Merry Belated Christmas. I got you a blog.

Hey remember me? I know, I know. Even taking into account the work factor, it’s been a longer break than usual (or possibly ever). Reminder: I was in Abu Dhabi working on the UAE's National Day show, which I’ve done twice before, in 2018 and 2015. (Shortest job re-cap ever: It was fine.) Then I was in London for a grand total of six days - just long enough to bail out the boat (not kidding), swap shorts and t-shirts for scarves and gloves in my suitcase, and do a quick blitz of Christmas shopping. Then six days in Winnipeg visiting. And now Saskatoon for Christmas. There. All caught up.

I did think I’d manage to get at least one other Abu Dhabi blog post up before work go to be too much. I even sought out a touristy destination and took lots of pictures and notes and then promptly did no further blogging of any sort. I blame the fact that we were on a six day work week, which meant that the seventh day was mostly consumed with life admin like buying groceries and doing laundry and general self care (mostly napping and eating pop-tarts for lunch while sitting mesmerised by endless YouTube videos of van life and tiny houses.) Life, you know? It’s what happens in between blogs.

Qasr Al Watan. Also known as the Presidential Palace. It was pretty. I didn’t blog about it.

I do love this work, and I'm amazed that people continue to pay me to live in interesting places and work on the largest shows on the planet. But the lifestyle comes with sacrifices and one of those is that it can be hard to maintain something like a normality when you live in a hotel, get up in the morning, and sit at the hotel breakfast buffet with your work colleagues. Then get on the shuttle bus with your work colleagues. Then you spend your twelve hour work day with your work colleagues. Then get back on the shuttle bus with the same people to go “home”. And then maybe go for a drink in the hotel bar with… everyone from work. Then rinse and repeat the next day for four months. The people that do these shows are lovely, brilliant, and amazing and I’m lucky to call them not just colleagues but friends. But honestly, I do not need to be with them 16 hours a day. Love ya, but please go away.

One of the things I do to mitigate this is to eat breakfast in my room, which makes life feel a lot more normal. And because I was in town for twice as long as I have been before, I connected with the Abu Dhabi branch of the Hash House Harriers, who have always been my go-to solution for helping get out of the work bubble. As ever, the Abu Dhabi Hash was full of friendly, crazy, like-minded people who welcomed me to the club and gave me a social group outside of work, which can be more precious than all the pop-tarts in the world.

My first run with the Abu Dhabi Hash was only a few days after I arrived, in mid-August. It will not surprise Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers to learn that August in Abu Dhabi is, and I’m going to be indelicate here, fucking hot. I was not surprised by this. What did surprise me was the humidity. It’s supposed to be the desert right? How can it be so humid? I remember arriving at the airport late in the evening and walking out of the overly air-conditioned terminal straight into a wall of damp heat, and being consumed with hysterical laughter. I think my driver was a bit alarmed but I couldn’t help it. It was just so ridiculous think that people were expected to exist in those conditions. Indonesia, yeah. Indonesia should be humid. It’s basically a jungle. But Abu Dhabi? Whaaaaat?

Still, on the first Monday I was in Abu Dhabi I dutifully hopped in a taxi and made my way to the start point of that week’s run, the middle of a giant, baking parking lot near the Presidential Palace. And it wasn’t long before a few brave souls arrived to make up a pack of… five. I guess even hashers have their limits. Most of them were either on vacation or not crazy enough to want to be out running in those temperatures.

Because these are not running conditions. These are conditions for making beef jerky.

Regardless, I managed to stagger around the 5k loop in a sprightly 40 minutes. Many many many walk breaks are required when “running” in those temperatures. And I was relieved that after the run we all made our way to a boat and had a lovely evening zipping around the water in the dark before mooring just off a sandy beach where we ate shawarmas and drank beer. Proper hashing!

I even managed to set my own running trail for the group while I was in town, before work got to be too much. This was nice, because setting a trail every once in a while is part of the deal, so I was glad to do it. However this did require me to go scout out the route several times in advance, meaning I was running outside even more than the once-weekly hash run. This proved challenging. I ran the trail at least three times in advance of the actual run date, just to make sure I had things figured out. And this was in mid-September when temperatures were still hovering somewhere between surface-of-the-sun and blast-furnace.

In those temperatures, any breeze might feel good. I say “might". It might also feel like you were running across a giant griddle while an enormous monster with bad breath exhaled fulsomely in your face. You might, while you were running, silently pray for the wind to stop, just for a bit. Then you might run into the lea of a large building where you were sheltered from the wind and you might then suddenly feel the full dead weight of the heat press into you and quickly decide that any breeze is better than no breeze and hasten to the next open stretch.

Yep. Running in the summer in Abu Dhabi is hard work.

However, running in the desert in November sounded like it might be a blast. By November the weather is noticeably more tolerable. It’s still hot during the day, but by evening it cools enough that it’s genuinely pleasant (as opposed to simply less awful). Sometimes you even want long sleeves. Which is why I organised my work calendar and warned my colleagues they’d have to cover for me one Saturday in early November so that I could go for the Abu Dhabi Hash House Harriers annual Rehydration Run.

Re-hy (rhyming with knee-high) sounded like a perfect day. Drive out to the desert, pitch a tent, run a trail full of themed drink stops, get back to camp in time for sunset, sit around a big campfire until all hours hanging out, drinking beer and having fun, pack up the next day and go back to work. Perfect. And because it’s the Hash, it took about three minutes before someone responded to my group WhatsApp request to borrow some camping gear, which was then delivered to me at work, and included a tent, sleeping bag and camp chair.

Setting up the tent in my living room, as a test. 

Getting to the campsite involved hitching a ride with another friendly hasher and then meeting up with a convoy of others at a gas station on the last stretch of paved road before the site. The convoy was a necessary precaution. I later learned that you basically don’t drive out into the desert by yourself because the odds of your vehicle getting stuck in the sand are so high you kind of always need a buddy to pull you out. It would be like leaving on a Christmas road trip on the prairies without jumper cables and a shovel.

Our car made it out the to the site, though several others got stuck, and the has rescue team spent a lot of time pulling cars out of the sand before we finally got around to starting the run. This left the rest of us free to set up camp, get the beer on ice, and take photos.

Of the campsite

On the haunted camel graveyard.

And here’s something that is obvious in retrospect: tent pegs do not work in the desert. Instead, tents are secured by tying them to heavy weights like plastic bags filled with the one thing you’re never going to run out of… sand. 

The other thing that is obvious in retrospect: everything you bring and every surface of your body will be completely coated in sand after approximately 4 minutes in the desert. Nothing is spared.

When we finally did get out on the trail, I contented myself with walking most (all) of the way. And how do you stop the sand getting in your shoes on a trek like that? Easy. Leave your shoes in the tent.

On the advice of those far more experienced, I walked 5k through the desert in my socks. And they were right, it was comfy and fine. Anyone who did wear shoes ended up having to stop frequently to pour out the sand anyway, and many ended the run in sock feet with their shoes hanging around their necks.

The run itself was longer than expected, and involved scaling a few wickedly high sand dunes. Happily, it was also punctuated with five different drink stops, each designed after a different TV show, which was the year’s theme.

Our first stop was ER, where we had appropriately anaesthetic libations.

Then it was on to Vikings, where we first had to negotiate with the advance raiding party.

Then on to a couple other stops, including “America’s Got Talent” (featuring a battery powered karaoke machine!) Before we got to the last stop, a golden oldie:

M*A*S*H! Complete with an IV bag of red wine.

Along the way there were ridiculously picturesque vistas

And the beginnings of a nice sunset

Once we got back to camp there was beer and food and a large bonfire. And of course there was a guy with a guitar so there was also a lot of singing including at least one loud rendition of “American Pie” and an excellent solo “Ring of Fire” by guitar guy putting on a heavy Irish accent, which gave that old standard an excellent fresh new sound. I stayed up late, sang songs, hung out, and finally made it to bed in the wee hours, very tired and completely coated in a thin layer of sand and sweat.

The next morning people roused themselves slowly and packed up. I had to be at work later that same day so when I got back to the hotel I had a bite of breakfast and one of the top three showers of my life and left the unpacking for that evening, so that I could attempt to prevent the sand from coating every surface in the room. This was marginally successful, though the hotel plumbing system must have had a bit of a shock when I finally shook everything out in the shower stall and rid my luggage of a few cups of desert sand.

So yes, I’m back. I’ll try to be a bit more regular with the blogging, though no promises about frequency (as usual). It might just be possible that after blogging more or less continuously for eleven years I’m getting just slightly burnt out. ELEVEN. YEARS. 480 posts. That’s probably about a million words. So maybe you should all count yourselves lucky that I’m still here at all, even if it’s four months between posts.

’Til next time.

Palm trees, pumps, and pop art

Utterly uninspired. That’s what I’ve been lately. At least when it comes to blogging. Plus I figure you got way more than your usual ration of blogs through July, what with the whole Grand Tour thing, so I haven't been stressing much about the lack of output, blog-wise. Also I’ve actually been busy, mostly because a few weeks ago I packed my bags for a return visit to Abu Dhabi for this year’s edition of the show I did last year. I’m here earlier in the process than I have been before, so this gig is occupying a funny in-between status: still only half as long as a genuinely big job like Jakarta, but twice as long as the other times I’ve been here. Not short, not long. I guess it’s a Goldilocks Gig.

It’s all fine here. We’re in a different hotel than last year which, while lacking the OTT opulence and private beach of last year, is actually within walking distance of the stadium, so, you know, swings and roundabouts. Still there’s no denying it - I miss the beach. But only an utter ingrate would complain about being put up in a very nice hotel with 3 meals a day at the buffet and a lovely young man named Mazhar who brings me fresh towels every day and will apparently not be content until I’ve got at least 50 litres of bottled water stockpiled regardless of how may pleading notes I leave asking him to stop adding to the collection.

Nice room. It’s got a kitchenette, and the toaster and washing machine and fridge all behave, unlike last year. The couch is a bit cement-like but you can’t have everything.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been here twice before, or maybe I’m just getting kind of jaded in general, but I’ve not been at all inspired to go out and do things around Abu Dhabi this time around. The one thing I've managed to do is meet up with the Abu Dhabi Hash House Harriers. And, as ever, they turn out to be friendly and welcoming even if they are possibly more insane than other Hashes, because they run outside in Abu Dhabi in August. (Though of course they are universally incredulous when I tell that that yes, of course we hash in the winter in Canada, reasoning that running in 38° heat with 85% humidity might be uncomfortable, but running in -38° plus windchill is beyond imagining.)

It may make me sound like a broken record, but any time I’ve managed to connect with a Hash group while on a gig it’s always been a Good Thing. In fact, it’s probably simplest if I just copy and paste what I said here six (!) years ago when I was on my first overseas gig in Russia, because it’s the same pattern that’s repeated itself again and again around the world, and I’m still just as grateful for it now as I was then:

"As I mentioned, I've been running with the local Moscow chapter of the international "drinking club with a running problem". I've said it before, but it bears repeating... I love the Hash. I'd been in town for exactly four days before I found myself running through a farflung park in the outskirts of Moscow with a group of like-minded, friendly, crazy people who welcomed me like I was family. It was a place I'd never have gone as a tourist, but with the Hash it was routine. Then on the following Friday I met up with them again for weekly drinks. And I've just returned from my second Sunday run, in another lovely park. And I've been invited to a casual run on Wednesday and a dinner party next week. I bet I have colleagues in the office who've been here months longer than me but have no one to socialise with who's not also working on the Ceremonies, so I am pathetically grateful to the Hash for giving me a ready-made social group of people with local knowledge, common interests and, of course, beer.”

So yes, I’ve hashed a couple times. Oh, and I went with colleagues to a ridiculously over the top all you can eat and drink brunch.

There was so much cheese they had it in a separate room. A Cheese ROOM.

And a dessert room. Not pictured is the area where you could ice your own giant cookie from a piping bag suspended over a plate. Or possibly just hold your open mouth under the piping bag while no-one was looking.

I also took a taxi to the Waitrose to visit the hidden pork room. And I… I… ummm, ok that’s pretty much all I’ve done in three weeks other than work, run on the treadmill in the hotel gym, eat too much at the buffet, watch videos, and fight with my VPN (which is really not working well and forcing me to take desperate measure in order to watch the new series of The Great British Bake Off). (And can someone explain to me why Pop Tarts are kept in the pork room? Oh, ok.)

Which is all a really long-winded way of saying there’s really not much to blog about out here so far. Instead, I’m going to tell you about a few fun things I did before I left London, back when I had the boat in the Far East of London and had nothing better to do than noodle around in Walthamstow and environs. I was a bit surprised to find Walthamstow as interesting as I did, though I was equipped with an extensive itinerary provided by Piran that included no less than nine stops, of which I managed seven. (The other two were closed on Saturday. But honestly, three of the seven were mostly just drive-bys.)

I started the day at the Pumphouse Museum, a hodge podge of a place housed in a former sewage pumping works. The Pumphouse Museum falls in to a category of museum I like to think of as “Small But Plucky”. It’s run by volunteers and sort of unfocussed, but you can’t help being equally charmed and puzzled by it. For instance, there were two garage bays filled with fire engines and assorted fire fighting paraphernalia, including an unlabelled display of six different standard household smoke detectors. And there was a crane and couple of underground train carriages up on blocks in the yard, one of which was shrouded in tarpaulins. And of course there’s the restored engine house that still holds the old sewage pump, along with a merry and assortment of other machines and Walthamstow-related bits and pieces, and a whole other room full of model trains and railroad memorabilia.

Really charming. And the old guy who explained everything was endearingly enthusiastic about sewage pumping, so I liked him.

The next stop was at the other end of the museum spectrum - The William Morris Gallery. William Morris (yes, the wallpaper guy) was born and lived in Walthamstow, and his former home, set in lovely public gardens, is now a Grade II listed building and houses 2013’s Museum of the Year. It is gorgeous and well laid out and beautifully maintained and full of thoughtful, articulate, multimedia dispays and explanations of Morris’s life and work.

This room demonstrated the methods used in tapestry making and block-printing wallpaper.

You didn’t think you’d get away with hearing about the William Morris Gallery without seeing a picture of wallpaper did you?

It was all in sharp contrast to the Pumphouse Museum. And I’ll admit that though I found the Pumphouse charming, I elected to have lunch at the café of the William Morris Gallery, overlooking the gardens, and not at the Pumphouse canteen. I did, however, leave some money in the Pumphouse donation box, because while I might doubt their ability to make a credible flat white, they do have a reciprocating steam engine and 2/3 scale prop-built replica of a London “B” Omnibus, and that’s worth supporting.

Slotting neatly between the Pumphouse Museum and the William Morris Gallery on the Go Stay Work Play Live Museum Continuum (patent pending) was my next stop, the Vestry House Museum. It’s a museum of local heritage housed in an old workhouse.

Evidence of the building’s workhouse origins, the inscription above the entrance door reads, “if any would not work neither should be eat”.

The Vestryhouse was also a bit unfocussed. There was a room about life in the workhouse (spoiler alert: not actually very nice) and I enjoyed the displays of Victorian kitchenware, and the inevitable cabinet of articles related to wartime rationing. (Maybe I’m getting over-muesumed, but I feel like I’ve seen the same display in at least seven other places.) They also had a whole room of vintage toys, most of which had been made in Walthamstow, or sold in beloved local toy stores.

If anyone is struggling with what to get me for Christmas, I’ll happily take a set of “Construments - The Hobby of Ten Thousand Thrills!” (Makes £20 worth of Magnifiers, Shadowscopes, Cameras, Kaleidoscopes, Signalling Lamps, Photo-Printers, Watch Projectors, Lamp Stands and Experimental Instruments) All for the low low price of 18 and 6.

The Vestryhouse museum was nice, but the ultimate goal of the the day was to visit a truly unique spot, tucked into a hipster alleyway that still has one or two actual industrial business not yet crowded out by the architecture studio, three craft breweries, two artisanal sausage carts and gin distillery (of course). Yes friends, the goal of the day was nothing less than God’s Own Junkyard.

From the outside you just get a tantalising hint of the wonders within.

Inside, you’ll find the largest collection of neon lighting and signs in Europe and it is utterly fantastic.

God’s Own Junkyard was founded by the late Chris Bracey, a second generation neon artist whose father moved to Walthamstow after World War II and set up shop as a neon signmaker for fairgrounds and circuses, eventually branching out into industrial signs as well. The younger Bracey started out as a graphic designer before joining the family business, and spent the first half of his neon career making signs for bars and strip clubs in Soho. When neon fell out of fashion, Chris ended up salvaging a lot of neon signs that were being removed. Those vintage rescues, many of which were Bracey’s work to begin with, form part of the collection at God’s Own Junkyard.

A collection that leaves you wondering where to look. 

Maybe at the largest mirrorball in Europe?

Then your eye starts to pick out favourites in the visual cacophony.

A lot of what you see is Bracey’s original artwork

A chance meeting with a film industry art director in the 1980s led Chris Bracey into making neon signs and props for film sets, many of which are now also part of the scene at GOJY. He also developed a clientele of celebrity collectors for whom he did custom work and shortly before he died he held his first solo exhibition of neon art in the UK.

The Junkyard is now maintained by Chris Bracey’s sons and is open to the public, free of charge, a few days a week. The rest of the time they seem to do a good trade in hiring out neon signs individually, hiring out the whole place for photoshoots, and continuing to produce original pieces for sale. They also sell souvenirs, and are home to the brilliantly named café, Rolling Scone. And refreshingly, there was nary a ration card in sight.

The Sunday I was there a neon maker was set up in the corner with a flaming gas jet, quietly working over a long section of glass tube to match a pattern laid out on his work table. It was fascinating to watch.

God’s Own Junkyard is absolutely worth the trek out to the far north-east (especially considering how easy it is to combine with a lovely G&T). And if you manage to time it so you can take in a few of the other Wonders of Walthamstow, so much the better. Meanwhile I'm 6,998 km away in the desert, slowly wilting like a tube of glass in a gas jet, and hoping to find something worth blogging about before the work schedule takes over again. 

Just one more ring...

I’ve really been enjoying moving around on the boat these days. With the engine behaving well, the weather cooperating, and my comfort with the boat at an all-time high, there is every reason in the world to simply tootle around and see what there is to see. Last week this sent me into the wilds of the Far East - to Hackney and beyond. My excuse was a few days of freelance technical drawing work for a designer friend with a studio in the area, which right now is reason enough to spend two days moving the boat. This took me further east than I’ve been before, past Victoria Park and along the entire short length of the Hertford Union Canal, a tiny mile-long cut that connects the Regent’s Canal to the River Lea. Once on the Lea I found a leafy spot at Hackney Marshes and spent a very pleasant week enjoying the hipster neighbourhood and checking out the surprisingly cool environs of Walthamstow, which may feature in a future blog.

When I eventually turned around to leave the River Lea I decided to take a slight detour on my way south for a celebratory lap around the old Olympic Stadium. You may not be aware of it, but the Olympic Stadium sits on an island completely surrounded by the River Lea and City Mill River, with the Bow River not far off. (The Lea is more properly known as the Lea Navigation, and is controlled by locks and weirs. The Bow is semi-tidal and therefore less navigable.) So it seemed natural for me to take a short detour around the island for old time’s sake.

The stadium is now branded in West Ham colours

I’m pretty sure this was the site of the infamous Bubble Rehearsal

It was a nice little trip, though the back waters surrounding the stadium are quite weedy, and I had to stop a few times to clear them out of the propellor and rudder. And near around the site of our old workshop (recently torn down, boo!) there are two extremely low bridges.

And I mean LOW. Of course I took my poor, battered stove chimney down, but the water heater chimney is screwed together so I had to inch forward as slowly as possible until I was confident it would clear. There was about 2-3” of space. The low bridge after this one cleared by even less. If the water level had been higher...

Then it was down the Limehouse Cut, a shortcut created between Limehouse Basin and the River Lea. I used to cycle down the towpath of the Limehouse Cut on my way to work at Three Mills Studios, which I also went past on the boat that Sunday afternoon. It was quite satisfying to see it all again. I’m unofficially calling that trip the Olympic Ring, though annoyingly there is no small bass plaque for that particular navigational achievement (unlike the Thames Ring). Maybe I’ll have to get one made up. If only I was in the business of knowing how to have original one-off items made.

Finally I ended up at Limehouse Basin, which is the other point at which the canal system meets the Thames. Limehouse Basin provides residential moorings for narrowboats but also for yachts and much much larger boats. That far downstream the traffic is often of the more serious ocean-going variety. There are also a few overnight moorings available for visiting canal boats so I tied up alongside a high wall and checked out the area.

Limehouse used to be a working dock for narrowboats loading cargo for transport along the canals. It’s all gentrified now, as evidenced by the zillion dollar residential towers overlooking the basin.

Limehouse, though, was not the end goal but just the starting point for one more really big adventure for Lucky Nickel this summer. Since I got the boat, I’ve wanted to take it along the Thames through central London. Narrowboats are really not built for tidal waters, but if done at the right tide state it’s possible to get a tiny flat-bottomed boat from Limehouse to Brentford safely. So having completed the Thames Ring, and with that long-standing desire in the back of my head, and with Piran’s insistent nudges urging me on, I decided to look into what would be needed to complete the London Ring - a journey from my marina on the Paddington Arm, along the Regent’s Canal to Limehouse and then out onto the Thames for the trip west to Brentford Lock and back home once again to the marina. (Note that it's also possible to go the other way round - anti-clockwise. But that means entering Limehouse Lock coming from upstream. And all the advice is that if you think the left turn into Brentford is hairy, it's nothing compared to trying to get into Limehouse.)

The Thames tideway is under the control of the Port of London Authority, and naturally there are different rules on the Thames than there are on the canals. One of those rules is that vessels 45' and longer must have a VHF radio on board. Lucky Nickel is exactly 45’ so acquiring a VHF radio was the first hurdle. While it’s simple to order the equipment on Amazon, you also need a licence to operate one, and to get a licence you need to complete a radio operator’s course and then sit an in-person exam, all of which were not impossible but would be tricky to sort out in the short term.

Also, there’s the not-insignificant fact that there's a lot of traffic on the Thames in central London. Commercial tour boats, working tugs, and the infamous Thames Clippers all go up and down the river daily. There are a lot of bridges to pass under, and there's an exclusion zones around the parliament buildings at Westminster. And there are rules about all of that. There are also currents and tides so the water moves around and up and down a lot more than on the canals. All of this was enough to make me pause.

Luckily, as I was passing through Camden Locks the week before I paired up with a nice young man who was very chatty and mentioned that he’d been at Limehouse Basin recently. When I said I’d been thinking about the Thames trip he told me that the harbourmaster at Limehouse often pilots boats up the Thames on that trip. I fired off a quick email to Limehouse and shortly after got a phone call from Adam, who turned out to be lovely and helpful and ex-Navy. Adam said all the right things. Yes, he frequently helps people move their boats from Limehouse to Brentford, narrowboats included. Yes, he could book the lock at Limehouse and call ahead to Brentford. Yes, he could bring a radio and life jackets and a life ring. Yes, he could advise on the best times to leave to hit the tide right. Yes, he could teach me along the way, so I would understand how to pass through safely if I wanted to do the trip again on my own. And he would do all this for what seemed a quite reasonable fee to fulfil a years-long dream.

So I hired Adam to help me take the Lucky Nickel up the Thames on the morning tide on a cloudy Tuesday. And of course Piran came along too, because it was partly his idea, and because he’s more familiar with the boat than anyone else currently on this continent, and because he, like me, is still (f)unemployed and thus available on a random weekday morning.

Here I am getting ready to head into Limehouse Lock that morning. Note the new life preserver on the roof. We also had to remove or tie down anything that was loose up top.

Limehouse lock is big. And the gates are differently shaped to other locks I’ve seen. They're actually quarter-circles, which I think means it’s easier for them to move while the water level is unequal.

And here’s why I think the shape of the lock doors makes it easier to move them. Because the lock keeper actually cracks the bottom gates open a bit before the water level was equalised to speed things up. It’s hard to tell from this photo, but this is the water pouring out of the lock through the doors, at least a foot above the river water level. It was kind of creepy. Apparently it’s even more alarming when they do it going the other way - opening the doors to raise the water level in the lock, thus exposing you to a wall of water pouring into the lock.

Here we are about to exit the lock, alongside a second boat that had done the trip many times before.

And then we were on the Thames. Which is freakin' HUGE at that point. And bouncy. For that first bit I had my hand welded to the tiller with the other arm braced to the rail. There were no giant waves, but the movement of the water bounced the boat around sideways and front-to-back in a way that was truly unsettling. Perhaps it would have been less so if we hadn’t been on a boat that contained virtually all of my worldly possessions.

Here’s me at the tiller, looking nervous, having just exited the lock. And Adam - cool and calm. Just another day at the office for him. Piran has a whole collection of photos of me looking anxious, hunched over, and concentrating intently. For our purposes, this one is enough.

It all happens fast on that part of the river. And the biggest and most exciting landmark comes first.

This photo speaks for itself.

As does this one. This is slightly before or after I looked to the right and then starting jumping up and down shouting “Oh my god it’s the Tower of London!”

We passed HMS Belfast, London Bridge, Southwark Cathedral, the Globe Theatre, and the Tate Modern. I continued driving until just before Waterloo Bridge, and then handed over to Piran.

Who ably managed past a few more landmarks.

The London Eye on the left, and Beg Ben - swathed in scaffolding, coming up on the right.

More scaffolding on the Palace of Westminster, with the buoys marking the exclusion zone just visible in the water.

The MI6 building on the left, and Vauxhall Bridge coming up.

The Thames Clippers do put up quite a wake, but mostly we kept well clear of them. (Or possibly they kept well clear of us. I imagine the internal paperwork resulting from an upturned narrowboat under Westminster Bridge is ferocious and best avoided.) Adam coached us along, reminding us to watch out not just in front but also for what might be coming up behind, directing us around the bends in the river, and telling us which arches to pass under at each bridge. We left Limehouse about an hour after low tide, so we were being carried upstream by the rising tide faster and faster the later it got. Since we were traveling with the tide, we had right of way against boats coming downstream against the tide - the reasoning being that a boat has more manoeuvrability when working against the tide than being swept along with it.

The further upstream we got, the calmer the water got and the less traffic there was. By the time we passed Battersea Park and Albert Bridge it started to feel much like the Thames felt just above the locks at Teddington. We began to see rowing boats on the water, and the rain was coming and going enough that I was happy to hand the tiller to Adam and put the kettle on.

Recently restored Albert Bridge.

I was pleased that the engine chugged along quite happily. Further downstream I'd pushed the throttle much harder than I’ve had to before to maintain steering in the heavier water but it was all fine. The engine temperature rose a bit but stayed well within tolerances. It might be noisy, and leaking oil, and a bit smokey and smelly, but that engine is getting the job done these days.

Adam calculated we’d take about 3-1/2 hours to get to the lock at Brentford. Normally it’s 3 hours, but I’d warned him that the Lucky Nickel is not built for speed. In the end we pulled into the channel for Brentford Lock almost exactly 3 hours after we left, a bit ahead of schedule. And while the boat with which we’d shared the lock at Limehouse had steamed well ahead of us, they’d simply had to tie up and wait on arrival at Brentford because the lock didn’t start operating that day until 12:15. (Their hours are synced with the tide). And I hasten to add that approaching Brentford from the east is much less stressful than the other way around. The downstream right hand turn is not bad at all.

We only had a short wait, so we tied up alongside a ladder in the embankment wall and Adam departed to get the train back to town. Thanks Adam! (Aside: If you ever need Adam's services, get in touch and I'll pass on his details. He was sooooooo worth it.)

After getting through the Thames Lock and the Brentford Gauging Lock, we were back on the canal and quickly moored very near where I was just a few weeks ago. By this time it was quite rainy and chilly and though things had gone really well both Piran and I admitted we were kind exhausted and shaky at the same time. Adrenalin perhaps? After another cup of coffee and fortifying gala pork pie he headed off and I went for a short run to shake things off, still grinning like an idiot.

And that was the London Ring. It's been a few days now, but I still smile every time I think about driving my boat under Tower Bridge.

The Grand Tour: of Pubs!

I know the Grand Tour is over, but I thought it would be fun to do a quick summary of the pubs visited along the way. Each served a purpose, and though I also passed several that had closed down - a sad state of affairs - it was heartening to come across so many welcoming hostelries ready to provide either a swift half on the run or a proper dinner and a well-deserved break.

1. The Red House, Croxley, Day 1

I was utterly, utterly exhausted by the end of Day 1. Face full of diesel fumes, nose smacked by a windlass, somewhat doubting if I really wanted to keep going. Thank you Red House for the restorative pint and curry.

2. The King's Head, Day 2

Midday stop with Piran on Day 2. Preceded by several awkward attempts at mooring accompanied by some passive-aggressive comments from a nearby boat. Nice pub though, with exposed beams and an upper level minstrel gallery.

3. The Paper Mill, Hemel Hempstead, Day 2

Mooring for the second night, directly across from this, where we had dinner. I thought we would not get the boat closer to a pub. Of course I was wrong.

4. The Rising Sun, Berkhamsted, Day 3

Day 3, situated right at the lock in Berkhamsted, such that Piran was able to go in and order our drinks while the lock was filling, then retrieve them a few minutes later. The barman reported that this is apparently not an uncommon practice.

5. The Crystal Palace, Berkhamstead, Day 3

Within sight of the Rising Sun. We visited after a tour of the ruins of Berkhamsted Castle. I was also able to have the remainder of my pint to take away, since I could walk ten feet to the boat and pour it out into another glass so we could continue on our way.

6. The Globe Inn, Leighton Buzzard, Day 5

Alone, after a long long day which ended with a dispiriting chug through the seemingly endless stretches of private mooring in central Leighton Buzzard. Supper and a pint here was definitely what was needed.

7. The Royal Oak, Blisworth, Day 7

Just after Blisworth Tunnel at the lovely little village of the same name. The Royal Oak was friendly and I got to chatting with a couple locals who lived on boats nearby. Nice to have a bit of human contact and get some tips on the upcoming stretch of canal.

8. The Beer Boat, Banbury Locks, Day 8

You've heard about it before, but it bears repeating: BEER BOAT!!!

9. Braunston Marina Beer Tent, Day 9

This may be stretching the definition of "pub" but I think it counts and I make the rules here. Also notable because I arrived as they starting to pack up and drawing off the last of the kegs so: FREE BEER.

10. The Wharf Inn, Fenny Compton, Day 11

Pleasant end to the first day with Mark and Kathy, and good pie.

11. Harcourt Arms Oxford, Day 14

This was a slight miscalculation as my guide book and Google led me to believe this pub would have food, and it seemed nicely off the track from the very busy more trendy place nearby. No food, but I did have a half and rested my bones a bit anyway before proceeding to:

12. Gardeners Arms Oxford, Day 14

Supper here, ordered from what looked like an entirely vegetarian/vegan menu. I had "vegan dirty fries" which were nice, though I still maintain that "vegan cheese" is just Not. A. Thing.

13. The Anchor Oxford, Day 15

Treated myself to a nice dinner out on Saturday at this gastropub very near the canal. One of the lovely things about bringing your whole house with you on vacation is that if you feel like dressing up a bit for dinner you don't have to worry whether you packed anything appropriate. In fact, you don't have to worry about packing at all. I had the lamb. And Eton Mess for dessert.

14. Eagle and Child Oxford, Day 16

A particularly satisfying pub - once the haunt of Tolkein and C.S. Lewis. I had one of the snugs to myself where I sat in the right hand window with my beer and my lunch and my trashy serial killer novel. Perfect.

15. Isis Farmhouse, Day 17

This pub is only accessible via the towpath or the river. I like to think this means their beer kegs are delivered by boat, but we didn't ask. They also had the overly generous Ploughman's Lunch you've already heard about.

16. Barley Mow, Clifton Hampden, Day 17
A very short stroll from the campsite we moored alongside after the first day on the Thames. It was touch and go whether we'd get any food, or even a table, since the staff were harried almost to the point of rudeness by an unusual Monday evening rush. All turned out fine though, and I recall the sticky toffee pudding was credible.

17. Chequers, Marlow, Day 19
A quick refresher to kill time in Marlow. 

18. Druid’s Head, Kingston, Day 21
I tried to have a drink at a different pub closer to Teddington Lock after I'd made my pilgrimage to gather as much information as I could about the next day's events. Sadly that pub (the Hand and Flower) was no more. No matter, because The Druid's Head was 17th century, Grade II listed, and a short walk back to the boat. A fitting last pub.

Of course there were also a few drinks enjoyed on the back deck of the boat. And I hasten to add, for anyone fearing that my liver suffered even more than my poor aching nose on this trip, there were also days with no pubs at all. Nevertheless coming up on a new pub, especially one right on the water, was a particularly satisfying addition to the trip. It's only been a week or so since I finished the trip, but I kind of miss it already. And now it's been just a week or so since I finished the trip and I've already moved the boat again a few times and am now in previously uncharted territory in the far north east of London. I'm still contemplating one last boat adventure for the summer, while also preparing for the next job, which is starting in a few short weeks. More on all that another time.