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 2.

I want the sea, I'm in the salters Lode stretch, it just smells and feels right. The interaction, the strong current. Approaching the lock now, a narrowboat ahead, the skipper with the thinly veiled anxiety about tackling the tide. Suddenly he has hit so hard that water shot upward from the bows, the tide took hold of the projecting stern and a fight ensued. The skipper thrashed the tiller this way and that. I decided to keep well clear.

My entrance went with a bump but I retained my composure, in , I like to think, an experienced manner!

The lock.... bump.... in.... dripping gate.... information pack....sign your name.... bump.... weed....out....bump....a muttered reply to someone who didn't say anything.

The frazzled nerves narrowboat skipper kept his sense of humour as when asked the length of boat he replied "Forty feet, well it was, it's about thirty-nine now!". Laughter from the assembled party of onlookers, invisible behind the high sun, from the deep bowels of Salters Lode lock.

A cyclist waves he's almost sexy in a retired looking way. sort of lithe and speedy in a gentlemanly sporty way, on a racer with a peaked touring cap. White Nissan Sunny, two white haired ladies, lets call them Mary and Brenda, natter at speed, pass without a look in my direction.

Family fishing two or three crew cut pre- adolescents jump around flicking various bits of amateur fishing equipment at the water.. Mum, fat under an umbrella gives a toothless smile and a wave, the kids on realising that I am neither fish nor fowl, send out a series of utterances, perfectly modulated to span the growing gap between them and myself. I ignore it all,wondering why the adult failed to give one of them a slap?

1450 hrs Outwell

Did they build the river to fit the boats, or are they just drains and boats have insisted on using them? "TOWN STREET" feels like driving up the gutter. I could almost have a "DON'T TOUCH" sign on the boat as kids sitting kicking their heels kind of smile, not knowing whether I'm a parental, authoritative type or not.. A little SPAR shop provides me with chocolate and a moments rest from constant progress along the river. A woman with bleached blond hair, little black dress and spiked heels buys some biscuits and cat food then wiggles out. This impresses the young shopkeeper, who stands holding the open door grinning at the black dress. I am virtually ignored, apart from a decent level of service, but then I'm in grubby jeans, T-shirt and trainers.

Young men in shiny four-wheel dives screech about the village, young farmers?

Marmont Priory lock with the fierce (?) reputation of the lockeeper, as I approach hands wave me away. Then reverse signals come in, I'm beckoned in. A perfect little scene,geraniums along the shaded lock sides and overarching willows.

A photographer in a suit steps forward asking if he can take some photos. Press? I imagine a media hype brewing as a result of various reports and descriptions of "An unusual bird of passage passing through the Fens".

"No, I don't mind ". I say naively. Just then a bride and groom appear under the shadows, it clicks that theirs is the moment and the photographer is not after a scoop.

"Can we stand on the front?" They ask. "Yeah, no problem" I say as I realise that with just my weight, the windscreen flexes problematically! (Dad had warned me about this. I imagine the chosen position of the wedded pair would be right where the windscreen meets the deck). I urge them to stay near the front as possible and the Photo-shoot commences. I see them silhouetted against the shady willows, muttering sweet somethings to one another.

After they all left, the lockeeper drove off to spot the narrowboat that had come through Salters Lode with me. I told her they had definitely said they'd stop the night in Outwell. The auxiliary lockeeper walked off and returned to his mowing and I was left in calm shady peace writing my log. I am so thankful for this enforced wait, it is very calm and pleasant.

The lockeeper is a long time returning I guess she's decided to nip into Tesco's and get the shopping, then there'll be the car to fill up....urban life.

Now that's how locks should be; as restorative as a health farm, a chance for the whole family to chat ( I remember the attractive teenage daughter from when I passed through with Juggler. Then, she had the same continental , dusky skin colour, but was a wide eyed child. As long as lockeepers insist on getting in the car to check for boats, without calling in to Tesco's it'll be a sane world. The moment that a lockeeper nips to Tesco's will be the moment at which the manned (womanned) lock will be replaced by an automatic one. Unmanned, efficient and no longer capable of producing memories, for mariners or married couples.

The reason that the narrowboat from Denver Sluice was not coming was the bang it had when attempting to enter Salters Lode in the tideway, they hit head on at about three knots. After that they probably felt like a rest away from witnesses! I don't blame them, I found the manoeuvre difficult, clonking the side as the tide made its point (and I've got nearly a decade of experience in tidal waters). The difference is that I was nonchalant about my clonk but the narrowboat skipper was anxious about his. That's what experience is! Clonks happen, I've had loads.

The duck-weed completely covered the waterway for about 2 miles after Marmont Priory Lock. Frequent changes into reverse gear with bursts of throttle, cleared the propellor for a short distance. This stretch looked like a grass path, it was hard to see it as water at all, speed was down to 2 knots. Where the larger waterway is joined, the weed is no more, now a wide breezy stretch had me bowling aong, heading for March Whittlesey and eventually, Peterborough.

A wrong turn. Rattling along at 5.5 knots,writing up my log, I mistakenly turned right up the Twenty Foot Drain with it's low bridge.The reversing and tumult of a quick turn-about cleared the prop completely of weed.

A bowl floats by full of fisherman's maggots, dyed orange, like boatpeople or refugees in lifejackets. 1745 hrs. The Old Nene two miles from March. The river is bigger and freer, as Mistral sweeps westerly. 1755 hrs Entering March.

After phoning Stanground Lock and being told by Mr Routham the keeper, that 2.30pm was the latest he could let me through, I worked out a plan for the morning to get to Stanground in time. Sunday 5th September.

Departed March mooring 0827 hrs. The gardens backing onto the river are pretty and very charming. There's ramshackle old boats draped in willow, duck ramps, a dovecote, a myriad of small steps and pieces of garden furniture made from driftwood.

Fishermen set up their gear like artists with their easels. I saw a Kingfisher, which was nice because I heard an item on Radio 4 this morning describing the way they fish and the song they do, or do not, sing.