Fire

Sunday evening was just beginning to draw in when a thud caused our boat to lurch to port-side. I thought we had been hit by a passing boat so I went outside to check. There was no one there, but I heard screaming. It was indistinct at first and I thought perhaps children were playing over exuberantly in the park - it was then that I heard the call every boater dreads: FIRE!

We immediately ran towards the shouts and found a family of eight stranded on their cruiser as smoke billowed out of their cabin. We could not reach the boat, but we sprang into action as the family jumped into the water. Not all of them were able to swim but they were wearing life jackets and, with Gary and Brenda, we managed to pull them from the water and onto the pontoons. Rob and Gary seemed to pluck the children out one by one, strong as they are, with relative ease, but I struggled hauling out a girl as her clothing weighed her down. I asked her to work with me, and on the count of three she pushed up whilst I pulled, and with the help of Brenda we dragged her free of the water and onto the relative safety of the pontoon. Whilst this was going on another boater called the fire brigade and opened the gates to give the emergency services access. Everyone worked naturally together.

It was clear by now that there was not much we could do for the boat. Two people in a rib arrived with a fire extinguisher, but there was a problem and it did not work and all they could do was push the boat further towards the far bank and away from us. They were forced to retreat when the flames and heat became too much. The fire spread so swiftly, eating through the cabin as though it was made of cardboard. One minute the cabin was visible, the next it was gone. Just like that a boat was gutted. Gary and Rob stood by with boat poles to keep the burning boat at a distance for fear that it could drift back. Thankfully, the breeze took it towards the bank and away from other boats and people. As the emergency services arrived Brenda and I dashed to our boats to retrieve towels to dry and keep the family warm. We had pulled them out of the water - five children, one baby, and two adults - and they were unharmed. We could not bring them to our boats to keep them safe because our boats were still in the danger zone and they would have had to pass their burning boat. They retreated onto firm ground and to the shelter of their car in the car park where the paramedics attended to them. Brenda stayed with them and I returned to the pontoons to see what more could be done – but there was nothing left for us to do. The emergency services had it all in hand, and pumped river water onto the flames. It seemed to take an age for the flames to extinguish, and by the time they were done there was very little boat left - It did not matter though; a family survived, and that is enough.

Local media coverage:

BBC

The Oxford Mail

Advice for petrol powered boats: Boat Safety Scheme

Warm days and wood smoke nights.

I have watched summer spill into autumn, counting all the little changes that add up to mark one season's fading and the other's awakening. The first of autumn's storms came in on a tumble of leaves and rain, and our windows leaked to remind us that our boat build is still far from complete. I missed the departure of the swallows, swifts, and martins over one weekend, their exit as silent as their arrival in early summer. On a Friday I watched their agile flight, skimming the river and darting above the boats in the sunshine, and by Monday, as I emerged after a weekend of illness, the sky and river was empty of their acrobatic flight.

These days wood smoke from our little chimney is often spotted hanging low over the water as the nights close in on the equinox. Whilst the days have seen some warm sunshine, the evenings are quick to cool. We received our winter coal supply last week. Keeping warm is an expensive business and so we try and buy whilst merchants sell at summer prices. The arrival of the lorry trundling down our lane is a sure sign that autumn is near. 

Big lorry made it down a tiny lane (it may have left with bits of willow tree attached).

This year, for the first time, the coalman refused to put the coal on our coal pile, and drove off leaving it in the car park. 

The moment I regretted buying all the coal at once.

 There was no one around to help me shift it so I started the arduous task alone, before Rob returned home six hours later after a day's work to carry the rest. 

20 bags and I'm ready to collapse.

We are now fully stocked on wood and coal, and I am sure there will be more storm-felled wood again this year that we will hoard ready for next winter.

We are still out regularly harvesting late summer and early autumn fruits. The sloes have peaked early, not waiting for frost's first touch to make their juices sweet, but turning on the branch instead. Our first pear harvest is in too, collected from a little tree beside the lake. I have been busy the last few days squirreling away rosehips for liqueur and tea.

I will be using the old faithful liqueur recipe from Foraging London that always has wonderful results. I have never dried hips for tea before, so this will be a new adventure for me. 

As I write this Rob's hedgerow port is bubbling away in a barrel beside the stove. He has gathered demijohns from friends ready for the next stage in its brewing. We still need to gather mugwort for our Samhain brew, and need to catch it before the flowers fade. 

 

This year we have grown our own beans and tomatoes in little pots behind the marina office. I went to collect my first harvest a week ago only to discover that someone else had taken what was ripe. I do not mind sharing what we grow, but first pickings mean a lot to us; the reward for our hard labours. I do not know who took them, but I hope the vegetables brought cheer to their table, and that they tasted good. Enough people bring me tokens of their bakes and garden delights that I do not begrudge the disappearance of a few of my own crops. We will have enough beans to see us through the winter.

And so slowly, it seems, autumn is creeping upon us, but she is not in full mantle. Trees are still dressed in green, and there is, as yet, no signs of the gabble ratchets or the gulls that follow the Thames north in pursuit of colder climes. I do not know what gulls they are, they fly too high for me to distinguish any features, but their appearance in the low light of evening makes us pause whatever we are doing to watch them cross the sky. It is then, as we wish them well on their journey, that we know that autumn is truly upon us. 

2015 Totally Thames Source to Sea River Relay

On Tuesday we trundled up to Sandford-on-Thames ready for our part in the Totally Thames Source to Sea River Relay the following day. The stretch between Abingdon and Sandford was peaceful. Lolly clearly enjoyed the boat ride and was pleased to be on another adventure.

And where do you think you're taking me?

I think we should go back that way.

Sandford was pretty busy. We were hoping to moor below the lock but our favourite spot was taken, so through the lock we went with Rob expertly maneuvering past a couple in a tiny canoe who went in before us (that would be my fault with the 'No, after you...' to their looks of horror).

This is actually Abingdon Lock but I'm going to pass it off as Sandford whilst no one is looking.

We saw Pat as we emerged from the lock. He waved at us from the beer garden of the King's Arms. I waved enthusiastically in response and hollered a greeting, and we continued on our way. I discovered later that he was trying to wave us down because he'd saved us a mooring. Oops! We did managed to snag the last available meadow-side space (opposite some very lovely houses) so all was not lost.

Our mere presence clearly adding value to the property opposite. 

Once here we settled in for the night under a very lovely, if stormy, looking sunset. It held promise of the weather to come.

Do you think it's going to rain?

Nah, we'll be all right.

As the evening wore on Lolly and I played a little game called Spot the Cat in the Dark.

Aha, I have a torch!

The following morning dawned bright and sunny and full of hope for a day of good weather. I decked the boat out in a mixture of bought and homemade bunting.

Remember my lovely new paintwork? The bunting has marked it. :(

Pffft, the bunting you made is rubbish! I'm a cat, I know these things.

And we waited for our turn in the relay. Just after lunch this came and the bottle of Thames water arrived on Admiral VII and we had a little hand over.

There were drinks aboard too. Beautiful boat, and lovely crew. :)

And then a second, more official, handover at Sandford Lock.

After saying our farewells it was back to our boat to get started on our journey to Abingdon.

Not before another photograph was taken. That's my dad in the background.

We were accompanied downstream by Mark who had taken part in the relay the day before us in his beautiful boat.

Steering by foot and making it look easy. I'd fall overboard. *jealous* :)

And whilst we were busy crewing Lolly looked after our precious cargo of Thames source water.

Can I eat it? Are you sure? You're no fun...

It was about this time that the rain started. And it rained, and rained, and rained. Some of us may have retreated inside (there's a downside to being at the tiller) and by the time we reached Abingdon Rob was completely soaked.
At Abingdon Lock we were met by other Morris men from Abingdon Traditional Morris Dancers and they put on a good show for passing boats despite the weather. There was even an Abingdon flag bearer.

That's my mum, that is.

After all the dancing the bottle of source water was officially handed over to ex-Morris dancer Frank who was manning Abingdon Lock. The next part of its journey will be in the hands of a different river user.

This marked the end of our leg of the relay and so we made our way back home to Abingdon Marina. We were soggy, we were tired, but we were happy after such a fun day.

Abingdon looking pretty even in the rain.

Still pretty.

Yep, still pretty.

Of stars and meteors

I watched the last glow of the evening fall into the west before I clambered up onto the roof of the boat. The cool steel was a shock to my warm fingers and I lay, bundled in blankets and darkness, as the sky stood gaping above me.

There was little cloud last night and the moon was so slim a slither that the stars stood bright and endless overhead. The air was still and the river quiet, and I wondered what I would miss if I lived in a house. How could I bear the confines of bricks and a roof I could not climb to lie upon, and how would I cope with not seeing the vast expanse of universe above me for the orange glow of street lamps? I feel connected here, upon our boat, floating on the Thames. I feel like I am part of it. I sense the thin, wispy strand of web that holds me in my landscape. And last night I felt that thread twitch as I watched and marveled at satellites pass and the Perseids fall.

I wish I had a camera that could capture the beauty of stars so numerous and vivid that I struggled to map out constellations. I wish I could render into words the elegance of the world at that particular time to share here, now. But I have not and I cannot, for I lack the skill. The Perseids are due to peak over the next few days; if you can, go out into the darkness and see for yourself the utter splendour they present.

Where to look for the Perseids (clicky, click; linky, link)

The berry run.

Once the calidity of the day had passed we followed the badger trails and failing sun along the river until we met the abandoned canal.

It once held the promise of connections south, but now it tells the tale, in sandy-silted whispers, of grand schemes lost and boats that never came.

Here, among the honeyed grasses, ghostly thistledown and dandelion globes, is the bramble larder we came to raid.

The blackberries were already fat and full, made sweet by summer sun. We filled our pot to the brim and gorged ourselves on the fruit, our fingers juice tainted and torn by thorns. Our willing sacrifice for such pleasure. Once sated we turned tail in the dying light and chased the night shadows home.

An Unexpected Guest

Our dinner was disturbed last night by a clatter from the back deck. Lolly was the first to investigate the source of the commotion.

This juvenile cormorant seems not to to have acquired a shyness for humans (or cats) yet. He sat, quite peacefully, on the solar panel rack that I left balancing precariously across the back deck when we painted the roof. Lolly wasn't quite so sure of our visitor. After poking her head out of the door she decided her best course of action was to sneak away and abandon ship.

The cormorant watched her slink by before closing his eyes for a quick snooze. He eventually moved away after dark to sit on the tiller of our neighbour's boat, and Lolly finally felt it safe to return.

Source to sea relay. The Morris leg.

This year we took part in the Totally Thames Source to Sea Relay. I bedecked our boat in bunting (not nearly enough as we needed as I'm numerically dyslexic and didn't order a sufficient amount) and we took the cat on an adventure to Oxford.

We moored below Sandford Lock overnight and waited for our turn in the event the following day, day 5 of the relay. Our mission was to safely carry the water, bottled at the source of the Thames in Gloucester, from Sandford Lock to Abingdon Lock as it journeyed down the course of the Thames. Rob, and friend Mark, were set to do this in their capacity as morris men. Rob in the colours of Mr Hemming's morris dancers and Mark in the colours of Abingdon Traditional Morris Dancers, thus representing both of Abingdon's morris sides.

Relay handover to Rob.

The bottle of Thames water in the care of mini Rob knitted by Heather.

Before our journey downstream commenced, Rob and Mark put on a little morris performance on the boat roof in honour of the tiny bottle of water.

 I found Lolly hiding under the bed. I assume she thought the boat was under attack by swift-footed hanky wavers. Dancing done, we set off for Abingdon Lock

Where the assistant lock keepers reminisced about their days in the local morris sides, and we handed our precious cargo (the water, not Lolly) over into the safe keeping of the lock keeper for it to continue its journey downstream the following day.

We were all given a rosette to commemorate our part in the relay. Even Lolly has one.