I was up early the following morning and found a cafe. My plan for the day was simple enough but conditions would be different from here on. Now I was on foot rather than in the boat, and the river wouldn’t dominate the countryside the way it had. Now it would sneak through fields; it could disappear into a patch of brambles and not come out again. The wicket keeper had told me that to get to the ash tree I must keep to the main channel no matter how small it became and no matter how many other streams tried to lead me away. There’d be times when the river was almost dry, he warned me, but I mustn’t be deceived.
I had a fried breakfast and read a paper whilst all around me were conversations about the scout club and the rent rebates, the kind of conversations I’d not heard since London; conversations that didn’t once mention the local regatta or the cost of overnight mooring or the journey time from Paddington. I was out of the commuter belt for the first time and it was like falling asleep on a train and waking up in a different country.
‘Eggs, bacon and beans!’
‘Thank you.’
I ate my plateful and wiped it up with some bread. It was time to get moving. Outside, Boogie was having his name taken by a local policeman.
I followed the river bank out of town. Fences had been put across the water by farmers to act as stock barriers, but there were fishermen’s paths to follow.
I quickly came to the confluence with the River Churn, a sizeable piece of water but, like the Evenlode, the Coln and the Windrush before it, the Thames spat it out and continued.
Far more impressive was the stream I found just before Ashton Keynes. By this time the Thames was just a trickle and so I followed the larger body of water until I came to a bridge. A man with a shotgun leant over it.
‘What sort of dog is that?’ he said.
‘Russian dalmatian.’
‘Thought so.’ He tried to change the subject, but he was having problems so I helped him. I said: ‘Is that your car?’ indicating the beautifully restored 1958 Morris Cowley by the roadside. It had been resprayed in its original light grey. The chrome had been dipped, the leather re-upholstered, the tyres painted. It was pristine.
‘No,’ he said.
There was another silence which we both felt comfortable with. This trip had taught me how to meet all sorts of interesting people and then not say anything to them. I felt a drop of rain. An aircraft flew low overhead. I trained my binoculars on it and spotted a pilot with black hair, a blue pullover and glasses.
Presently my friend said: ‘You walking?’
‘Yes. I’m following the river Thames.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re following the Swill Brook. That’s the Thames back there.’
‘But it’s nothing but a ditch.’
‘May look like a ditch but that’s because the gravel pits drain it. You go into the village and you’ll find ducks and everything swimming about. You can trust me, I’m a local character.’
So I retraced my steps and followed the ditch into Ashton Keynes and sure enough by the time the stream had passed the churchyard it had swelled to a size where I could have sculled on it again had I been with Maegan. I sent a postcard to my grandmother and continued through a blue haze of dragonflies.
By early afternoon the skies grew full of cold black cloud and my pace was quickening. Boogie seemed uneasy. In Somerford Keynes he had a fight with a rockery and the rockery came off better. He drank frequently from the river; it was as if he knew it was going to run dry soon. It was crystal clear and sprinkled with white crowfoot, but it had degenerated to a dribble.
Another railway bridge and another main road and then the water was motionless, barely deep enough for a resident family of moorhens to splash about in. A hundred yards further and it disappeared into the ground. If I squeezed the earth water rose to the surface, but the river was gone and for the first time in almost three weeks there were no reflections around me, just a bright green dampness.
I followed a dry groove in the earth which was presumably flooded under wetter conditions. It led me past the distant spire of Kemble church, then under the Fosse Way and through a long meadow until ahead I could see a tree. I peered through my binoculars – a crow standing quite happily on a fence took off and vanished. I focused and recognized the distinctive leaves of an ash. And there beneath it was a ring of white stones. I strode on and reached the source of the River Thames at 3.30 in the afternoon of 28 May 1988.
It was an unimpressive setting really, just nettles, some dung and the dry cracked earth. There was supposed to be a spring beneath the stones, but they didn’t look as though they’d seen water for years. I’d love to have found a coot’s nest or a willow stump there, instead there was the plaque, proclaiming this spring in Trewsbury Mead as the true source of the great river. Boogie cocked his leg on it.
I stood there in reverence for a minute or two until I was disturbed by voices coming through the woods. A party of people climbed over a stile and walked through the field. As they came closer I could hear they were speaking German. They marched up to me and their spokesman said: ‘We are looking for the source of the Thames.’
It started to rain. We were all standing in the middle of a field in Gloucestershire with our anoraks over our heads.
‘Look no further,’ I said.
‘This is it?’
‘Yep. And I was here first.’
They looked around. One voice said: ‘Aber wo ist die Wasser?’ And the spokesman said: ‘But where is the water? We have come all the way from London and there is no water. I thought there would be a Little Chef or a Pay and Display at least but there is nothing. Are you sure this is the source?’
‘Sure.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I sculled.’
‘You what?’
‘I rowed.’
‘Oh! You are Three Men in a Boat to say nothing of the dog. But where are the other two? My favourite bit is when Harris sings the song and can’t remember the words. Why are you looking strangely? We have been travelling from London with nothing but Radio One for amusement. It took us two hours in a Toyota minibus. What a waste of time. My name is Felix.’
From somewhere Boogie appeared with a steak sandwich in his mouth.
‘It is all right for the dog, isn’t it?’ said Felix.
11.I’ll See You Sometime
I SCULLED BACK to Oxford in the rain. With the aid of the current it only took a few days. I just pulled my hat down and went as fast as I could.
One day the mist didn’t lift at all. The river was cocooned in a cloud. Military aircraft on their low-level flying manoeuvres blasted overhead but I was blind to them. There were no other boats on the water, no people on the towpath. I travelled with my head down. Maegan knew the channel. All I remember noticing during those few days was that the dandelions were over, their white seeds scattered on the water. On this journey I’d seen them flourish, flower and die and now their ashes were strewn.
I got going each morning at first light when the river mist crept into the tent and dampened my covers. And I kept going until the daylight died and the crusts on my hands had dried on the sculls. I felt sedated. I stopped noticing the country I was passing through. But this had never been a scenically startling journey. The Thames was a steady river that dripped and flowed, hardly tripping up once on its way to the sea. Its influence was a subliminal one. I remember stopping one night in a pub called the Rose Revived. I sat at the bar and heard the barmaid talking to a customer about holidays, and how the destinations never lived up to expectations. She said: ‘I went up the Nile the year before last. I didn’t enjoy it. The pyramids just aren’t worth the bother. The pictures on the postcards were wonderful but the real things are a disappointment.’
And the customer nodded and said: ‘I know what you mean. The same thing happened to me with those fountains in Rome.’
The Thames conjures up castles a
nd palaces and royal barges and regattas and a voyage through the history of England. And it is all of these things somewhere along the route, there’s even a gorge or two, but it’s essentially coots and willows and the plop of the chub and the knowledge that you’re never far from a branch of Boots. On discovering the source to be a dry patch of ground in a field I wasn’t surprised or disappointed. The idea of it spouting out of a lake over falls just wasn’t suitable. The Thames is a civilized river and above such sensationalism. It inspires tranquillity and self-reflection rather than derring-do and getting up before eight for a swim.
Back in London I lay low for a while. I wanted to call Jennifer and tell her the task had been completed, but I felt uncomfortable about the whole thing. Not long after I’d been back my friend Sarah called round. She wanted me to look after her goldfish while she went away. I said to her: ‘I thought you’d just been away, to South America?’
‘I’m moving out there for a while. I’ve been offered the managership of the new branch of Sketchley’s in Montevideo. It’s promotion. So how was your trip?’
‘It was good . . . It was good.’
‘Did you find the source of the Thames?’
‘Yes, indeed. I solved the mystery surrounding the source of that great river.’
‘Well . . .?’
‘Well what?’
‘Well where is it?’
‘You’ll laugh when I tell you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well . . . the source of the Thames is in Trewsbury Mead, a field just over the A433 south of Cirencester.’
‘Isn’t that where most people thought it was?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
‘. . .’
‘And . . . so . . . so the trip has been a resounding success, insomuch as I have proved most people are correct in their opinion as to where the Thames rises.’
‘I see,’ said Sarah. ‘Listen, feeding instructions are on the packet,’ and she handed me the fish bowl.
Most people were similarly impressed, and yet I couldn’t help but feel it was a hollow success. The problem was I could see little of worth had come out of the journey. At one point I hoped it might have been of scientific value as research into the use of dogs on long river expeditions, but reading through my notes the only conclusion they reach is that dogs are of no use at all – they inspire people to say boring things to you from the bank.
But the rewards of a journey aren’t always immediate and aren’t always manifest. The point is should we count milestones or miles? And the truth is I learned a lot from my time on the river – learned a lot, that is, about myself.
This may not sound so special. After all, most journeys offer travellers an insight into their own personality. But the difference between this trip and any other I’ve been on is that although I know I did learn a lot about myself, now I’m back I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. As soon as I left the river its spirit drained away from me. The morning I woke up in bed again I no longer felt that insouciance the river inspired. I suddenly felt responsible again. It was as if I’d been addicted to something then suddenly forgot what the addiction was.
And that’s rather how I feel about Jennifer now. I think her problem was she was fighting the river all the time rather than trying to harness its energy. Even Boogie could sense this, and he knew it was a weakness. She was rigid. I remember when she said: ‘Coots are fun to watch but they aren’t very efficient animals. They could be far more productive. Ergonomically, they’re a disaster. I’d never employ one,’ it was clear she wasn’t ever going to be a waterwoman.
But I should have realized this beforehand. And while I can blame all sorts of people and animals for what happened, I know I’m liable as well. It didn’t dawn on me in time that Jennifer isn’t impressed by men who try to impress her. I imagined someone so inaccessible could be reached somehow. There had to be a key to her, a secret channel no one had ever taken before, a backwater through which her defences could be breached. But treating her like a river was my downfall, and I know now that even if we had reached the source together there would have been nowhere else for us to go but back downstream. Boogie may have realized this. His actions, though vulgar to an unacceptable degree, may have been with the best intentions. He may have seen the lack of communication between Jennifer and me. He may have noted the lack of negotiation, the lack of genuine affection, the lack of trust between us. He may have noticed my infatuation and decided he had to take the initiative. He may have decided Jennifer was coming between him and me. He may have seen the link between man and dog threatened and the expedition put in jeopardy as a consequence. In the end honour may have forced him to act. I’d like to think so. But he probably behaved the way he did because he can’t stand pseuds.
I haven’t seen or even spoken to Jennifer since. I called her office and her PA answered and said: ‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Mark Wallington.’
‘What company?’
‘Personal call.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Conway is on the other line at the moment, can I ask what it’s about?’
‘Yes. I’d like to know her opinion on where our relationship stands at the moment and what, if any, effect she feels the time we had together on the river had on our future. I feel that I spent too long competing for her rather than against her which was patronizing on my behalf I know, but I feel that if she analyses her own behaviour she will come to see that she was lacking in the essential skills needed to be a travelling companion. Before we went on this trip I would have travelled to the ends of the earth with her. I still would but now I think I’d be tempted to leave her there. Maybe she’d like to meet for a drink sometime and talk it over. I’ve got plans to climb a mountain. I’ve also got her handbag and her wok. Tell her to call me when she gets time.’
‘I told you it would all end in . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know you told me.’
But she hasn’t called yet. Not many people do call when you’re writing a book. They think you don’t want to be interrupted. And then whenever the phone does go and I say I’m writing about a rowing trip up the Thames, everyone says ‘Oh, you mean Three Men in a Boat.’ At first I gave my rehearsed response, about how my book and Three Men in a Boat have nothing in common, that the river has changed beyond recognition in a hundred years, and it’s stupid to imagine I could re-create such a trip. But I don’t bother now. I chuckle and say: ‘Well, yes I suppose so.’ I think people prefer it that way. I’ve even tried to convince myself. I say to myself: ‘It doesn’t matter about the motorboats and the housing estates and the branches of Waitrose and Pizzaland, these changes to the Thames are all peripheral. The river itself is as languid and as oblivious as it ever was, as timeless as Jerome’s book.’ I’m not sure about this though.
I have, however, discovered one similarity between Jerome’s book and mine, and that is they were both written in the summer time, in a room at the top of the house, looking out over London. And I think I feel closer to him because of this than anything to do with the Thames. I imagine him sitting in a room above the rooftops with pigeons pattering over his tiles just as they do over mine. I look at them with my binoculars sometimes and they fly off and hide, so I turn my attention to the street. It’s full of puddles, has been for most of the summer, and as the daylight fails the gas showroom is reflected in the pavement and I’m immediately taken back to the wonderful reflections of Cliveden Deep and of Pangbourne, of Mapledurham House and of Tadpole Bridge, and of the willows. It’s at times like these that I know the only reason I can live in this city is that only occasionally does it remind me of the country.
This tenuous connection with Jerome was the excuse I sought and I no longer felt the need to distance myself from the man. In the autumn I even went back to the river to visit Ewelme in Oxfordshire where he’s buried. I drove down there on a frosty Sunday morning. The village looked delightful and the church of St Mary’s was frozen into place under the blue sk
y. A bonfire smoked over a wall, and the rooks’ nests were clearly visible in the bare trees. I found Jerome’s family plot not far away from the church door, his wife and daughter lying by his side. I’d read a biography of him during the summer and hadn’t been surprised to find him hint at an ambivalence to his success. He wrote: ‘I have written books that have appeared to me more clever, books that have appeared to me more humorous. But it is as the author of Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the Dog) that the public persists in remembering me.’ I stood there for a couple of minutes breathing a cloud. I just wanted to have a look.
After visiting the churchyard I walked Boogie down to the river at Benson. Six months on and the ducklings were having formation flying lessons. The immature coots sat in the middle of the channel developing their bald patches. The grebes were learning karate, and the cygnets were no longer squat grey squirts. They’d lost their fluff and grown their necks and turned into beautiful graceful creatures with a natural vanity. Boogie looked confused at first but then we walked along the towpath and slowly he identified his surroundings. At one point a heron landed near us and we stopped and watched it feed. And as the bird’s head dived into the water and emerged each time with a fish in its beak, Boogie wagged his tail and grinned and I was sure he was recalling our trip.
When we got home that night he stuck his face in the fish bowl and ate Sarah’s goldfish.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Boogie Up the River Page 18