Mistral Blows West by Clarissa Vincent, September 1999

The story of my inland voyage from Ely in Cambridgeshire to Bristol in the South West. Mistral is a 1975 Dawncraft 25 and is my new home.

Chapter 1.

Sitting inside on soft, comfortable cushions, I speak to myself. " I live eer". Grin. What do I do when it rains? Put the cover up and be unable to see forward, or let the cockpit get all wet? I suppose if it really slashes down I can have a break and put up the cover and make a cup of tea.

The Black Horse at Littleport. Children running around roaring like lions and a sign saying "LONGBOATS MOOR TWO ABREAST". I should get the map and sort out my navigation, but I'm prolonging the stepping into infinity feel of not looking at maps.

That's the second sign saying "48 HOUR MOORINGS. NO FISHING". Both had boats with fishing rods poking out.

"A10 DOWNHAM MARKET 12 KINGS LYNN 23". Not far to Salters Lode I seem to remember Downham Market being at least 5 miles away from Denver Sluice, which makes it at the most 7 miles until I can eat something, I'm starving.

A micro-light whooshes by at 300 feet, I wanted him to buzz me , I feel as free as he looks.

Amazing green boat with "Trinkets and trash!" daubed on the stern. A hot air balloon in the distance, white vans and clicking family saloons follow the river behind a grass bank fronted by willows and reeds. Every quarter of a mile Great crested Grebes sit midstream looking at my approach with this eye then that eye, on sharp faces.

1910hrs The shadow of my head goes along through the reeds, now it is cooler 1925hrs Southey, near the Hillgay Maze. Over the bank a small, old looking, house roof shows. A rickety diminutive staging sits in the reeds with a sign attached. Amateurish writing states " ANTIQUES". I hope they don't fall prey to Viking longboats.

The Ship Inn, at Brandon Creek, smells of steak and chips. A family chew pub grub in the garden, am I looking at them or are they looking at me? 1946hrs It's official! fen skies are WIDE. Stunningly beautiful cloud gashes and slutters ring the horizon.

I'm so busy writing on this little Psion 5 I 'm bound to brush the bank eventually. It's ten to eight and nearly dusk.

I arrived at Denver sluice at 2045 hrs, my navigation was wrong, putting me 3 miles back. The spaghetti that Mum cooked and gave to me was very enjoyable. Speed from Ely to Denver 6.1 mph. 17 miles took 2 3/4 hours. This shows a speed of 1 mile in 9.1 minutes.

Saturday 4th September.

In the morning I found out the locking through time and met a sweet dog who sat contentedly by the boat for the morning, he was a cross between a Spaniel and a Labrador. Denver Sluice lock opens at 1300 hrs BST. Time now 1244 hrs.

Narrowboat tied up in front of Mistral, just as I peer forward to check, -BUMP!-. I disdainfully retract my peering and mutter to myself about bloody "longboats".

"Reg", retired early, tattooed like a brickie, spends time with his big old Labrador gundog, fishing, shooting and going down the pub. About wives, "First one died, second one won't", and to compound a misogynists volley, "Invite the wife down every 6 months, show er the cabin, giv er a shovel and a bucket and piss off down the pub"! Not very pleasant at all, I was just nice to avoid his underlying anger at the world.

1300 hrs Lock through Denver Sluice. A narrowboat and family prepare somewhat nervously. This nervous tension peaks as the lock starts to open and an anchor and warp is wrestled out of a deep locker. "I hate this stretch, every time" sings the skipper of the narrowboat while his partner increases the tension by reminding him that "Well there IS a woman and child aboard!".