I was stuck and there was no one around to help. I had drifted to a stop perpendicular to the river bank. There was just enough space for a kayak to squeeze by, but were anyone to approach in a narrowboat or a cruiser they would need to be a lot more narrow if the wind and the current didn't push me out of the way before they got to me. There was no point in panicking, so it looked like I was about to get some use out of the rescue service to which I had subscribed for so many years. I phoned through and gave my details. They would get someone out to me as soon as they could. In the meantime they wanted some photographs of my surroundings and the What3Words reference so an engineer could find me.
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| Stuck at right angles and blocking the river. |
As I was waiting for a call back an angler in a tiny boat fitted with an outboard engine called over asking if I were okay. He pulled his rods in, started up his outboard engine and puttered over to me. If he could move me a little I could at least tuck into the bank where I'd be out of the way of any other traffic. He caught my bow rope and tried towing me. With some additional pushing off the foliage and away from the bank with my barge pole we were able to start turning the boat enough to allow him to edge past me. I knew there was a spare mooring just round the nearest bend so we inched our way towards it. The extraordinary thing about being on the water is that one can stand on land and pull a huge mass with one's bare hands if there is no strong wind to battle against. A few months ago I was able to pull a 120-ton Dutch barge in and tie it up at a mooring on the River Lark. I was hoping my mere twenty tons of narrowboat would not prove too big a task for a tiny outboard engine.
As the angler and I set off my boat began to fishtail from side to side. This action meant that my weight was pulling the fishing boat off its heading. I began to be concerned that my bow rope could become caught up in, or chopped through by, his propellor. If that happened the very best outcome I could imagine would be his engine would stall. At worst it could damage his prop or even the whole outboard. I've also seen the back end of a boat break off and a boat sink before when an outboard motor is under extreme stress. None of these outcomes were specially desirable. I had no control at all over my boat although I imagined that some application of my tiller made a difference, but if it did that difference was only minimal. The angler suggested he might have more control of both our boats if he tied my bow rope to his bow and set off in reverse. This actually seemed to work better and it reduced the the likelihood of his boat being pulled apart. We eventually managed to make some progress. As we approached the mooring I had in mind, the angler called out that the moorings there were protected by a locked gate and that I would not be able to get out of the pound. He was prepared to tow me all the way into town, but I was concerned about putting that kind of sustained strain on his motor as well as having to risk a puff of wind or the current knocking me into any of the moored up plastic boats I would have to pass in some narrow stretches of the river. The next closest place where I might be able to tie up my boat was just the other side of a railway bridge, beyond half-a-dozen narrowboats moored adjacent to a storage yard. A few years ago a terrace of four-storey town houses had been built the other side of the bridge, facing the river, and almost right up against the railway line. They are taller versions of the "little boxes" of the Malvina Reynolds song made made famous by Pete Seeger and dozens of others, except these tall little boxes are all the same colour. There must be something about them though because a young friend who lives on his own boat nearby refers to the terrace as "Butlins". I doubt he is familiar with the song; I must remember to ask him.
There used to be boats on all these private moorings, but following the change in the law (The Middle Level Act 2018) which included the imposition that licences be required for all vessels on the Middle Level, many boats had been sold and the Butlins moorings were now clear of boats and generally only used by the house owners and their guests sitting on benches or deck chairs in quiet contemplation, or engaged in fishing or reading. There is irony in the current empty berth status of the Butlins moorings because it had been the added attraction of private moorings that had allowed the developer to charge a huge premium for these properties. I hoped the residents would be at home to ask for permission to stay and they might have some understanding of my situation.
We approached the "Butlins" moorings. Passing under the railway bridge a walker called out asking if I needed any help. Since he was the only person actually on terra firma I asked him to catch my centre line and pull me in, which he was able to do. I bottomed out at the stern but thankfully the bow came in close enough for me to disembark. We tied the boat up and it stretched across three adjacent moorings belonging to the end three houses. I thanked the angler and offered him some money for his petrol, which he kindly refused. I couldn't think that I would need his services for anything further, so I thanked him again and he went on his way to catch the last of the daylight for a spot more fish-torturing. The walker stayed for quite a while and we enjoyed a bit of a mardle as I checked the boat was as secure as it could be with its back end sticking out into the river. At least I had ropes tied up afore, middle and aft, so I didn't think I'd be likely to drift off anywhere as long as the rings and cleats on the landing stages held fast. The next job was to let the rescue service know that I was out of immediate danger. They downgraded my call from an emergency to an "at home" and someone would be with me the next day.
As the walker and I were talking a woman appeared on the mooring where we were standing. She owned the middle of the three moorings and was very friendly and understanding of my plight. She said she would speak to the neighbours and explain the situation to them. She offered hot drinks and later even some home-made soup and an extension lead from her house so I would be able to keep my domestic batteries topped up. She was a fascinating conversationalist too, a very sparky octogenarian and retired librarian. I could not have asked for any greater kindness. She was Stella by name and stellar by nature.

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