Of The Definition Of A Boat Being A Boat-Shaped Hole In The Water Into Which One Throws All Their Money 3

Despite Stella saying that she would speak to the neighbours on my behalf it felt only courteous to meet them face to face myself. Only the back doors, glass French windows leading directly into an upper ground floor room, were easily accessible from my boat and it was five minute walk round the terraced block to get to the front doors of the houses. I rang the bell of one of the houses and a man answered. He was very friendly and said that I could stay as long as I needed to. There was no response from anyone in the house on the other side. I would have to make a point of coming back again. I went to bed early, but did not get much sleep.

Early the next morning, Sunday, I had a call from the rescue service. An engineer was going to come from Coventry. For a national service it felt a little strange for the company not to have more of a network of engineers. When he arrived it was the same man who had carried out my inspection and service three or four days earlier. Accompanying him was the same slightly younger man who was shadowing him for a few weeks prior to being launched out on his own. Both seemed just as friendly and carried the same air of confidence as they had when they came to my boat the first time. My confidence in them had taken a bit of a bruising, though, after finding the screw-in dipstick unscrewed the day before. I really had no way of knowing whether they were at fault in the first place, but I knew I should have checked the oil level before setting off, so I did not labour the point about my discovery. It took no longer than a couple of minutes for them to declare the engine well and truly knackered. The front pulley was fully seized and could not be moved, even with a hefty ring spanner. It would require the services of one of their sub-contractors to sort the problem. I would have to wait for them to call me. It would probably not be until Monday at the earliest. The older rescuer asked if I needed anything. I had my bicycle on the boat with me, but my van would be very handy because I had to get to GP and hospital appointments in the next few days. I assumed correctly that little could be done about the boat before then. He drove me back to my home mooring where I collected my van. At least now I was mobile. When I arrived back at the boat Stella came back to check that I had everything I needed. She had found a thirty metre extension lead that reached from her living room to the boat. With that I was able to plug in my battery charger and no longer needed to be worried about losing all my power. It was the wrong time of year to expect the sun to provide the power via my solar panels and there were tall trees on the other side of the river blocking some of the best of the sunlight, so a mains hookup was perfect.

I could not really do much on the boat while I was waiting for phone calls so I decided to go out and explore this area that I only knew from the water. I ended up walking up to a friend's mooring. He, a very able and fellow musician, and his soon to be fiancée live on a widebeam boat moored at a large rural plot, which they were developing as a smallholding. Being with a good friend was very therapeutic. His partner was at work for a few hours, but they invited me for a late Sunday afternoon vegan roast dinner, which was delicious and the company was excellent. After a few hours I felt at risk of outstaying my welcome, so I was prepared to walk back.  However, M wouldn't hear of it and he drove me back to Butlins. A lovely surprise was in store. Stella had been hosting a regular meeting of friends at her house. Naturally the subject of the hippy on a broken down boat moored outside the back garden came up. After some discussion, one of her guests, a retired head teacher, declared that he knew me, so she came out with him to say hello. Indeed we did know each other. During a period of a couple of decades I think I probably worked in every school in Norfolk. I carried out a lot of work in his school and he was willing to let me get involved in some fascinating projects, including several involving the friend with whom I'd just enjoyed a delicious meal. Small world and it was a delight to see him again.

The following morning I had phone calls from the rescue service and my GP appointment. The rescue service were checking up on my well-being and asking whether the co-contractor had been in touch while the GP determined I needed to be seen as soon as possible by an emergency hospital ophthalmologist! Nothing to worry about there then, just another wait for another phone call.

I cycled up to the local boatyard where I was due to be the following day to have my engine mounts replaced. That seemed the least of my cares at that moment. We discussed options for the boat, one of which was a new Vetus Beta 43 engine costing about £15k to fit. The cheapest option appeared to be to see if my BMC engine could be rebuilt. That would have to be done at another marina and boatyard near Rugby who specialised in my ancient engine. I would save about £400-500 if I took the engine myself in my van. I was still waiting for a call from the rescue service's co-contractor, so there was a lot to think about. Just to give me another concern it appeared that I had started a dogpile controversy on Facebook by having the temerity to moor and abandon my boat on the private moorings at "Butlins". I did not know anything about this until someone at the boatyard mentioned it, having recognised my boat from a photograph the affronted person had taken. I guess the woman who started the discussion must have tried to see if anyone was at home while I was out enjoying my vegan roast dinner the day before. I'm going to be generous here and assume she did indeed come down to the boat and try to arouse some response from me. Of course it's also possible that her keyboard was her first line of attack. I didn't see, and still have not seen, the discussion, but I believe it was quite lengthy and gave many people an opportunity to air their thoughts about water gypsies, ditch dwellers and the outrageous state of many of the boats on the system, specially the ones like mine, that had lost their shine owing to exposure to the weather. I believe there was also some outrage over how some people don't feel the rules apply to them and they think they can moor on private property whenever they please ... and so on.

This confused me a little. I knew it couldn't have been Stella, because she had come out to find out what was going on as soon as I had arrived. I'd seen who I'd thought was the neighbour on one side who was okay with me being there until I could move again. There was one neighbour I hadn't yet met so, on my return from the boatyard I called again at the house and this time, eventually, there was a response. The owner had just moved there a few weeks before and the family had been back in London over the weekend at a forest-school event when I had called round previously. We had a long and very interesting conversation. She told me that her children had been very excited to arrive home late on Sunday evening and discover a boat on the back garden mooring. Somehow I didn't think it would have been her either. I've no idea who the neighbour was that I spoke to when I arrived and why he hadn't explained the situation to anyone else in the house. The world is full of mysteries!

The view of the "Butlin's" moorings from my boat - far from the bank!

The Middle Level being primarily a drainage and flood defence system often leaves boaters a very distant third place in any list of priorities. Wiggenhall St Germans is home to one of the largest pumping stations in Europe and when heavy rainfall is anticipated or has just fallen, the river levels can change drastically over relatively short periods if the pumps are working hard. I've already mentioned that the water was too shallow to bring the stern of the boat in fully. I had woken up on my first morning to find the bow end grounded also. I couldn't push the boat out any further to allow it to find its own level so I was listing to port, which made walking around inside the boat a bit like walking round a steep hill when halfway up. As the day went on the pumps must have slowed allowing the water level to rise enough to let me push the boat out far enough for it to float again and moving around inside the boat was not such an uphill battle. Disembarking, though was another matter altogether. My gangplank was only about six feet long and the wood was rotting through. It was one of the things on my "to do list" that hadn't been done and using it was a definite liability. I knew M. had replaced his own gangplank recently when he and S. moved their boat to its new home. I asked him if he could help me out and he said he had just the thing if I could hang on until he was free to get over to me. He turned up a few hours later with S's son carrying a twelve-foot scaffold board and a saw. I thought immediately of a 1960s comedy sketch or, more unfairly, Laurel and Hardy. I suggested he didn't need to saw it. I have too frequently been caught up in situations where a longer gangplank would have proven very useful, however heavy and unwieldy it turns out to be. I was able to get on and off the boat with much less difficulty with the new super-gangplank.

There was no news from the co-contractor and they weren't answering the phone. I was clearly not any kind of priority for them.