I have never been one for camping, or barbecues, for that matter. I like my home comforts, and cannot see the fun in struggling to light, and keep alight, an outside facility when there are perfectly good ovens and grills in the kitchen. In August 2012 Louisa and Errol and their daughters were flooded out of their tents, but they think that is all part of the fun.
The last time I went camping was by accident. I have not yet mentioned the ten nights involved in the Henley – Newark trip. Sam’s friend James began accompanying him on the boat. The vessel in which Sam was to spend 59 days alone rowing across the Atlantic Ocean was purpose-built. There was therefore a small cabin on board. Designed for one, it was going to have to accommodate both Sam and James. As I have already stated, I like my comfort, so the plan was that wherever we stopped at night, we would find me bed and breakfast accommodation. That worked pretty well. Most of the time. The two occasions on which it didn’t would have to be consecutive, wouldn’t they?
Fortunately the nights were warm. Fortunately James had brought a small tent which he was generously prepared to lend me. Unfortunately there was no mattress, no ground-sheet, and no sleeping bag. Because we hadn’t considered the possibility that we might decide to stop in the middle of nowhere. On the first occasion, we managed to find me some sort of camp-site with tents, but no bedding of any sort, and latrines which I was quite unprepared to use. I slept on the hard ground. Yes, I did actually sleep. When you’ve walked as much as I had, you’ll sleep anywhere. I thought. Until the next night. This time I used James’s tent. These outdoor nights were spent in my day clothes. The place where we had pitched the tent seemed to be incredibly stony. One particularly sharp stone dug into my left thigh all night. I was just too tired to attempt to move, and desperately trying to get some shut-eye. I’ve no doubt I did sleep a bit, as is always the case when you think you haven’t slept at all. When, early in the morning, I finally decided I’d had enough, I looked for the offending stone. I couldn’t find it. Then it dawned on me. I fished in my left trouser pocket, and pulled out my bunch of keys.
Here are further images of the journey through England’s midland waterways taken by me walking alongside Sam and James in Pacific Pete in July 2003.
This stone stork beside the Cherwell section of the Oxford Canal seemed amused by the attempts of their mother to draw her offspring away from him.
Small bridges, narrow locks and a few narrowboats on this section required careful negotiation by the rower. Navigator James looked quite thoughtful in the third picture.
The River Soar for part of the Oxford Union Canal stretch. The towpaths here were better tended than some, which was fortunate for James when he took a turn at towing. Willowherb thrived in the brickwork of this bridge.
Dragonflies mated; waterlilies bloomed; and a stone wall provided a backdrop for wild flowers.
An art group concentrated hard on a lock as we approached Leicester.
Nearing the city of my birth, we passed a derelict graffiti-bedaubed factory,
Here the row continues along the River Thames in South Oxfordshire
This was still near enough to normal civilisation for elderly couples to be out walking along the banks.
If there were any footpaths on this stretch, they lay beneath the ripeness of, summer requiring negotiation, in the form of wild flowers attracting bees; grasses in seed; plantains tripping over; broad backlit leaves bearing shadows of other floral forms; and convovulous carrying tiny beetles.
One of the latter plants trailed over the river, reflecting on the murky water.
An avian trio perched on the coping stones of a derelict shed in need of replacement tiles;
a peacock and hen entered into head to head negotiations;
a mallard paddled along ahead of her imprinted offspring;
and a pair of swans introduced their cygnets to further reaches of the Thames.
A flock of sheep grazed alongside what I took to be farm buildings of some sort.
The sun-baked natural world disregarded the two young men taking a leisurely row along the sleepy waters, passing a dangerous-looking weir, and negotiating a narrow lock.
I may have become slightly out of sequence in this next stage of the long walk, but who cares? I never had much idea of where I was, anyway.
The first few were images from the early stages of the row, as Sam, with James’s guidance, left Henley and enjoyed the width of the River Thames, as he approached Sandford Lock.
Once through, James took the oars,
and we soon passed a young lady in a punt considering modelling for Ophelia.
Cattle and horses, with their foal, drank from the river,
while a red-legged partridge took her chicks for an airing. Can you spot two in the second picture?
Fast forward to Napton where, with far less oar-space, the lads were making their way through the moored narrowboats.
It was quite likely The King’s Head where we enjoyed a meal and a drink with friends we had found. I was not to know it at the time, but, Don in the front of the image, had given Sam a bottle of rum with instructions not to open it until he had won the Atlantic race. Fortunately he was victorious, and, as a thank you for my support, was to start on it with me.
Just beyond that location is the 250 metres long Newbold Tunnel. As we didn’t have a horse, a couple with a narrowboat offered to tow Pacific Pete through it. Here are the preparations taking place.
This underside of a bridge may or may not be part of the tunnel, but it would be similar.
Goodness knows how I reached the other side, but the standard of towpath was all downhill from here. However, I did, and was able to photograph grasses, convolvulus, and burdock clogging up the potholed paths.
On the next leg of the Henley to Newark trip of July 2003
grasses and wild flowers still covered the footpaths, and I was treated to what I believe was my first sight of a damselfly.
Sheep and fields of grass occupied the landscape on the opposite bank of the Oxford Canal,
which seemed an unlikely resting place for an iconic red telephone box.
I caught up with Pacific Pete at the Braunston Turn Bridges. theoxfordcanal.co.uk website informs me that this section of the waterway, which shares its route with the Grand Union Canal Main Line as far as Napton Junction, is ‘one of the few places on the entire stretch of the Oxford Canal where there is narrow boat access to another river or canal. It is worth noting from the point of view of use by cyclists and walkers that the towpath really deteriorates very soon after Braunston Turn Bridges. In fact this section of the canal has hardly any towpath in some places and is a real mess suffering from collapse, potholes, mud, nettles and brambles. It can be all but impassable in places if there has been any sort of recent wet weather.’
Founded by Aaron Manby,[1] it is most famous for constructing the first iron steamer, The Aaron Manby, in 1821.[2][3] The boat was assembled at Rotherhithe. She was only the first of a number of steamboats built on the “knock-down” principle. The ironworks have also been responsible for the manufacture of numerous canal and railway bridges of the 19th century.
The ironworks were built near the Toll End Communication Canal[4] on the Horseley estate, which had been sold by their owner at the turn of the 19th century[5] due to demand from engineers wishing to profit on the construction of the BCN Main Line through the estate. The date when the ironworks were constructed is unknown but is believed to have been by 1815.[5] Industry in the area prospered and the location retained the name of the Horseley estate as shown in an 1822 survey of the area.[6]
With the increasing popularity of canals, the ironworks quickly became popular for manufacturing canal bridges, mainly in the local vicinity.[7]Canal bridges made by the ironworks include the Engine Arm Aqueduct(1825), two roving bridges at Smethwick Junction (1828),[8][9]Galton Bridge(1829), and Braunston Towpath Bridges (1830).[10][11] By the end of the canal construction era, Horseley Ironworks had emerged as one of the most prolific manufacturers of canal bridges in the West Midlands region,[5]especially in Birmingham.[12] This was a result of their signature bridge design which had become popular amongst canal constructors. The design has been replicated more recently, for example in Birmingham during the regeneration of Gas Street Basin where Worcester Bar is linked to Gas Street.[13]
Horseley Ironworks were also responsible for manufacturing in the railwayindustry. Railway bridges constructed included that of the viaduct for the London and Birmingham to Holyhead railway at Shifnal, Shropshire which was cast in 1848.[14] As well as manufacturing bridges, they also produced locomotives.[15]
The company also manufactued construction steelwork for the pier of Ryde, the Palace Theatre in London, Rugby railway station, a seaplane hangar in Las Palmas and the Dome of Discovery at the 1951 Festival of Britain.[16]
The firm moved in 1865 to a site on the now defunct Dixon’s Branch, off the BCN New Main Line (Island Line), near the South Staffordshire Railway line. The factory survived under a succession of owners until 1991, when it was closed down and subsequently redeveloped as a housing estate.[4]‘
I managed to keep up with Sam and James in the boat whilst, having passed under the elegant bridge from the time of Queen Victoria’s predecessor, King William IV, they negotiated their way through a narrowboat-congested area to the next flight of locks. As can be seen, there was barely room for the lengthy ocean-going oars.
Eventually the rower was once more under way.
After this, I had to find my way up and down various hilly areas, where I was surprised in the darkness by the only badger I have ever seen alive. I was amazed at how fast it could run. It was fortunate that the creature took off in the opposite direction, because running anywhere, by that time, was quite beyond me.
Staircase locks are used where a canal needs to climb a steep hill, and consist of a group of locks where each lock opens directly into the next, that is, where the bottom gates of one lock form the top gates of the next. Foxton Locks are the largest flight of such staircase locks on the English canal system.
The Grade II* listed locks are a popular tourist attraction and the county council has created a country park at the top. At the bottom, where the junction with the arm to Market Harborough is located, there are two public houses, a shop, trip boat and other facilities.’
On the day Sam guided Pacific Pete down this staircase, family visitors were out in force. For once I was ahead of my son, and reached the locks in time to learn that the canal-side telegraph was buzzing with the news that a large rowing boat was on its way through.
The audience gathered to watch Sam use his giant oar to steer and propel the boat through the locks where there was no room to row.
Did you notice the Asian man gesturing to his family in the third picture, and shepherding them over the bridge in the last, in order to lead them down the slope to see the rower on his way?
There had been no shortage of helpers to push the long balance beams operating the gates.
There were plenty of narrow boats on the waters, but no other ocean-going rowing boats.
Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom McGuinness and I went up to Wimbledon College together and gradually drifted apart because our adolescent interests were so different.
We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as once when, still in primary school we got lost on Wimbledon Common. We couldn’t find our way home, and I did not return until 9 p.m., by which time my parents had involved the police in a search. Had we had a dog then my dinner would have been in it. I was sent straight to bed without a meal, but fortunately Mum relented and brought me a delicious tray of home-cooked food. Somehow that beats breakfast in bed.
We swam in the public swimming baths in Latimer Road. In many ways we were inseparable.
On my 69th birthday 1n 2011 a small party gathered for a meal at the home of Andy and Keith at Saint Aubin de Cadaleche, not far from Sigoules. We had a spontaneous U tube game. Each, in turn would choose a song or piece of music. Keith would then bring it up on U tube and we would all listen or sing along. One of my selections was a Manfred Mann number. Up it came, and there he was, Tom in all his ’60s black and white glory, complete with Hank Marvin specs. This reminded me of my discovery that my old friend, so soon after leaving school, had become a pop star. Turning on the television one day in 1964, that very same number was playing. Tom was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band or The Manfreds can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.
It was thirty years before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was then playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. Several decades on, they are still going strong. On stage Paul and Tom continue to defy their years. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom said: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.
A talented guitarist, lyricist, and composer, Tom is also the author of a book, still regarded as essential reading for would-be popular musicians, entitled: ‘So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star’, a copy of which he gave me.
Elizabeth gave me another for Christmas 2021.
On 26th March 2022 Tom and I were to meet again when he performed with The Manfreds at Christchurch’s Regent Theatre.
In March 2004 my son Sam completed a solo row of the Atlantic, covering 3,000 miles in 59 days. In doing so, at the age of 23, he became the youngest person ever to have rowed any ocean and won the solo race. The previous summer he had taken delivery of his specially crafted boat at Henley and, with his friend James on board, rowed it to Newark along the linked canals and rivers. I had walked alongside collecting sponsorship. This was an 11 day trek over a distance of 215 miles.
En route Mum telephoned me. As often when someone rings a mobile phone her first question was: ‘where are you?’. Now, Mum didn’t realise what we were doing, so she was somewhat surprised when I replied: ‘well Mum, I’m in the middle of a field of head high thistles and stinging nettles – and I’ve got a dustbin on my back’. I then went on to explain that what I had thought was a simple matter of a stroll along towpaths involved some pretty scary diversions, one of which I was in; and the dustbin was meant to collect donations from all the people we would encounter en route. Unsurprisingly there were no donors in this field. I had got myself into this predicament as it had seemed a better option than a field with a bull in it. Upon encountering the bull I had crawled under a barbed wire fence, chucking the dustbin over first, and come to this. I then had to waste more precious minutes ferreting around for those few coins that had been in the dustbin. As I couldn’t see above the undergrowth to gather how far it stretched there seemed nothing else but to press on. Going back would have meant more of the same. Of course, I hadn’t got a clue where I was when I eventually emerged, so I knocked at the nearest house for directions. The woman who answered the door took one look at me, dashed inside, and bolted the door. When I reflected that, quite apart from wearing nothing but sandals and a pair of shorts, and being covered in bleeding scratches, I was sporting a dustbin, I began to see her point.
Just to add insult to injury, t-shirt-and-shorts-clad Louisa and her friends, in a couple of hours outside Nottingham’s waterfront pubs, collected far more money than I had managed on my magnificent effort.
Sam took delivery of the specially designed rowing boat at Henley on Thames, and off we set on a fine Summer’s afternoon around the time of my 61st birthday. He and his friend James took the boat, whilst I walked along what I had hoped would be the footpath. I soon discovered that the banks of the River Thames and the Oxford Union canal were not as smooth and foliage free as that branch of London’s Regent’s Canal alongside which I had trained for the event.
The stretch along which I followed this couple was plain sailing in comparison with what I had to battle through when talking to Mum.
Elderly lock gates, green tresses dripping with possibly unsavoury water, were to be a regular feature of the journey. This was quite useful, as it gave me an opportunity to catch up.
Waterfowl were plentiful;
a woolly goat, or perhaps a sheep, suckled its young;
Some time in the 1990s a neighbour of mine reported having seen a squirrel, probably one of a number, entering our loft. He offered to provide me with a trap. The following morning, against the trunk of one of our trees, I found a large metal cage with a strong latticed grill beside a bucket of water, a hammer, and a pair of strong leather gauntlets. Inside the cage a frantic creature with a bloodied nose repeatedly threw itself at the sides of the container.
No way could I carry out the obviously intended process. I rapidly unlocked the door of the cage, backed away, and watched the animal disappear into the shrubbery. My neighbour was most disappointed when I explained my inability to commit murder.
Some years later, when Louisa and I were still living in Lindum House, and I was down in London working for a couple of days, she telephoned me to say there was something wrong with the shower water. It had a disgusting smell. I said I would sort it out when I got home. Thinking that my daughter (although that was never her wont) may have been being a bit fussy, I climbed into the shower cubicle to sample it…… No way was I going to shower in that! I instantly recognised the most unsavoury stench as that of a dead rodent. Before Louisa had existed we’d discovered a dead rat in our Soho flat and that smell, once experienced, is never forgotten.
I ventured into the loft and, sure enough, floating in the albeit securely covered water tank, were the putrid remains of an adventurous squirrel. How it got in there is a mystery. Removal of the corpse was an extremely delicate task. Imagine trying to scoop up a furry jelly which hasn’t properly set.
Having drained the tank several times the water was still nauseous. Knowing that Matthew would be able to advise on the problem I telephoned him. He suggested a trip to the local swimming baths – not for a shower, but for a solution. I just had time to get there before they closed, and a very kind young man, at some risk, he assured me, to his job, provided me with a bag of stuff. This was to be applied to the water and subsequently drained off. I needed to do this three times before either of us dared contemplate a shower. I hope the young man has risen up the ranks.
In 2008 I was living in a rented three story house in Bayswater’s Leinster Mews when such a malodorous hum next beset my nostrils. This was thought to be the scent of a rodent which had met its demise in one of the walls. The estate agent organised fumigation, but the stink lingered, and I was forced to see my clients on the flat roof at the top of the building.
They say that if you live in London you are never more than a metre from a rat.
On the misty morning of 26th September 1992 I produced a set of photographs of a ploughing contest in Southwell in Nottinghamshire. I could not find the negatives, so I scanned the prints. These images were in such good condition that I had no adjustments to make.
Most of the contestants were very skilfully handling horse-drawn ploughs. The powerful animals were splendidly tacked.
Those tractors that were in operation were not as well-equipped as those of today.
The Abbey Life cart became stuck in the mud. Watching the efforts to free it, I thought it unfortunate that all the heavy horses were otherwise engaged.
Jessica, Michael, and Heidi could be seen in the sparse distant crowd, and nearer at hand.
