Watching the weather like a hawk in search of a favourable slot, I identified Sunday 18 July late afternoon into evening and Monday morning as promising: nearly a week later, but even such a fine seaworthy vessels as Weatherbird had to sit out the storms in Cherbourg. So after a fine house-warming Sunday lunch with friends in Hatford, near Pusey, I drove to Radcot with victuals and pyjamas. Dulcibella was snug and dry, and Triton, the lagoon's owner had found the note I tied to her when I checked her out on Thursday. Blessings on his head. I set off (pic right) at 5.40 pm, while other boaters were tying up, and made excellent progress. There were still a few sharp gusts, but when they passed, it was easy-going. Grafton Lock was not far, and the keeper still on duty. Apparently an otter had been sighted further up: maybe I would see him on a future overnight.
Kelmscott, where I had planned to overnight, turned up at 7.40, sooner than I expected and was crowded with boats: crews tramping to The Plough, just 300 yards up the road. I was tempted, but there was still so much light that I decided to keep going. Passed a bay full of swallows swooping and some fine moorings at Eaton Hastings footbridge: this was where my collapsing mast arrangement on Gipsy collapsed during my Gipsy on the Thames adventure a couple of years ago.
Coots and herons brought to mind the first poem I ever recited: Tennyson's 'The Brook'. I realised that I had never really understood what 'I come from haunts of coot and hern' meant. Encountered a buxom inflatable, almost spinning in circles as one man paddled ineffectually and his companion laughed at him but still making good progress with wind and current. 'I was there an hour and a half ago, I said, which cheered them. My own plan was a jar in the pub I presumed I would find at Buscot, but walkers who told me it was only five minutes on warned that there wasn't one. Lovely weir and backwater as I approached - which would in truth be the last good overnight place, but I was tempted to go through that lock too.
Considered tying up at Buscot and walking to the village, but if it was all closed, it struck me that it would be better to explore on the way down, when a National trust tea-rooms promised light lunches as well as coffees and teas. This attitude rules my upstream progress: my plan is to make lots of diversions on the way down. After Buscot, the river, for the first time since Swinford Bridge, runs in hearing of the road, a great disincentive to stop. Hoping that it would veer away, I went on and on, water still as glass now. A huge hairpin, then one back again, on which I startled two silver-haired love-birds in the cockpit of their little cruiser. Dulcibella is so silent: maybe I should start gondolierish singing as I curl around corners. Quite a few people simply don't notice her passing at all. The flowers are many and various; it is perhaps the best time of year for them. I must identify them from my book: predominantly purple loosestrife, vetches, rosebay willowherb and a splendid fat pink thing a little like a snapdragon on steroids.
Dusk falling, and I began to eye up moorings. Had just decided to go a little further than a welcoming willow cage when I saw the transom of what was evidently the first of many - and the edge of a blue LOCK notice. I poled back to a bay out of sight of them, and tied bow to an ash sapling and stern to a willow bush. A swan hove to hopefully, then veered away.
About to phone Ellie to reassure her that mother was safe and well [how roles reverse] when I saw a message from brother John, who lives near Cirencester: I'd emailed him to ask if he would like to join me for the Conquest of Cricklade, and he was very keen: he also has acquaintances who live on or near the river above Lechlade, where I could perhaps leave Dulcie securely. Put most of the hood up; very cosy, discovered that there was still a little cider to drink a toast to myself, and chomped bread and cheese and fruit until comfortably full. Bats wheeling, a half moon rising, fine cloud effects. Found torch and suspended it from the centre hoop: I have all mod cons, including a useful small bucket, aboard. Slept very well; then saw light through small mousehole in the cover.
Five am. Drank cold tea, rolled up cover, and poled off at 5.30. St John's Lock was just around the corner, Lechlade's lance of a church spire framed in its bridge very beautifully. My way, hurray - as they all have been so far. Somewhere here is the entrance to the Colne: I must see how far up it I can go on the way down. So into the wide waters meandering up to Lechlade. No hurry at all, I realised, so at about 6 I tied up under a dead hawthorn, and fired up the Kelly Kettle with a few pages from my notebook and twigs broken off the tree. Boiled in two minutes; and although tea slightly strange tasting [carbonated water? use of coffee pot for tea?], it was hot and wet. On to the peacefully slumbering town, following a welcoming flotilla of eighteen swans and a very bossy Aylesbury duck that seemed to be in charge. Under bridge, past pub where Gipsy entered the water, past boatyards and up to the Round House, as I had sailed in her. But this time I went under its little wooden bridge, and peeped into the beginning of the long-disused Thames/Severn canal, then on in tranquility [though a small cruiser with fishermen aboard was also up there]. Passed point where Thames Path veers away to the road and Inglesham Church, and found where John's connection lived: no signal for mobiles, but they kindly let me phone him. He was a bit poorly, but so keen to come later that I decided to moor under a vast poplar and start again on Friday, when weather looks once more promising. Had a thorough boat-turnout: a remarkable amount of foliage gets in; I also needed to scoop water from below the bottom boards. She is evidently still taking up slightly, Very satisfying to clean her all up: I left cushions standing at attention to dry damp underneath. Watch over her, river gods.
