Egham for dinner, where the conversation is dominated by his enthusiasm for motors of all kinds. Gregory proves himself something of an authority on this subject. Charles and Christine have a pleasant modern house, which they designed and built themselves. We are very comfortable and all are in bed by eleven – slightly stiff but in mellow mood. Sleeping arrangements should be noted. Coveney and Gregory sleep on sofa beds in the living room while Gaunt chooses the spare bedroom – he had memories of Gregory’s and had heard rumours of Coveney’s snoring. He spent a restless night, taking a long time to get to sleep (the hazards of eating curry before going to bed) and waking constantly out of dreams of the boat being swamped by overnight rain, or going down a weir the next day. The night, it must be said, was both dry and quiet, fears of snoring proving to be unjustified.
Day 2 (25 miles)
A pleasant morning, if a little chilly. We are on the water by 9:15 and waved off by Charles and Christine (James is watching TV). As we approach Albert Bridge we notice some of the masonry is in a state of disrepair – this prompts a discussion on liability, made all the more interesting due to Coveney’s expertise – and before we know it the “boring bit” is past.
Today, and for the rest of the trip, eagle-eyed Coveney spots all the interesting wildlife. This can possibly be ascribed to the fact that he is always slightly less inebriated than his crewmates. At Eton he points out a “crèche”, consisting of four adult geese marshalling at least fifteen goslings. Later on he spots the first kingfisher of the trip (a total of four are seen by Coveney on the trip, only one of which is confirmed by other crew, putting Coveney’s integrity into some doubt). And late in the day he points out a red kite. Gaunt spends several seconds scanning the sky for the wrong sort of kite (the type with a string attached to a boy) before he notices the bird of prey hovering above a tree.
Gregory coxes the windy stretch between Romney and Boveney Locks. He steers the boat from bank to bank and spends almost the entire stretch round Windsor racecourse on the “wrong” side of the river. To the casual observer the may have had something a little stronger than coffee for breakfast but no. His running commentary proves that he is deliberately seeking the flatter water for maximum efficiency, and when he has to cross the stream he takes us almost directly across so the stream hits us broadside, thus enabling us to continue sculling with no real pressure against us. The proof of the cooking is in the pudding and a cruiser that was travelling the same speed as us but keeping to the starboard bank gradually trails further and further behind us – a gratifying sight to us scullers with a view behind and an indictment of Gregory’s coxing skills. Gaunt is particularly impressed as he remembers some near disasters at the hand of Gregory on previous meanders. Ah, the joys of going upstream – the course you choose is so much more interesting than the standard procession downstream.
Coming into Maidenhead we are surrounded by “Tupperware boats”, including some day-trippers describing an erratic course in a poorly maintained (ie smoky) hire boat. To escape this persecution Gaunt steers the skiff round the other side of Bridge Ait and Grass Eyot, and by happy chance we discover more joys of going upstream. The non-channel side of the islands has no traffic and therefore still waters; it has quiet boatyards instead of busy commercialisation; it has natural beauty because the vegetation has been given free rein; and of course we go faster because the main stream against us is on the other side. We reappear the other side of Grass Eyot having gained a significant lead on the day-trippers and others. In celebratory mood, Gaunt heads straight for the empty, open lock, only to be made to wait by the lock-keeper at the back of the queue while all the Tupperware boats (including our smoky day-trippers) go in first.
Lunch is had at Cookham Reach – a bottle of red wine and some of Gregory’s excellent tins of tuna salad by the riverside – the boat gets a little lighter. Coveney pours the wine, only half an inch per glass. Obviously he is berated for his short measures (hence the term: a Coveney measure).
After lunch we have the long stretch of Bourne End and Gregory treats us to an architectural critique. Every house we pass gets the Gregory treatment: “I couldn’t live in that”; “Those windows are all wrong”; and sometimes just plain “Eurrgh!” We estimate he approves of one house in every eight. We pass by and sometimes through a sailing regatta from which we are greeted by cheers, smiles, humorous comments and general bonhomie – Tamesis take note. The sun is shining and all is right with the world. Gaunt starts showing off with a bit of blade skimming on his backstroke. It is a glorious stretch with the skiff gliding through the water with silky smoothness, and at Marlow Lock Gaunt turns to Gregory in bow and shakes his hand for the “marvellous pull”.
No meander would be complete without an altercation between Gregory and another boat. And so we find ourselves first out of Hurley Lock (having been last in) and holding up a cruiser in a hurry through the lock cut. Going past the weir the cruiser comes alongside, giving us virtually no room. Cries of “move over” eventually get a response and the cruiser veers over to the other side, cutting across the bows of a rubber dinghy in the process. The episode prompts a lively and lengthy debate about lock etiquette and rules of the river that evening (during which Gaunt makes a mental note never again to pick an argument with Coveney, or any other lawyer for that matter).
Prior to Medmenham Gregory stops us so we can observe the beautiful cloud formation ahead – worthy of a picture (which turns out to look rather dull and cloudy, naturally). And at Medmenham we are treated to our second, and last, shower of the trip – Coveney dons his bin liner.
Towards the end of Henley regatta course we are joined on the bank by Coveney’s boss and his family, who buys us a drink at the Anchor without even knowing our names – top fellow.
The boat overnights at Henley Rowing Club, above the town while we overnight in a wonderful B&B, complete with a church stained glass window in the hallway. Strangely enough Gaunt gets a double room with bath while the others share a twin room with shower. After a long 25 miles the bath is bliss.
Our choice of dinner is somewhat limited – Henley chefs don’t seem to work beyond 9pm. Nevertheless we enjoy a Thai meal at Mae Nam, with the aforementioned discussion.
Day 3 (19 miles)
A beautiful sunny day. After a short, but warranted, taxi ride we are on our way. We are all in good humour and Gaunt indulges his hobby of finding Stephenson cuts, some of which, with the aid of his unwitting crew, he helps develop. Ah, the joys of going upstream.
Gregory gets his own back by demonstrating the Crispin coxing method (you pile the bags up behind the Cox seat so you can lie back on them, with something propping up your head so you can see), au nature. Not pleasant for the stroke man.
He also treats us to more architectural critique. It appears the sensible thing to do is to distract his attention by asking for a beer or something whenever we pass horrid buildings.
At Caversham Lock a cruiser comes alongside with a pretty lady ready with the bow painter. Gaunt shouts up to the captain, “We’ve been admiring your figurehead”, to which the retort comes back, “We haven’t been admiring yours” (but the lady smiled).
At Mapledurham Lock we stop for tea and homemade cake, because they do it there. We are also tempted to buy some of their plants so as to have an answer for the longboats with their pot plants on their roofs. We decide to stop for lunch in the meadow above the lock – chilli con carne (heated up on Gaunt’s stove) and more wine (Coveney measures again). It is very pleasant and warm. On the other bank is a big May fair, complete with brass band. The affect is somewhat relaxing. As we’re only doing 19 miles today we have a half hour kip.
Back in the boat Gaunt leans forward to Coveney and says, “I’ve rumbled you”. We have fallen into a pattern of changing positions at every lock so every third stretch one coxes. For the past two days Coveney has managed to split his double sculling session with lunch – oh these devious lawyers.
The afternoon passes peacefully with Coveney joining in the blade skimming and more wildlife being seen, including another red kite (Gaunt is ready this time). And so at Goring we moor up in the usual spot and spend the night at the Miller of Mansfield, which is still as dilapidated as before – why do we continue to patronise this place? By pot luck Gaunt gets the room with a bath again, though the hotel’s plumbing conspires to deny him his customary wallow.
At supper we are treated to a Skiff Club critique, and the subject is the curious, and tardy, decision to bar Gregory and Drury from attempting a non-stop coxless meander downstream on the grounds of safety. It is a discussion in which we are all in agreement. I see no reason to suppose that Gregory or Drury would do something foolhardy. They are both experienced enough to err on the side of caution at all times, even if it means they fail in their endeavour. Gregory goes to bed and Coveney and Gaunt see the new day in.
Day 4 (22 miles)
Gregory hasn’t shaved – standards are dropping.
From here on up to Lechlade there is very little stream against us. But we still enjoy finding those Stephenson cuts and backwaters and non-channel sides of islands – it gives the journey an intrepid feel. Occasionally it means we are forced to dongle and sometimes the “mangroves” are so thick that we have to turn around, but it is this unpredictability that makes it fun. Ah, the joys of going upstream.
Gaunt adopts the Crispin coxing method using his Thermos flask as a head prop. He finds he can’t always see ahead as he would wish but he is so comfortable that instead of lifting his head, he turns the boat slightly in order to see. He hopes his crew don’t notice.
We are thinking of another riverside lunch when Coveney suggests we stop for a beer at a pub – the next pub is at Clifton Hampden so we moor under the bridge in a perfect spot as it looks like rain – our skiff nestles tidily under the arch next to the bank on the inside of the corner well out of the stream and only in a few inches of water, tied fore and aft to two convenient tree stumps. It happens to be lunchtime and Coveney has done it again – right in the middle of his double sculling stretch – with Coveney there is always an ulterior motive. We lunch at the Plough, not the very ordinary Barley Mow, and enjoy a wonderful meal of Mousaka and Kofte Kebab, looking very out of place in our dirty river clothes surrounded by white linen tablecloths and napkins and excellent service. Our hosts, Mr and Mrs Bektas, try and persuade us to stay the night, insisting we at least see their double ensuite four-poster room. We are tempted but we explain we aren’t on that sort of trip and say our goodbyes.
After lunch, while negotiating our way out from under the bridge, we nearly ram a coot’s nest. Gaunt spots the danger and urges his crew to drift gingerly past. The coot cheeps at us plaintively and leaps into the water at the last minute as we nudge past the nest (six eggs). Meanwhile Mr coot charges over from the far bank yelling his head off – no translation is necessary – we understand perfectly what he is saying, “Oi, what do you think you’re playing at?” “Sorry,” is all we can reply. Once out of the way we observe the two of them arguing furiously – “I told you that was a stupid place to build a nest,” “Well if you’d been more help in finding me a better place…” It is some time before Mrs Coot gets back on the nest – no harm done.
At Culham Reach we spot a backwater on the map – Swift Ditch. It cuts out a big chunk around Abingdon and if you take the right channel you should avoid a weir. It is too tempting to ignore. The entrance is guarded by a wooden bridge, under which one pulls the boat through by standing up and grabbing the bottom of the arch, and beyond is much vegetation. Once past this we find ourselves looking at a house with a perfect pool of water at its disposal – all nice and private. We cannot go much further due to mangroves and have to turn back, but we suspect the house owners may have encouraged the overgrowth to stop passing traffic. Back on the river we go through Abingdon and then pass the other end of Swift Ditch. Both channel entrances are weired so it was lucky we couldn’t go any further – but our map is somewhat out of date.
We are on our way to Radleigh College Boat House to moor for the night while we stay with the Drurys. At Abingdon Coveney calls Drury so he can pick us up. Apparently we are only 10-15 minutes away. Coveney says, “I may as well carry on coxing.” Three miles and 45 minutes later we arrive. Coveney has cheated us again. Never ever trust a lawyer.
A warm welcome at the Drurys’ and a lovely dinner. We ring the Skiff Club to congratulate Gordon on his 80th birthday. After dinner Drury gets out a bottle of Knob Creek Bourbon, which tastes much better than it sounds.
Gregory still hasn’t shaved – we are no better than savages now.
Izzy ensures we breakfast well, then the taxi takes us back to the Ravages of Radleigh, where rats have had something of a party, devouring two packs of shortbread, half a pack of Marathon bars, a loaf of bread and a pack of dried fruit. Evidently foodstuffs are only safe in the boat if it is moored on the water.
Above Sandford Lock Gaunt steers the boat around Rose Island, which is idyllic until the illegal floating barrier the other side, which has to be negotiated with a mixture of dongling, ducking and pulling on stray boughs.
Coming into Oxford we find ourselves in Tottyland. There are many fine specimens but one particularly grabs our imagination past Folly Bridge. Beautifully attired, even down to the cotton jumper tied round the waist and white skirt, a perfectly proportioned figure and clean long dark hair in a band, cycling along the towpath. Seen from behind she is a vision of loveliness and redolent of a classic 20s/30s undergraduate (straight out of Brideshead Revisited). Gregory is coxing and spots her ahead. We glance round and determine to get a front view. “Ten strong,” says Gaunt in stroke and suddenly the boat surges forward (Coveney later said he was unaware skiffs could go so fast). Gregory calls Easy as she stops for a moment, then Strong again as she carries on. Eventually we pass her just before she turns away towards a bridge. We just get enough of a front view to agree that, while no disaster, this side of her perhaps should have remained an enigma.
We are enjoying a day of almost no stream against and in Port Meadow stop to glide past an enormous goose crèche with a view of the dreaming spires in the background. It takes a considerable amount of time for the boat to actually start drifting downstream.
After Port Meadow we pass through several windy sections until eventually we stop for a late lunch at the Ferryman pub at Bablock Hythe. The Ferryman’s chief source of income is the half-mile long caravan park attached so the fare is ordinary, but decent. It is noted that Coveney has successfully played his lunchtime trick again. Lawyers.
On the water again we see a mink. The river is becoming very overgrown. The difference between this year and last is noticeable. At one point we are forced to adopt a single alternate line of traffic with the cruisers coming the other way. The TRA has much work to do if it is to catch the backlog.
One thing about the settled stream is the clarity of the water, and Gaunt is heard to remark that it is so clear that he can still see Coveney’s blades when he goes deep.
Newbridge presents something of a challenge. The arches are too narrow to be skiffed through, and normally going downstream one lines the boat up, pulls the blades in and allows the stream to carry one through. The thought of this bridge had been playing on Gaunt’s mind all the way up; easy enough to slip under if you’re going with the stream but something of a struggle going our way if the stream is strong. But as it happens the stream is so weak we are still able to adopt the same strategy. All goes well until the bridge itself. Gaunt in bow pulls his blades in but Gregory attempts to ship and brings his bow blade crashing down on Gaunt’s shoulder, luckily hitting the fleshy bit and causing no harm. An inch either way and the impact of wood on bone would have been much more painful.
Coveney’s mobile rings and he takes it out of his shorts to answer. His friends we were hoping to stay with tonight have just got back from holiday and he arranges for them to have dinner with us. As he puts the phone back he comments that the thing about having one’s phone on vibrate is that one is tempted to let it continue to ring in one’s shorts.
We stop for the night at the Trout Inn at Tadpole Bridge, which has its own free mooring, and are greeted by Coveney’s friends and their hairy puppy.
For once Gaunt gets the room with a shower while Coveney and Gregory enjoy baths – the balance is redressed somewhat. Dinner – Coveney’s treat – is delicious and good fun, and made all the more pleasant by the fact that Gregory has at last shaved, and finished off with Armagnac and Calvados nightcaps. Coveney has at last got his taste for booze back and he and Gaunt slip away into the night to spend a further hour sitting in the boat in the dark testing the ship’s supply of beer.
Day 6 (11 miles plus 2)
Today is all about winding down and not rushing. We don’t have much ground (should that read water?) to cover and it is hot and sunny again. We deliberately get up late for breakfast and are on the water by 10. Coveney and Gaunt have decided to give Gregory a rest before his marathon downstream attempt and in the end he is only allowed to scull the mile between Buscot and St John’s Locks.
Coveney completes the final stage of converting to a true meander mentality and thinks nothing of suggesting the first beer of the day at 10:45…
At Kelmscot we stop and deliberate for a good ten minutes whether or not to moor up and walk the quarter mile to the Plough before we decide to push on for two miles to the Trout below St John’s Lock where we might combine beer with lunch. The Trout only does posh fare so we have a beer on the lawn before deciding to lunch at the New Inn.
At St John’s Lock we stop for the traditional photo, taken by more congenial walkers. We push on to the New Inn for more beer and sandwiches before eventually deciding to finish the meander. We have to constantly stop for the hordes of swans everywhere, most of whom seem determined not to get out of the way, but eventually make it to the Roundhouse where hands are warmly shaken.
Gaunt suggests going on further just for the sheer hell of it. All are up for it and we slowly negotiate our way up, coxed brilliantly in very difficult circumstances by Gregory. After a short while we leave all trace of the pleasure boats of Lechlade behind and have the river to ourselves. It is a special time. The sun is so hot and the water is so clear and inviting Gaunt is seriously tempted to leap over the side. But the mangroves have grown ever closer and are now hemming the boat in from both sides; it looks the perfect habitat for crocodiles. It is perhaps wisest to stay in the boat… Progress slows down and we are obliged to dongle more and more. Occasional fallen trees cover nearly the full width of the stream and we have to pick our way past. Eventually the sight of three fallen trees in a row covering the entire width of the stream signals the end of our intrepid attempt and it is time to turn around. But Gaunt is already thinking about coming back in a canoe…
Back at the New Inn Coveney and Gregory present Gaunt with a copy of Three Men in a Boat which they have inscribed:
“I think we should go up river.”
We think it was a very good idea.
Gaunt is deeply touched, until he realises it is probably their way of getting him to shut up for a moment.
There is only one thing left to do. Coveney gets back into the boat and ceremoniously empties his bottle of water, which we have shoved about 130 miles.