TADPOLE BRIDGE WAS just twenty-five miles upstream from Oxford but it took me three days to reach there. The pace of the journey changed, so did my lifestyle. I emerged as a waterman with crusty hands and a dirty neck. I began to degenerate. Maegan began to look messy. Only the blossom that tumbled from the hawthorn and chestnut trees kept her fresh. She looked as though Boogie and I had just got married in her.
The breeze was with me for a change and I sat easily in the saddle of the boat. I lost the sensation of travelling. I was just following a rail and had no control over my destination. The rain came as everyone had predicted and so I travelled with the tent half unfurled to form a canopy. It acted as a sail and I was blown westwards. Then whenever a shower came I’d roll down the sides and be watertight in minutes. I’d sit there wrapped up out of the damp as the warm rain made the river steam, and I’d watch the dragonflies land on the water and disappear into the pink gob of a chub.
I liked to watch the rain. It felt reassuring to see the land drink it up. It was like a transfusion, and there was a reverence about the whole process. There was a silence just before the first drop and then the reflections would begin to disintegrate as the river surface grew agitated. The grey cloud merged with the grey water. The songbirds were quiet, and Boogie would sit on the end of the boat with his mouth open.
I’d never realized how noisy rain is in the country. The leaves cracked and the grass shivered, and the meadows and woods were dented as the rain and wind pelted them. The showers were never long but they were a display and everything stopped until they were over. And then there was a sense of celebration. The river sparkled anew. Cuckoos, pigeons and magpies poked their heads out from trees. There was an irresistible smell of wet grass. The ducks came out and started squabbling. The gnats gathered in clouds and did whatever gnats like to do. The pylons began to hiss. A train shuddered in the distance over wet rails. Somewhere upstream a lorry splashed through the puddles over a five-hundred-year-old bridge. The cracks in the mud were filled. The river was a millimetre higher, the grass a shade greener, the earth watered. And then there’d be a blue crack in the sky and shafts of sunlight that made my hat steam. The reflections returned as bright as before and I’d look around and make a note of how well I had got to know cow parsley on this trip.
After almost two weeks on the water I was easily pleased and my days were gloriously indulgent affairs. Boogie too seemed settled. He was aware of the change in our surroundings in so far as he was totally confused now whereas he’d been only moderately so before. I remember him one afternoon standing on the bow, ears pricked, a daisy chain around his neck, sniffing the air in that intense way he does, giving the impression he is sorting out every smell and every sound and identifying them as only an animal of instinct can, whereas the truth is he hasn’t got a clue what any of them are. As soon as we lost the diesel smells of Oxford he was baffled.
And now the wildlife became more prolific and less shy. I got to know the water rat population well. I saw my first curlew – a humorous creature if ever there was one. And I watched the herons for hours. One landed very close to me one evening and I watched it fish as darkness fell. It stood motionless, staring into the murk, and then every so often its head would dart into the stream and emerge with a grin all over its face and a struggling silver fish in its beak. The bird would swallow visibly and then resume its stern posture.
If I wanted supplies I’d walk to a village. They all had little supermarkets, and all the little supermarkets had little queues. But for some reason these no longer bothered me. In one I turned to the woman behind me and said: ‘Would you like to go in front of me since you’ve only got three items?’ And she eyed me suspiciously, but edged her way slowly to the front, then paid her bill and ran out.
My only other link with humanity was the lock-keepers. They were my source of information and I relied on them. At Eynsham the keeper was planting his annuals for the coming bank holiday weekend. He said: ‘It’s much quieter on the river now. You should have seen it twenty years ago. It was busy then but I liked it. I liked it when you had to collect money and there were really long queues.’ And he recalled how before boats were licensed each vessel had to pay a toll to pass through the lock. ‘Your skiff would have cost ninepence,’ he said.
I told him I was looking for the source and asked him if he had any knowledge on the matter and he said: ‘All things considered, if you were to ask me that question what with me being a lock-keeper and having a working knowledge of the river, particularly so above Oxford, I’d have to say I don’t know a thing about it. My! will you look at the size of that?!’ A perch had come to the surface. I knew it was a perch because the lock-keeper said: ‘That’s about the biggest perch I’ve ever seen. Fifteen years ago, before they cleaned the river up, they had all but disappeared.’
The weir streams were less frantic now, and the locks smaller and all manual. In place of hydraulics the keepers had long poles and big muscles. They were mostly local people and their lifestyle more reclusive. At Shifford lock I even managed to have a look inside a keeper’s cottage. He came flying out when he saw me approach and began to wind up his gates for all he was worth. He said: ‘You’re not trying to break any records are you? ’Cos if you are I’ve got bad news. One of my sluice gates is stuck.’
I’d heard stories of teams of rowers heading downstream as fast as they could trying to break records, but the very idea seemed appalling. Over the last few days I’d become convinced of what I’d always suspected to be true, the Thames can be anything you want except a rush. So I said to the lock-keeper: ‘Yes, I’m trying to break the record for the slowest time between London and Lechlade. I’ve taken nearly two weeks so far, what are my chances?’
‘Pretty good, I’d say.’
I asked him if he had a toilet I could use, and he said I could use his own. I regarded this as a privilege and thanked him graciously, then walked up his path to the house imagining rooms full of flowers and river memorabilia, a boiler, a tiled fireplace, the smell of soup and smoked willow. But it was a dump. It wasn’t even lived in. The only furniture was a microwave and a table with a half-completed Airfix kit scattered around it.
I pulled Maegan up the river, keeping a steady rhythm, taking time to think about what I saw. How, for example, did that pair of checked trousers end up in that hawthorn bush? It was a mystery probably very few people could explain. Placenames began to interest me as well. We’d passed Moulsford, Oxford and Swinford, and I’d satisfied myself they were all places where it was possible to herd mules, ox and swine across the river. This theory rather faltered though when we reached Duxford.
I was also confused by the bunkers on the river’s north bank. I asked the lock-keeper at Pinkhill what their history was, and the answer, although straightforward, was interesting because it illustrated what a barrier the Thames has always been, from the time when man first began to walk the Ridgeway, through the Roman and the Norman occupations, right up to the Second World War. It was during that war, when the threat of a German invasion was real, that the Thames was designated the line of defence behind which the country would retreat should the Channel coast be taken. Provision was made to blast every bridge over the river, and bunkers were built every mile. The lock-keeper said: ‘Bunker’s a good name for them, I reckon. That’s all they’re used for now – bunk ups. Huhuh.’
In the evening I’d find a pub if one was near, or I’d pull the canvas over and sit in the lamplight, and try to write poetry. These were unproductive evenings though. I only ever wrote one poem and that was to Delia Smith. She was beginning to play an intrinsic role in the expedition, far more intrinsic than Boogie, anyway. He spent his evenings lying in the bottom of the boat, dreaming, making strange noises as he re-enacted the television programmes he was missing.
He and I were becoming better company though. I remember on the Tuesday night I camped in a wild spot. I don’t know the name, I just remember there wasn’t a house or road or light to be
seen, just the distant pylons. We’ll call it Dogford because Boogie, in an effort to get a drink of water, dived into the river, or rather he leant over the side of the boat too far and fell in. Why he should even have attempted this I don’t know since his water bowl was always full of fresh water and sat wedged in the bottom of the boat. And yet ever since his first taste of river water he’d regarded it as vintage and would drink no other.
I pulled him out, saving his life for the fourth time. We sat on the grass. Boogie looked at me and gave me his ‘stupid dog eh? falling in the river’ look. It occurred to me that the river had cast its spell over him as well, and might be helping him to find the inner animal. Later when we went for a walk along the towpath, I whistled tunelessly and said: ‘The thing is, see, Boogie, the thing we’ve got to understand is that if someone’s behaviour seems unreasonable the chances are it’s indicative of something more deeply rooted. Just as the real reason Jennifer has kept me waiting for two weeks is locked away within her, your tendency to fall in the river is probably a result of your traumatic upbringing and being orphaned at an early age and suffering the ignominy of being beaten up by cats all the time. You could be a depressed dog, but don’t worry, I know a very good vet.’
Boogie licked something horrible off a stile and we walked back to the boat.
I was just about to crawl inside the tent when I could see a figure in the fading light about a half mile away. It was a man striding across the field towards us. I watched as he approached, his hat at an angle, his baggy trousers bulging at the pockets. He walked straight up to me and invaded the space one doesn’t normally invade when you’re meeting someone for the first time, particularly if it’s in a lonely field at dusk. I thought he might be about to ask me back to his house for champagne but he looked at me from eye to eye and said: ‘Evening!’
‘Evening.’
‘One pound fifty, please.’
‘What?’
‘One pound fifty.’
‘What is?’
‘The cost.’
‘Cost of what?’
‘You camping on my property. It costs one pound fifty.’
‘What?’
‘You’re camping. This is a farm camp site. I’m the farmer. It’s simple enough. One pound fifty.’
I looked behind me. I looked in the distance. I looked to either side. There was nothing but fields and woods and mist I said: ‘This is a camp site?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re joking.’
But he wasn’t joking.
I thought: Okay, if he wants to be like that, and I said: ‘But I’m not actually on your property am I? I’m on the water.’
‘You’re on my bank. Your mooring irons are on my bank. It’s seventy-five pence a mooring iron. If you had an anchor it would be all right, but you haven’t so that’s one pound fifty.
The pylons hissed. An owl made a noise like Roy Orbison. This was about the quietest, least spoilt spot I’d seen on the river, and this man must have walked miles to charge me for standing on it. I said: ‘If this is a camp site where are the toilets and the showers and the camp shop selling Camping Gaz refills, and where’s the ping pong room?’
‘Three miles away in the village. It’s a big camp site.’
I was having such a pleasant evening until he arrived. I paid him to get rid of him and said: ‘What’s your VAT number then?’
‘Same as yours. Goodnight.’ And as he walked off into the mist he called out: ‘If you’re going to Lechlade try the Swan. Best pub on the river. My nephew works there.’
Back in the tent I undressed and grumbled and searched for my sleeping bag. ‘All right, Boogie! I’m in no mood for games. Get off it!’ But he wasn’t on it. I looked everywhere a sleeping bag could sensibly have got to: in the luggage, under the seats, in the lockers. Then I looked in silly places where a sleeping bag could never have got to: in the Winalot bag, in the bilges. But the thing had disappeared.
Then I looked outside. It was a beautiful, misty blue night. The moon on the wane. The water the colour of a Milk of Magnesia bottle and very still. The only clue that there was a current at all was the cylindrical silhouette of my sleeping bag floating slowly back towards London.
There are many ways a dog can show his loyalty to a human being but there can be none more altruistic than sharing his blanket in a time of crisis. And Boogie took no persuading at all that night, I’m proud to say. All I had to do was inform him of the soaking wet sleeping bag situation, and that my sleeping bag falling overboard was in effect similar to his blanket falling overboard since we were a travelling team, and that I wouldn’t hesitate in letting him share my sleeping bag if the needs were reversed, and he understood completely. I gave him the decision, of course. I told him it was up to him. He had every right to say: ‘Get lost! Get your own blanket.’ But his response was typical. He did shriek as I whipped the blanket from under him, and then bared his teeth and made primitive wolf-like noises, and his eyes turned red, but I knew this was merely a playful performance to try to draw maximum humour out of the situation, to keep spirits up.
And apart from the occasional strange smell and him grinding his teeth in his sleep, it was a perfectly comfortable night. I dreamt that Jennifer was lying next to me. Her shoulders were bare just above the blanket. I was attracted to the smooth curve between her collar bone and upper arm. I put my hand out to touch her. She looked beautiful but she had a cold nose.
Then I was woken by birdsong. It was eight o’clock, I felt a touch of dejection. I’d travelled up a hundred miles of river and I still hadn’t got up in time to see the sunrise. What sort of explorer is it that never gets up before eight o’clock? I asked myself, and I steeled myself for a swim. I lifted up the tent flap and saw the water laced with a thin cold mist. The idea of immersing myself battled with the idea of going back to sleep and to Jennifer. I turned over, and there, staring at me, was Boogie. He licked me and grinned. I know I don’t look my best in the morning but I don’t look anywhere near as bad as he does.
The river continued to narrow. The willows hung their boughs in the water. I began to see faces in the gnarled trunks, grotesque faces. In some places the trees had been blown over in the storms of the previous winter and now they lay on the land, the bank beneath them pulled up like a curled lip. I didn’t see many people during those days. The river was secretive now and it crept up on villages. It may only have been a half mile from a main road but it had become a master of disguise, lurking beneath its banks and willows like a nervous animal.
But the few people I did meet were sympathetic characters who seemed in touch with the spirit of the river. One afternoon I saw a woman walking along the bank. She called out: ‘I never thought I’d ever see one of those again, not this far up.’
She was referring to Maegan and so I paddled over to her. ‘We used to have a skiff like that when I was a child,’ she said. ‘My father would row us up from Oxford to our bungalow. That was in the twenties. I’ve not been in a boat for years now.’
I asked her if she wanted a ride upstream and her eyes lit up like a child’s. She must have been seventy years old but she jumped in the back seat and said: ‘It’s all right for the dog, isn’t it?’
She was a farmer. She and her husband had retired and bought some land near Northmoor but they weren’t doing well. ‘We keep cows but as soon as you reach your quota that’s it. It’s not enough to live on. We should move into sheep; there’s money in sheep.’
A magpie flew overhead and made a noise like an owl. ‘Noisy buggers magpies,’ she said. Then she lay back and used Boogie as a pillow and said: ‘It’s so nice to be back on the river again. We had a boat once but a pig trod on it.’ A B52 flew overhead and the river shook. ‘Noisy buggers, B52s,’ she said. ‘Can I have a row?’
She climbed in beside me and we sculled up to Bablock Hythe. There had been a ferry across the river here for almost a thousand years, but it had recently ceased operation. The woman said: ‘
No one looked after it. Not even the Thames people. They didn’t take an interest and it got too bad to repair.’ The same thing seemed to have happened to the pub. The Ferry Inn it was called and it had weeds in the car park and smashed windows. ‘The landlord didn’t pay his electricity bill and they cut him off. He should have looked after that ferry. But the river’s changed now. The motorboats have changed everything. They’ve driven all the wildlife away. You don’t see any kingfishers any more. Sorry, I’ve dropped a spoon of yours overboard.’
We pottered about the river up to Northmoor where she climbed out. I told her I was heading to the source and asked her if she knew anything about it and she said: ‘No. But Kelvin will.’
‘Kelvin?’
‘You’ll find him in the Dun Cow in Northmoor. You’ll like the Dun Cow. It’s full of life. All the youngsters go into the Dun Cow.’
I moored by Northmoor lock and that evening walked the two miles to the Dun Cow. Northmoor seemed to be the most remote village I’d come across, but arriving in villages on a footpath from the river gave me a different perspective from arriving by car. I normally surfaced through the back yard of a village, through the churchyard or a housing estate, rather than in the traditional way on a road, over roundabouts and past a Welcome To sign. The locals always looked surprised to see a stranger appear in their midst in this way. I felt like an alien and since I didn’t have a map with me all I knew of my location was that it was somewhere west of Oxford.
Many eyes watched me as I walked through Northmoor. I could see movement behind net curtains. I went into the Dun Cow leaving Boogie lying down outside in front of a pot of geraniums. I was the only person in the pub. Presently one of the many doors opened and a woman came out tying up her apron: ‘Always quiet on a Wednesday,’ she said. The room was a sitting room with armchairs and pot plants, prints and books, and no bar, just a doorway with barrels. I was pulled a drink and told to make myself at home.
Boogie Up the River Page 12