Boogie Up the River

by Mark Wallington

  An owl coughed. Boogie turned and walked back to the boat. I spent the evening with Delia Smith. We cooked a delicious thick celery soup with smoked bacon. Afterwards I read her biographical notes and discovered that she lives in Suffolk and is married to the writer Michael Wynn-Jones. I also learnt her opinion on microwaves.

  Next morning I planned to rise early, have a swim and get some sculling done before breakfast. Instead, I overslept. I pulled back the tent flap to see a fish jump out of the water and return with a plop. Above there was a vast sky crossed with the trails of aircraft. In the trees a rookery made a noise like a main-line station. The day had left without me again.

  I made ready for departure as quickly as I could, but this process was taking longer and longer each day, not because of the tent dismantling, or any routine I had to go through, but simply because of my knots, a department of watermanship in which I had become particularly expert. I might even go so far as to say my knots were the most secure in the history of river navigation. Certainly they were the most original. The problem was they weren’t the sort you’d find in any knot compendium and they could never be repeated or learnt. They were in fact different every time, and, rather than having any method, were simply the tightest jumble of rope I could manage. And so the measure backfired, because the disentangling of the trees, pillars, irons, stakes, gateposts, fences and cattle legs that the knot incorporated took hours the following morning. The strategy was successful in so far as I hadn’t as yet drifted over any weir streams in the middle of the night, but it also meant that some mornings I wasn’t on the water until midday.

  The knot that secured me to Medmenham was a particular devil. I was keen to get moving but the knot was keener on me staying put. At one point I lost my temper with it and some walkers on the towpath made a detour around me. I didn’t calm down until I reached Hambleden lock where the sun was shining off the lock-keeper’s hat badge. He left his carrot patch to tend to me and say: ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘All right for the dog, eh? Heading up towards Pangbourne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Make sure you call in at the Swan, best pub on the river.’

  ‘Are all the pubs on the river called the Swan?’

  ‘No, not all. There’s the Trout at St John’s Bridge. Then there’s the Trout at Tadpole Bridge, and the Trout at Godstow. Not to mention the Perch at Binsey although I think they’re going to rename that the Swan.’

  This desire to conform was clearly part of the Thames ethic, and nowhere was it better expressed than in Henley, the town that lay just upstream from Hambleden at the end of the most famous mile on the river. My own performance along this the regatta course was unimpressive, hampered by my stopping halfway to feed some Winalot to the ducks. During the first week of July though, folk dressed in wellingtons are fenced off, and this part of the river is a rush of wood on water as very muscular people in very thin boats compete for silverware.

  Of the many regattas held along the Thames, Henley’s has always been the most popular, the rowers attracted by the long stretch of straight water, and the spectators by the town’s facilities. As the halfway point by road and by water between Oxford and London, Henley was an important staging post long before the regatta was initiated and it could cope with the annual influx, one that increased greatly in 1851 when the regatta was given its royal cachet and became internationally renowned. Henley Week quickly grew to be the most popular date in the river’s calendar with special trains from Paddington decanting spectators in the middle of the town from where it was a short distance to the riverbank and the lines of houseboats and barges. Elsewhere slipper launches, skiffs, punts and gigs fought for space and the river was a jam for a mile each side of the town. The whole affair was the biggest excuse for a picnic anyone had ever seen and somewhere among it all there was even time for some rowing.

  For Henley was a place to be seen more than anything else. The crowds that fell off the train were nothing if not dressed in the latest river fashions. Men came in boaters and white flannels, blazers and canvas shoes; ladies, in laced hats, basqued bodices, serge skirts and mousquetaire gloves, all under a Japanese parasol. There is a feeling today that professionalism has crept into Henley’s make-up, that the rowing has become too competitive and that the marquees are all public-relation tents for multinational companies. That may be so but nothing can change the image Henley acquired during the 1880s of the biggest annual festival of posing in the country.

  I was almost two months early for the regatta but a grandstand and some marquees were already erected and the town was in a state of preparation. It was probably always so. There was a certain way of doing things in Henley – the regatta way – and everyone complied. Accordingly the town was a neat, well-organized, prosperous, meticulous, antiquified sort of place with a branch each of the Portman, Abbey National, Anglia, Halifax and Woolwich building societies, and a number of No Fishing, No Swimming, No Mooring, No Dogs, No Parking, No Ball Games signs.

  Jennifer was arriving that night so I sacrificed half an hour of my life for her in Waitrose then lugged my groceries back to the boat and left town under the fine stone bridge which bore masks of the gods Thames and Isis. As I emerged I found an empty chocolate fingers packet had landed in my lap. And as Henley disappeared bit by bit behind willows, it occurred to me that most of the Thames towns and villages I’d stopped in had all been pretty and pleasant and historic, and yet despite – or maybe because of – their preservation societies they all looked strangely similar. I’d only been going a week but I was already having difficulty remembering one town from another.

  ‘Backwaters!’ said Mark Edwards, picking wood shavings out of his hair. ‘They’re great fun. You’ll have a fine time exploring backwaters. Thanks very much, mine’s a pint of Websters.’

  Those were his very words as we sat in the pub in Hampton that first night. I remembered them well as I veered off the main channel a mile or two past Henley, and entered the darkness of Hennerton Backwater.

  Although, it wasn’t solely Mark Edwards who convinced me to take this diversion. A man I met just outside Henley helped as well. He was sitting on the bank on a stool, a duffel bag by his side. I said: ‘Picnicking?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I . . . I was just thinking what a nice day it was for a . . .’

  ‘Ah shutup! Who cares? Clear off, you’re disturbing the fish.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what?!’

  ‘But you’re not fishing.’

  ‘Course I’m not! It’s close-season, and it’s a good job it is ’cos if it wasn’t your boat would be just where my line would be.’

  At other times of the year the banks of the Thames would have been lined with dark green and dour characters like this. The close-season had kept them indoors but this fellow was getting in a bit of practice at being abusive before the new season began. I said:

  ‘What fish would you be fishing for it it wasn’t close-season?’

  ‘Chub! Now clear off.’

  ‘Would you have had any luck? . . .’

  ‘You’re heading for trouble, you are, son.’

  Fishermen were the most unpredictable creatures of the river and I knew they should never be underestimated. I’d heard stories of the most hardy oarsmen found in the bottom of weir streams or hung from willow branches by fishing line after they’d had the nerve to nod a greeting to a fisherman. But I took objection to this man’s attitude and I said: ‘On the contrary, I am heading for Cricklade.’

  ‘Huh, not in that tub you’re not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too bleeding wide, you stupid git.’

  ‘No she’s not.’

  ‘Listen, trout-face, you’d be lucky to get through Hennerton Backwater in that old pile of woodworm let alone Cricklade, now push off or I’ll bombard you with maggots. And don’t call in at the Swan in Pangbourne, ’cos, that’s where I live and I don’t want your s
ort there.’

  So I thought I’d better test Maegan through Hennerton Backwater.

  The opening was off the main channel through a veil of weeping willow. It was about fifty yards wide to begin with but very shortly tapered off to a slim cut. The water thickened and darkened to a slime and the vegetation formed a shroud so that only needles of sunlight pierced the foliage. There were no other boats. To begin with I was piloted through the undergrowth of fallen trees by a family of Canada geese, but after a way they disappeared and I was left with the nibbling insects. The birdsong sounded different here, and there were strange scuffling noises among the reeds. A couple of large water rats dived in the water with a sickly splosh.

  After a few hundred yards the stream narrowed so badly I kept hitting the banks with the sculls and at each stroke I pulled a few pounds of weed out of the water. So in classic style, dressed barefoot and in shorts, I stepped up to Maegan’s bow and began to paddle. I could have been travelling through the central American rain forest if it hadn’t been for the sound of a lawnmower nearby.

  Presently, I saw where the noise came from – a fine house set back a way through trees, with an extensive garden stretching down through orchards and coarse lawn to the water. All was peaceful until I saw the black head of a doberman peep through the willows.

  Prior to this trip, if I’d been asked what the animal synonymous with the Thames was, I’d probably have given the standard reply and said the swan or the duck. But my experience so far was steadily leading me to believe that these birds were heavily outnumbered by a different kind of wildlife – the alsatian or doberman guard dog.

  On the river proper they weren’t a problem. Boogie would sit in the boat posing like a pedigree, and stick his tongue out at the heavies, safe in the knowledge he was out of their range. The dogs could race through gardens to the water’s edge and bark all they wanted – we were in mid stream and could pass with impunity. Down Hennerton Backwater though, the banks were a lot closer and this killer was striding alongside us just waiting for us to come that bit too close so he could leap aboard or even grab my paddle and pull us to the bank. I could see a low bridge ahead which would have provided safety but before I could reach it Boogie, in his typically tactful style, blew a raspberry at the beast and that did it – the thing was in the river and after us. And not for him any primitive stroke like the doggie paddle, this neanderthal was doing the crawl. He wanted Boogie badly.

  There was a time in Boogie’s life when he would have taken on the best of them. He was never particularly tough, not even in his youth, but he quickly learnt how to climb trees which was a distinct advantage. When he approached middle age and lost his speed he turned to diplomacy and learnt to negotiate his way out of trouble which is what he’d have done in this situation had his assailant not been so far beyond discussion. I had the feeling the doberman was a professional guard dog, partly because of its manner, but also because running through the trees after it was a security guard – a tubby breathless man who had one arm longer than the other. As he ran he shouted to us: ‘He’s not playing! he wants to tear your limbs off!’

  Boogie was a model of composure. I’d like to say for a moment his hackles rose and he contemplated defence. But he knew the hopelessness of the situation, and so he turned to me and gave me his ‘well, it’s been a good life’ look. ‘Thanks for everything. I know I’ve not been easy to live with, but I want to tell you how I appreciate what you’ve done. And I’m truly sorry about that time I made a mess in the fruit bowl. One request, no pedigrees at my funeral. And if you want to have some sort of memorial for me, make it a seat on Crouch End Broadway outside Radio Rentals and have it inscribed: “To Boogie, who loved the view”.’

  We were almost at the bridge, five more strong paddles and I’d be under. But the guard was now shouting: ‘Lie down and pretend you’re a tree. The dog is a trained killer.’ I turned and saw two paws on the back of the boat. I was standing right on the bow as far away from the stern as was possible and yet Boogie was behind me. The paws began to pull the rest of the dog up out of the water. I prepared myself for the first mauling of my life. Then suddenly, out of the reeds dived two great crested grebes, and like the cavalry, swam towards the dog. They didn’t look as though they had any intention of intervening, but their effect was immediate. The doberman took one look at them turned and splashed back the way he had come, squealing. The grebes spat and swam slowly out of sight. The guard led the doberman away like a lamb. I turned and banged my head on the bridge.

  Now gnats formed a cloud around us. From the woods on the bank came a noise half-human, half-double-decker bus. In the murk a supermarket trolley lay rusting, its wheels in the air. The vines curled themselves around my neck, the water bubbled and snapped and we reached another bridge, this one so low I had to lie down in the bottom of the boat to pass under. My nose scraped the roof; I tasted slime. But before I could stand up again there was a dull thud and I looked up to see we were back in civilization again. We were in a marina and we’d hit a cruiser named Black Stockings.

  ‘Hello there?’ said a man in a sunhat scrubbing his deck. ‘Look, it’s Three Men in a Boat. Dog’s got the right idea.’

  I imagined the upper reaches of the river would be like Hennerton Backwater only with less depth and ten times as long. It was a daunting prospect but I couldn’t complain, so far this trip had hardly been an ordeal. It had been a sunny jaunt through a landscape that strained for perfection. Sonning, where I moored that evening, looked so perfect it had the feel of a working model. Even the telephone kiosks had preservation orders on them. Only the traffic lined up the road from the narrow bridge restored reality.

  I’d told Jennifer to meet me in the Bull at eight. I was there on the dot, sitting in the corner, trying to look anonymous. It was the landlord’s fiftieth anniversary and he was celebrating the occasion by embarrassing everyone. Boogie disappeared and returned with a salmon sandwich and some ardenne pâté on French bread. The landlord spotted him and staggered over. He said: ‘What sort is he?’

  ‘Albanian retriever.’

  ‘I thought he was. Here, are you on your own? I’ll have to get you fixed up.’

  ‘It’s all right; a friend is joining me any minute.’

  ‘Tell you what, there’s a PE student over there. She’s got blond hair, like you; you’ll get on fine. Hang on.’ And he staggered off again.

  ‘No, my girlfriend is joining me later, honestly.’ Boogie sighed and shook his head. ‘She is!’ I said. But he’d seen what I hadn’t – a tall figure in black leather standing at the door holding his crash helmet in one hand and a carrier bag in the other.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Me again.’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  ‘Mexican tonight.’ He handed me the bag.

  I said: ‘I’m angry now. I’m being taken for granted.’

  The messenger nodded. ‘I think you should be angry.’

  The landlord staggered back over. ‘Her name is Sandra. She’s from Andover. Nice place Andover.’

  The motorcyclist messenger looked at me, sincerely, and said: ‘You shouldn’t be afraid of your anger. If you really want this woman you’ve got to be constructive with your emotions . . .’

  The landlord prodded him and said: ‘Here, are you on your own? Can’t have that; I’ll get you fixed up.’

  ‘That’s all right thanks. I’m in a relationship. It’s not perfect, but then every relationship is an exercise in compromise, isn’t it?’ He leant closer to me and said: ‘I always say that you’ve got to fall out of love with someone before you can really learn to love them. Sign here, please.’

  He strode out. The landlord said: ‘Here, don’t get depressed.’

  ‘Who’s depressed? I’m not depressed.’

  ‘Go over and speak to Sandra. She’s dying to meet you.’

  Sandra was a pretty young woman in a Fred Perry shirt and track suit sitting with a
friend also in a Fred Perry shirt and track suit. They both looked serious and cradled tennis rackets. I smiled at Sandra and gave her a little wave. She looked the other way, then said something to her friend and they left.

  Boogie and I walked back to the boat along the towpath, clutching the Mexican meal. Inside the bag was a card that read: ‘ “At least I have not made my heart a heart of stone, Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast, Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.” I’ve had to go to Bologna. I’m really sorry. But I won’t be long.’

  I said: ‘You see, most men would have got tired of it all by now. But not me. I know Jennifer better than she thinks. She’s frightened that she’s getting close to me, it’s unnerved her. She feels threatened so she’s distanced herself, literally. Well if this is a challenge I’m ready for it. She can be as unreasonable as she wants. I’ll show her. I’ll not react. That’s what I’ll do.’

  Boogie licked something horrible out of an old plastic bag and we strode purposefully back to the boat.

  During the night the wind picked up. It rained hard and the current tugged at Maegan. Next morning, I sculled off with great effort. A man walking along the towpath, whistling tunelessly, stopped and screwed up his face and said: ‘Strong current today.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Strong wind too.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘No motor, eh?’

  ‘Nope.’

  He weighed up the facts.

  ‘Going the wrong way, really, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  6.Sorry About That. Give Me a Ring From Pangbourne

  FOR TWO THOUSAND years the Thames had no equal as a trading route and communication link. With all but ten miles of its length navigable it was an artery leading straight to the country’s heart, and the Romans, the Saxons, the Vikings and the Normans all quickly realized that control over the river was a prerequisite to control over the nation.