Apologies for leaving my readers stranded by Victoria Park just above Mile End Lock 9 for so long…

I woke feeling both anxious and excited, and for the first time I was eager to set off before the crew were ready; they took a leisurely morning walk while I paced and fretted. Though we had only just over a mile to go, there were three locks to negotiate in quick succession before we reached the end of the Regent’s Canal at Limehouse Basin. We had been warned to be there on time to catch low tide; if we missed it we would have to wait until the next morning to rejoin the river.

I needn’t have worried – even with a delay while we lost steering just after the second lock and had to stop to open the weed hatch and remove half a dozen or more plastic bags wrapped around the propeller, we still arrived an hour or so before low tide, moored temporarily in the marina, and reported to the Limehouse lock keepers.

They casually asked if we were carrying a radio (though they didn’t ask to see it) and disappointed me further by taking no interest in whether I had a license to operate it. I comforted myself by being quite sure that if I hadn’t bothered getting the required certificate, they would have surely demanded to inspect all my paperwork.

It was then almost low tide, but the lock keepers explained we still had several more hours to wait: the water in the lock would need to rise again before any boat, even mine with only a 22 inch draft, could get over the cill.

You’ll go out a little before 4, they said. Watch for the light to turn green just before the lock doors open.

I took a short walk to examine the lock from above, but I spent most of the intervening time studying the navigational notes provided by the London Port Authority, with instructions for negotiating each bridge. There were 29 bridges to pass under before Pangolin would be back on the non tidal river.

I tried to memorize the most important instructions: we would enter the river on a blind bend and I should beware of boats suddenly coming upon us from behind; a flashing white light at Tower Bridge would mean “large vessels in the vicinity” and then I mustn’t go under the central arch. I must steer clear of sloping sides in the arches of Westminster Bridge, and at the Houses of Parliament I should keep to the centre of the river to be outside the exclusion zone on the right, while at Vauxhall Bridge I must on no account stray to the left, near the MI6 (spy) headquarters. Islands should be passed on the left and I must sound my horn again at Kew Bridge. Sixteen pages of instructions.

I studied especially the key to “Signs Displayed at Bridges” and “Sound Signals Specified in Collision Regulations”. Five short blasts on the horn seemed useful to master: “I DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR INTENTIONS. Keep clear! I doubt whether you are taking sufficient action to avoid a collision.” That would tell them.

At quarter to four, the light turned green, the wide lock doors opened and we followed one other narrowboat in. Just then, the wind began to gust and rain threatened. The crew and I quickly threw on rain jackets under life jackets as we held our ropes and waited for the lock to empty.

I let the other boat leave the lock first, and then, sounding one long blast of my horn (“I AM ABOUT TO ENTER THE FAIRWAY”), I looked left behind me and turned right onto the river. The instructions had warned me to be ready for the strong up-stream current as soon as we left the shelter of the lock cut. We were immediately rocked by waves washing over the bow, and, in another moment the wake of large ships tossed us even higher. It was immediately clear that I had wasted my time learning the horn signal for: “I AGREE TO BE OVERTAKEN.”

I was glad of Mr Crew at the stern next to me as I drove, and Mrs Crew keeping watch up front.

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Day 16 statistics: 26.74 miles and 6 locks, made up of 1.13 miles of broad canals, 4 broad locks, 21.11 miles of tidal rivers, 4.5 miles of large rivers and 1 large lock.

(The two photos marked * were taken from the bank.  A couple of days after we made our trip up the tidal Thames we met in Cookham Lock the crew of narrowboat Cassy, who had been doing some sightseeing in London the previous weekend.  If you were the boat going under Tower Bridge last Saturday, they said, we’ve got some pictures for you.)

I spent the next four days in Oxford, sleeping in my ex-husband’s guest room.   He and I passed long mornings at Starbucks, sitting at an outside table and watching the north Oxford world of aging dons, pregnant women and precocious children go by.  We fretted over cappuccino about our Baby, until she breezed in – all clipped vowels, expensive scent, distracting cleavage and perfect poise – to convince us, almost, that everything was just fine.  

The following Friday it still seemed fine enough for me to take the train back to London where the crew had meanwhile been busy tourists, but they were eager to move on.

Pangolin chugged off late morning.  Turning right out of Paddington Basin, the crew and I left the Grand Union Canal (Paddington Arm) and joined the Regent’s Canal, the link built early 19th century through London to Limehouse and the Thames beyond.

We quickly left Little Venice and almost immediately came to our first tunnel.  According to my guide book, it is 272 yards long, and there is room for only a single boat.  Earlier I had puzzled aloud about how a one way tunnel on the canal might work.

Mr Crew was dismissive of my concern.  There will be traffic lights, of course.

Mr Crew does not know the Brits, or the canals.  I never thought for a moment that there would be a traffic light.

As we got near I shouted to the boat I had seen coming out of the tunnel to ask whether there was anyone following him. 

He shook his head, gesturing above the din of our engines, so I opened the throttle and Pangolin sped ahead, entering the tunnel fast, while I sounded the horn.  I reasoned that my best tactic would be to get through before anyone else had the same idea in the opposite direction.  I switched on the single headlight, but the boat is 62 feet long, and it didn’t shed much light for me, driving from the rear, though I hoped it would, like the horn, warn any other boat of my approach.  The tunnel was very narrow indeed – at one point I almost scraped the side – and terribly dark.  A few minutes later, though it seemed longer to me, when we emerged into sunlight I realised I had forgotten to swap my dark glasses for clear ones.

Soon after the tunnel we passed behind many elegant houses and the Zoological Gardens, then on into shabby chic Kentish Town and Camden.   I’d promised the crew lunch at Camden Market, famous for its food and knock-off designer fashion.  At the lock young people strolled by and offered help with gates, paddles and ropes, all the while grasping plates smelling of Jamaican, Indian, or Indonesian delicacies.  Alas, we found nowhere to moor, and we moved on further and further down the canal, until we all agreed that the market was too far away to walk back.

I am not sure how disappointed the crew were, because Mrs Crew is very good at making the best of things.  Mr Crew cheerfully ate his favourite ham, peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I grumpily polished off a tin of tomatoes, dreaming of sag aloo.

At St Pancras lock I pointed out the splendid Victorian railway station where, in just over a week, the crew would catch the Eurostar train through the Channel Tunnel to Paris.  At King’s Cross I gave up the helm and Mr Crew took us through Islington Tunnel (this one two way, though, again, we didn’t meet another boat) and into our moorings by Victoria Park.

We all went to bed excited.  The next day was the planned climax of the trip, when we would rejoin the Thames and follow the tide upriver, through central London.