You wait for one footdrummer to arrive and three turn up in the same place! I had to give my phone to someone to photograph three Farmer Footdrum players on the same patch of grass at Freaks In A Field 2025. All three of us have a lot of busking and performing experience to share even if we are often in different countries to do what we do best. From left to right in the photo Marshlander, Ruben Reeves and Cam Cole.
Of course you know more than enough about Marshlander ... Ruben is from Australia and Cam is from everywhere including the second series of the television series, Ted Lasso. Both Ruben and Cam have a lot of their work on YouTube. For three musicians who use the same type of instrument we all have different syles and ways of playing. Perhaps our ways of working with the footdrums are almost as different as the styles of music we play.
And here I am with my friend, August Radio Project. We met up when he played the musical sections of the More Wonders Of Our Universe science show in Boston in 2025. I should learn to smile more. After all I was very happy to meet him in the flesh at last.
It's surely a given that I've always loved music. As a child I heard it on the radio and on the collection of fragile Bakelite 78rpm records owned by my parents. If you dig deep enough through my early memories you will discover that rather than risk their precious records being broken by a clumsy, but enthusiastic three year-old who simply wanted to hear music and dance, they would teach me to use the family's wind-up gramophone. Apparently as a two-year old I could pick out any song from the collection of records anyway. Adult members of the family often tried to catch me out, but it seems they never could. No one knew how I managed to identify individual songs on the A or B side of a stack of discs and I certainly couldn't tell you now. These days I can barely remember what's on the latest cd I have bought.
Live music was a treat reserved for an end of the pier variety show during an occasional day out, a London park bandstand encounter or an even rarer family holiday. It was under the last of these circumstances that the first live music performance I can recall is a set by the Buddy Rich Big Band, though, of course, I had no idea of the significance of the band leader. When The Monkees became an irresistible phenomenon I was completely caught up in it and begged my parents to take me to their first London performance at The Empire Pool in Wembley. A year later my tastes had expanded and my parents took us en famille to the Babylonian Mouthpiece Show at the Royal Festival Hall featuring Tyrannosaurus Rex, Roy Harper, David Bowie and Steffan Grossman. After that I went to as many gigs and concerts as I could. I was indeed fortunate that I lived close enough to several excellent venues and the Hyde Park free concerts were just a train and tube trip away.
Last night I enjoyed the Gigspanner Big Band for the umpteenth time.
Gigspanner Big Band at The Apex, Bury St Edmunds a while ago stolen from the band's website - I'm in the audience but obscured.
Gigspanner Big Band at The Apex, Bury St Edmunds a while ago stolen from the band's website
Most members of the band have become, at the very least, acquaintances and I would venture so far as to say that one has become a friend. I cannot praise highly enough the joy that the skill and constant invention and enthusiasm of the six absolute experts of their metier brings me each time I see them. The set list may look the same or similar, but no night has ever been truly like another. Last night was no exception and I felt they were even stronger than the last time I saw them. As people they are all thoroughly lovely and I do so enjoy spending time in the company of the band members. Despite being very short of savings after the recent boat troubles I bought a weekend ticket for this year's Ely Folk Festival this morning mainly because they are playing. Of course, Ely Folk Festival is as big as I ever like to go in terms of the number of people in attendance and it is spread out over a site large enough to offer breathing space. Last year a committee member asked me if I had got my ticket yet after seeing me on the Kingfisher Stage a couple of years perviously and when I declared I probably would not be coming he said to let him know if I wanted a ticket. I had planned to go to Strumpshaw Tree Fair last year, having never been before, and they clashed. In the end Ely won and I am really pleased it did. I had a great time and I wanted to pay for my ticket by playing some guérilla sets around the site, which I did, including playing for a two or three hours by the entrance to the field before any of the official programme started up. The stewards were very happy and very complimentary. Another memorable encounter was an impromptu duo with my friend Fara, improvising around Lean On The Tiller for our mutual friend, Nick Penny. I'd like to do the same again this year despite having now purchased a ticket through the official source. I also managed to get back to the It's Not The End Of The World Festival, Freaks In A Field and Banterfest. They are all very different styles of festival, but all are deliciously bijoux and I feel more joy when I meet up again with friends from previous events. Not the End and Freaks are also very affordable ... The Sanger Stage is also my favourite stage to play and Dave Sanger took it to both events. At Not the End Of The World I played two sets on that stage, opening and closing the Friday evening. The Sanger Stage is a traditional showman's stage drawn by horses and is certainly a thing of beauty.
Marshlander on the Sanger Stage at It's Not The End Of The World 2025
Ticket prices are an important consideration for most people. Apart from the fact that I don't like big festivals or big concerts I can't afford them anyway. I'd much rather see, say, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown in a club setting such as Club 85 in Hitchin, Esquires in Bedford or The Lexington in Islington. Even at my age it is a joy to discover music that excites me. Music I can say I have found recently that really excites me includes the work of Ren, The Gulls, The Big Push and other Brighton area buskers including August Radio Project. Recently I came across a flurry of activity concerning the Quebecois duo, Angine de Poitrine and I would certainly like to see them perform their magic in a live show. Three dates on the upcoming tour were advertised as being in the UK at less than £20 each and all were sold out. They will be returning to the U.K. later in the year, but the ticket prices have doubled already. Of course, live performance is just about the only way bands have access to people who will buy the merchandise that keeps them touring, but I have a price above which I cannot afford to go. Tickets become available for some new events by Sparks later this week. They are, of course, much bigger and more popular than they have been since the mid-1970s. I'm trying to work out if I can afford to see them this year. I suppose the question is, now the tickets are so much more expensive, can I go without going to see them for the sixty-first time?
Of course after spending so much money on the boat I was very keen to try out the new weed mitigation measures I had had fitted. Unfortunately the weather was rough for several days and I did not want to take any chances in case the rope/weed cutter and the weed baffle plates did not perform as hoped. Also I felt I wanted to get used to handling the boat again if the new bits of kit affected the performance.
Finally I set off in hope on Friday afternoon and took a slow trip to Upwell. I needed to top up the water tank, so Upwell was as good a place as any. It's a pretty mooring with plenty of space for three fifty foot boats to moor. As I approached I saw two boats were already there. One had tied up near the water point and the other was at the opposite end of the mooring. They had left a space in the middle just big enough for me to squeeze into. Happily there was barely any wind, so I could show off my boat handling skills without any risk of the wind putting me to shame. I knew both boats and I had chatted with one of the owners several times. He'd been on this mooring for a while and I'd come to consider him an habitual "overstayer". Boats are only allowed to stay for up to thirty-six hours on Well Creek public moorings. I'd forgotten that the last time we'd talked he had had an engine problem and had been forced to stay in town, where the limit was forty-eight hours, until he could fix the problem. This time he had another problem. His engine room had been filling with water and the engine itself was actually up to its waist in the Old River Nene! Apparently the stern gland was leaking and he was worried about the procedure for replacing the packing in case he made it worse. After all, no one lives on a narrowboat and intentionally turns it into a submarine! He was waiting for the cavalry to arrive. The other boat I had seen many times, but hadn't met the new owner until now. He turned out to be a very cheery and articulate gentleman who was gradually lining up his ducks to move aboard full time. We spent several hours in deep conversation over the next few days whenever we encountered each other. I think we shall become friends.
The following day, Saturday, I decided it was time to conduct the test and headed off towards Outwell, Nordelph and on to Salter's Lode. Obviously testing the anti-weed devices was the main object of the exercise, so rather than stop overnight in Outwell, where I have friends living on both sides of the Basin I went through the village and out towards Nordelph. Because I am still running-in my refurbished engine I was not pushing the engine hard. However, as I closed in on Nordelph I slowed to tickover speed. Received wisdom is that moving as slowly as possible through cott weed is the best course of action. It shouldn't have the opportunity of getting the prop in a stranglehold and a gentle touch of reverse gear is supposed to unwind any weed wrapping the propellor and prop shaft in a slimy embrace. I think my optimism is reflected well in this first video.
My journey didn't actually progress as hoped. A couple of times I became so clogged up with cott I lost all control over the boat and had to stop and access the weed hatch to clear the prop. Still, twice was a vast improvement on the last time I passed this way. I was thinking that the weed cutter and baffle plates were actually making a difference. The journey to Salter's still took a lot longer than it should have done owing to my very slow speed and to the stops to clear the prop. I stayed the night at Salter's Lode and mardled a while with the lockkeeper and her husband (the previous lockie) and it was lovely to see them both again. Of course our conversation could be relaxed because the lock gate mechanism had broken some days previously and no one could get through to the tidal section of the River Great Ouse anyway. Karen was making the very best of her unexpected and extended holiday to plant out a raised bed.
I had a comfortable night and a late start the following day. I saw Karen and Paul in the garden so went up to bid them farewell. As we were talking a woman walked by and stopped to chat too. She'd been travelling on a widebeam with two friends and with which I'd been playing leapfrog since it first passed me on my home mooring a few days before. We'd done a lot of waving, but this was the first time I had had an opportunity for any kind of conversation. I hadn't noticed the boat moor a couple of boats behind me at Salter's Lode, so I don't know when it had arrived. I turned my boat round where the river was wide enough and set off, but the return journey was anything but peaceful. Thankfully there was still no wind to speak of and it started well enough. I stuck to tickover speed because I was not in any rush and wasn't quite sure where the Sargasso Sea of cott actually began. As it happened the journey towards Nordelph became the stuff of my worst fears. Even before reaching the first of the moored up small GRP cruisers I had to stop and get down into the weed hatch. Once I got to where the boats started to be moored I became very stressed and exhausted as the prop clogged up again and again and again. For the first time ever in my experience the engine stalled twice, stopped by the sheer volume of cott the prop had picked up. It felt like clearing the blockage took much longer as the weed cutter blades seemed to hold on to the slimy threads of cott and I could mostly only pull off tiny amounts at a time. March was definitely too early in the year for the cott to be this thick. Despite that I collected a huge pile of the stuff on my trad stern deck after picking it off the prop.
After the fourth stoppage I was aching from the core-withering workout of weed removal and was taking a breather when a family of four passed me in a small electric powered fishing boat. We had exchanged greetings on their way out earlier in the afternoon and they weren't altogether surprised to see me stuck in their village's notorious weed spot as they returned home. Dad called out asking if he could help and I replied that a tow would be handy! To my delight and surprise he agreed. He let his family off at their house and circled back to grab the bow rope I threw out to him. We managed to progress a few yards but his engine battery began to fade. Undaunted he said he had another one on charge so went back to get it. We made a few yards further progress when that battery too began to give out. We wished each other good luck and he set off home. I slipped the boat into gear and am not sure whether I got even as far as two metres when the engine stopped. In that tiny distance I had collected enough cott to stall the engine. I unscrewed the weed hatch AGAIN and and pulled out more threads and clumps of weed. As I stood up to unfold myself and stretch before resuming my bums-up worship at the weed hatch I heard the unmistakable chug of a Lister engine. As my "friends" on the widebeam chugged by I called out requesting a tow to the bridge, which I knew to be the limit of the worst of the cott. If a man on a vastly under-powered electric boat was willing to help why wouldn't a fully-equipped boat with a working diesel engine offer a similar courtesy? I never got the chance to find out because without even looking at me, obviously stuck diagonally across the river, they carried on. As they passed someone called out something, but I didn't catch it over the engine noise. I only know that had the situation been reversed I would not have hesitated to try to help, even if it meant two boats would end up being stuck. I can't be the only person to call out to check that all is well if ever I see a stationary boat that is not obviously moored up! To be honest, I was truly astonished by their lack of concern for a fellow boater. Eventually I cleared the prop (again!) and fired up the engine (again!). Inevitably I ground to yet another halt after another couple of metres, right next to a moored up GRP cruiser! This was nearly the very worst thing that could have happened. The only thing that might have made it worse still was if there had been a wind. Thankfully the weather was kind and the air was still. I was close enough to the cruiser to push against it with my hand to stop my boat touching it. I had to get away from the cruiser and the only thing I could think to do was to see if my barge pole was long enough to reach the bottom of the river so I could propel myself forward and into a space between two moored cruisers. I had the pole on the roof close to me and I deployed it hoping I could punt myself into a safer space. The pole hit the bed of the river and kept on sinking into the silty peat. I feared I was not going to hit anything hard enough to push against, but I had just enough pole to manoeuvre myself away from the fragile cruiser. It stuck in the mud and again I feared losing it, but as I twisted it came loose and I drove it back into the mud to push myself a little further. I had wondered if I could actually reach the bridge in the centre of the village by repeating this action, but there was no chance of that. I came to rest a few metres beyond the endangered cruiser and once again unscrewed the weed hatch and assumed the position. I was still picking out chunks and threads of cott two or three hours later as the light began to fade. Fortunately the boat had barely moved ahead or astern during that time, but I was completely exhausted, very stressed, hungry and thirsty, having not had anything except a biscuit since breakfast, many hours earlier. Although I was untethered I could not do anything about it. I fired off an SOS e-mail to the Middle Level Commissioners explaining my situation and requesting assistance, but they wouldn't see it till Monday morning. There was nothing for it but to drift as I made some food in the galley and ate disconsolately. I lay down on my bed for a very fitful few hours of sleep, waking pretty much every hour to check that I was still at a safe distance from the moored cruisers. It was not a good night. Had there been any wind I would have been in a terrible situation.
The following morning at about 7.30 I phoned the Middle Level Commissioners and got through to the on-call engineer, who said he would get a message to the navigation officer, Kev, a marvellous chap who has got me out of sticky situations a few times over the years. After breakfast I resumed digging out the weed and I was still doing that some hours later when Kev turned up in his 4x4. He'd had to meet some engineers at Salter's Lode to try and work through the situation with the broken guillotine gate mechanism.
After some discussion he decided he could tow me along the river from the bank until he reached a roadsign that was blocking his way. That would be very useful, even if it did not take me as far as the bridge I wanted to reach. He has towed a few boats along there over the past couple of years and he has actually worked out a system for doing it. I tied another ten metres of rope to my centre line and threw the rope to him. He in turn tied it to the towing strap on his truck. I knew that if I was being towed I needed the engine running and the prop as clear as possible so could make any corrections to my heading as the wind and current risked fishtailing me from side to side. There were still many boats to pass before I was clear of the worst of the weed. Somehow we made it. We retrieved our ropes and I edged very slowly under the bridges at Nordelph and out on to the open creek. I knew there was still the risk of scooping up some cott, but it would not be as risky as it had been for the last mile of the waterway. I managed to get beyond Gladys Dack's before I was forced to stop by the weight of weed reducing my momentum and steering ability. From there I was able to make my way cautiously along Well Creek, slipping the boat into reverse every time the prop wash pattern changed and I made it to Outwell without needing to stop again. It would probably go without saying, but I slept really well that night.
A final thought on this trip is that the jury is still out regarding the efficacy of the weed mitigation alterations I have made to my narrowboat. The boat is due to come out of the water for reblacking at the end of June so I shall persist with the upgrades until then and make a decision as to whether I keep them or not. On the one hand, they seem not to have been remotely successful in coping with the serious inundation of cott at Nordelph - and may even have made its removal more difficult - but I'm not sure yet how effective they are on a waterway having navigable depth and "normal" aquatic flora conditions. It is just possible they do actually help with most types of weed. The blade device is sold as a "rope cutter". When I stopped at Upwell after leaving Outwell I had to unwrap a strip of elasticated fabric and a plastic bag from the prop - annoying, of course, but much easier to deal with than cott weed. A bit further on, emerging from the lock, I acquired a plastic animal feed bag. I suppose once my engine has been properly run-in and serviced I should be able to check whether upping the revs helps, though the thought of shredding plastic in the river is not a happy one.
My savings were nearly depleted. There was, however one more project to undertake and I knew it would probably come close to that extra thousand.
Every time I take the boat along Well Creek I collect cott weed round the prop and shaft. Cott weed isn't the stuff with stems or the stuff that looks like underwater cabbage Cott weed is this boater's nemesis. Whenever I pride myself that things are actually going rather well there is cott weed. Like a snuggly blanket it collects around the prop and eventually the boat loses all forward and reverse thrust along with any control of the steering. That leaves the boat completely at the mercy of wind, currents and anything else Mother Nature wants to send my way. The very worst part of Well Creek is through the village of Nordelph en route to Salter's Lode, although I have had some awkward moments (for "moments" read "hours") going through Upwell and Outwell too.
With my boat the first I know there is a weed problem is when I see the wash pattern change. I have learned to read my prop wash carefully and when I see the signs it is time to stop going forward and ease the boat into reverse. The theory is that this unwinds anything wrapped round the prop. It works at first, but in particularly bad places like Nordelph the prop is soon overwhelmed again. If I haven't been paying close enough attention I sometimes hear the pitch of the engine change and the engine, struggling to work, throws out black smoke in protest. If I ignore all these signs the engine generally keeps going but I lose all control over direction and speed. That is annoying enough, but when I am passing moored boats it can be terrifying. Were I to travel with a crew I could at least ask someone to fend off the danger, even when in truth my twenty tons of steel is the danger to any "yoghurt pot", the affectionate name we condescendingly use for glass-reinforced plastic (GRP) cruisers as it appears to loom at its mooring.
I've spoken to a few boaters who have fitted rope/weed cutters to their prop shafts and have checked out a number of YouTube videos. The theory seems sound. I decided that I would get one fitted. The boat has to come out of the water for the fitting and using the slipway just about doubles the price. Still, if it works it will be more than worth it.
The boatyard ordered one from T. Norris Marine in Chichester. We had to wait for a while because they had an upgrade to the original and the stocks had not yet arrived. I took the boat into March this morning and by this afternoon the work had been done. Alan at the boat yard suggested making and welding on some weed baffle plates too They used to fit them to all the hire boats they made. In theory these prevent the moving propellor from dragging weed up from the river bed. In for a penny, in for many pennies ... all to the good if the measures work.
Rudder and skeg before weed baffle plates are fitted
Weed baffle plates cut out and welded to the skeg and swim
"Hopefully it's evil enough to do the job" was my response to Alan's declaration that the rope cutter was an "evil-looking thing". We'll find out in a future video!
As any boater knows, BOAT is an acronym acknowledging the costs of ownership. Many people think that living on a boat is cheap. While it may be less expensive than owning a dwelling of bricks and mortar, in no way can it be considered "cheap". All homes require maintenance, but the risks of not maintaining a boat are probably more perilous. After waterways licence fees, insurance and boat safety certification there are the costs of interior and exterior upkeep. I'm afraid the only kinds of these types of upkeep I am fanatical about is regular reblacking the hull and engine servicing. Everything else is dealt with when it becomes urgent. I am probably a very bad boater. My boat is not shiny either and does require some external paintwork to be patched up. If I do get round to wielding a paintbrush I get as far as a dab of red oxide after which the weather changes and I generally lose the will to add undercoat and topcoats. I'm booked in for reblacking at the end of June - £££!
A couple of weeks after arriving at the boatyard in March I returned to Calcutt Boats to collect my beautifully restored and rebuilt engine. They had even repainted it. Naturally I was hoping the paint wasn't only cosmetic.
Here it is being put back into the boat. It was obviously not the easiest of jobs lifting it over some sheds on the quayside and into my engine bay!
Naturally I was anxious to take the boat out and see what the repaired engine felt like. It was bootiful! Quiet, more or less smokeless and now I have to treat it carefully during a running in period of up to one hundred hours, I'm looking forward to getting out and about again. Another thousand? This came to seven thousand.
So here I was, moored up at the marina, having arrived in plenty of time to drive to my hospital appointment in Peterborough. While I was away Alan and Gerald took my engine out of the boat using the teleporter - that's the agricultural/industrial lifting machine, not the invention of Star Trek! I wasn't there to see it happen, but the arm of the teleporter will extend over the top of the sheds on the quayside and with a little "this a-way, that a-way, left a bit, right a bit, up/down" they lifted the engine out of the boat and set it down in the shed.
My hospital appointment took longer than expected for two reasons. I arrived in plenty of time for my 2pm appointment, but was kept waiting for a couple of hours. During the appointment the doctor put drops into my eye to dilate the pupil. I hadn't been warned about that and had to wait for the drops to wear off before I could drive again. I didn't get away until well after 6pm and I probably should have left it even later before I started driving, even though I felt safe enough. On my way back to the boatyard I stopped off at my lockup to empty my van of the stuff I usually keep in the back to make sure I had space to load up the engine. When I arrived back at the marina I found my engine at the back of the shed ...
Engine on dry land
The following morning (Thursday) the engine was hoisted again and loaded into my van.
Engine being loaded into the van
I set off for Calcutt Boats, near Rugby, where they were expecting delivery of the engine. It would be there in good time to take advantage of the space that had come up the following Monday, when they stripped, rebuilt and replaced all the bits that needed sorting after the breakdown. They were stress testing it all day Wednesday and Thursday and needed time to fit the upgrades I had requested (a twin-belt alternator having a more than double the output of the old one and a spin-on oil filter housing as suggested by Gerald of Fox's to make services easier) and spruce it all up ready for collection the following week.
In the meantime my boat was poled and pulled over to a spot opposite the workshop quayside that was to become my home for the next fortnight.
I had a few options and I had to make a decision. The new engine would have been nice, but I could not contemplate trying to find that amount of money. The co-contractor had finally called me and had taken details. They sent me an estimate for the work that would need doing. The estimate was very light on detail and I was concerned about what wasn't being included in the job-list as well as what was. It came in at the lowest quote of the three formal options, but I could see the actual invoice working out to be quite an inflated version of the estimate. My experience of waiting so long for them to contact me and the sound of the voice on the other end of the phone suggested to me a weariness that may have indicated a lack of dynamism. Of course I could have been quite mistaken, but learning to trust my instincts has been a very tough life lesson to take on. I guessed that taking my engine to Rugby myself was probably the most reliable option. I knew the marina to have a good reputation and I had bought spares from them a few times over the years. The voice of the owner when we spoke was in massive contrast to the co-contractor. I knew him to be a man well-past retirement age, but he exuded enthusiasm and confidence and it was obvious he knew my engine type in great detail. I really liked the passion he communicated and I felt very confident that he was my best option. There had been one further possibility that I discounted more or less immediately. A relative of one of the residents at "Butlins" apparently knew a lot about boats and had a boat himself, albeit a big GRP (glass-reinforced plastic) twin-outboard cruiser. We spent a long time on a video call with him diagnosing my problems from the phone screen and offering to fix them for far less than I would pay the boatyard. I had been down this route many times before to my frustration and cost. That was really a non-starter, specially since he seemed to be quite the salesman and I'd pretty much decided that I had made the best decision for me.
I went back to the local boatyard. They would tow me in, remove my engine and put it into my van which I would then drive to Rugby. Normally there was a wait of six weeks for a rebuild, but a spot had opened up the following Monday after an engine that had been due for repair was held up by paperwork in Norway and had had to postpone. I would probably have a rebuilt engine ("as good as new") by the end of the following week. I reckoned that with the likely costs of the two marinas involved it would probably add up in the region of £6-7k. It was less than half the price of a new Beta 43 and it had to be done.
Cutting a long story a little shorter, Alan - from the local boatyard - appeared in one of the marina's hire fleet before the 9am on the Wednesday morning and prepared to tow me the mile or two to the boatyard. We were going to breast up the whole way, which would offer him good control over the two boats. I wondered how we would negotiate some of the narrower parts of the river, but at least that wouldn't be my problem! Almost immediately we hit the first challenge. The Middle Level Commissioners had started pumping water again and this time the pumps were working hard. Our trip towards the marina was against a strong flow of outgoing water and the depth had been severely affected. We hadn't gone far at all when we bottomed out and neither boat was able to move. That was when Alan suggested we would need to try him in front pulling me behind. I wasn't as keen on this plan, but there was no other option. I collected the barge pole ready to deploy it to keep me from swinging too far one way or the other. Fishtailing my way past a line of GRP boats in the narrowest part of the river through the town made me very nervous. I really didn't want to have to fend off a plastic boat with my bargepole. That would be inviting trouble. Alan took the journey quite gently and it wasn't as difficult as I feared. A little over an hour later we arrived in the marina. I was there in plenty of time to drive to my eye clinic appointment in Peterborough. I'm glad I'd had the foresight to take my van to the marina the day before and leave it overnight in their car park. It is so lovely, not to mention unusual, when a plan actually comes together. Despite the horror of the engine seizing up in the first place, the plans for sorting it out could have been a lot more complicated than they turned out to be and have taken many weeks longer than they did.
Let's see if video and still photography can tell the next part of the story.
