I could hear music drifting across the cut.
I had just returned from a lovely pub lunch with a friend and, unusually, was still wearing something slightly smarter than my usual boating gear. I hadn’t bothered changing before untying - I’d decided to reverse a couple of miles back to the facilities rather than go forwards.
It sounded as though there was some sort of party in the distance.
At the time, I had rather more pressing things on my mind.
I felt the easiest way to reverse this particular stretch was to walk along the towpath, pulling Craftybird with the centre line. The prop was fouling with weed every few minutes, so it seemed sensible not to use the engine unless absolutely necessary.
It was all going beautifully until I reached a bend and realised the stern would swing too far out into the canal if I wasn’t careful.
Feeling quite pleased with myself, I took a second rope from the stern so I could guide the back of the boat around the corner.
All went swimmingly, right up until the point where the boat drifted about ten feet from the bank, found the shallowest, siltiest bit of canal imaginable… and stopped dead.
There I stood, one rope in each hand, both stretched to their absolute limit.
I couldn’t let go of either because whichever one I dropped would disappear into the canal.
I couldn’t reach the boat.
I couldn’t reach anywhere.
I simply stood there for several minutes wondering how I had managed to find myself in such an absurd situation.
Thankfully, help appeared in the form of a lovely lady, who agreed to hold one of the ropes while I tried hauling the boat back into deeper water. We tugged together, one on each rope.
The boat responded by becoming even more firmly embedded in the silt.
Then a cyclist arrived.
By now we were improvising. We tied one of the ropes around a nearby tree and used it as a sort of handrail.
My phone was on the boat.
The dogs were on the boat.
Everything I owned was on the boat.
There seemed to be only one option for getting back to it.
Before I climbed into the canal, the lady apologised and said, “I’d love to stay and help, but I’m on my way to a party.”
I thanked her profusely and wished her a lovely afternoon. I was enormously grateful she’d stopped at all, and slightly horrified that she’d risked her party outfit to haul ropes for a total stranger.
(Disregarding what I was about to do to my own.)
With the cyclist holding the rope tight, I used it as a handrail while I eased myself into the black, stinky water, fully expecting to disappear into deep silt.
Thankfully, there were enough submerged twigs and branches to give me something to stand on.
I waded through the black water, reached the boat, tied the rope back onto the stern into a loop for a step and managed to wrestle myself aboard.
The cyclist headed off and I was just looking forward to a shower and some clean, dry clothes when another passer-by appeared.
Spotting my rather sorry state, he offered to help.
I figured bird in hand and all that…
So, armed with my pole, a good shove from the towpath and a heavy-duty blast with the engine, we finally persuaded the boat into deeper water.
I was still dripping with black silt and looking more swamp monster than boater.
He carried on his way.
I had a shower, put on some clean, dry clothes and carried on reversing.
A few minutes later, I continued backwards past the source of the music.
It wasn’t just a party.
It was a full-blown rave, with 20-foot-high speakers hidden among the trees.
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