So when I left you last time the incompetent crew were on our way up to Hull to collect Monty. Naturally, this isn't actually where this chapter starts. I mentioned previously that there was a two-week gap between clicking 'buy it now' and then driving up to the frozen north. Having taken the plunge, clicked 'buy it now' and paid the money I was now the proud owner of a small boat on a trailer. Great.
I live in a terraced house on a narrow street in a market town in the East Midlands, and such is the way of the 21st century there are more cars than spaces. Although my neighbours are for the most part a friendly bunch, putting a trailered boat on the street would not win friends. With discretion being the better part of valour I endeavoured to find suitable accommodation for my new purchase.
Finding somewhere would prove to be something of a trick. I needed to find somewhere I could store the boat, work on the boat and launch the boat. I also wanted somewhere relatively nearby and of course, reasonably priced. All this had to be found within the next two weeks as the clock was now ticking.
So the search began. I quickly ruled out caravan storage as the nearby sites are just secured car parks and not geared up to amateur enthusiasts making lots of dust and mess. Coastal yards also quickly ruled out due to time and distance. Leaving the only realistic option somewhere on the
inland waterways.
Where I live is central to the Grand Union Canal or the river Nene. In the end, I opted to focus my search for a suitable home to the canal as it's ever so slightly nearer. I am more familiar with the canals thanks to my dad, who had retired to a narrowboat over a decade ago and then used that time to explore pretty much all of the canal networks before ill health and old age ended his adventures. He had mentioned some time ago about coming across a little yard when on his travels that was unusual in that it had 'plastic boats' (of all things) 'piled up out the back'.
This recollection wasn't an awful lot to go on, and in a sad footnote to this segment, I was unable to ask him as he had passed away two months previously having had to give up the aquatic life. I must also mention at this point the lovely people at Braunston Marina and the boathouse pub, whose kindness and compassion allowed Dad to continue living his best life on his boat way longer than he could have done on his own and ultimately, they saved his life, (not for the first time) by finally convincing him to throw in the towel and accept the move into sheltered accommodation and putting the boat up for sale.
I think this sense of community is perhaps what ultimately convinced me that somewhere on the canal would be the best place to give Monty a new home. Also, the poignancy of my dad's passing just a few days after the sale of his boat went through isn't lost on me; indeed it might well be the real starting point for this whole endeavour?
Nevertheless armed with the knowledge of dads usual regular cruising routes and Google maps on satellite view, I could track down the mystery boatyard as North Kilworth Wharf.
A quick click on the maps link directed me to their website and contact details. I made some inquiries, and they invited me to look at the space they had available (thankfully they did have some).
It took just over 20 minutes to get there, and upon arrival, I knew I had found Monty's new home. Not a plush marina by any stretch of the imagination, and to be honest, it could be a contender as a location for the GRP boat version of scrapheap challenge - it's magnificent. No perfectly manicured and polished weekend gin palaces in sight, just a lot of boats in varying states of repair and each one a much loved 'project'. Monty was going to fit right in.
Treated to a tour of the site, Monty's spot was just by the entrance under a tree. Not great, nor terrible I thought, and at this point, beggars can't be choosers, on to the workshops, which were dedicated to their narrowboat customers unfortunately for me. Mechanical, carpentry and painting sheds. There are toilets, water and electricity for a small fee per day and the slipway, again for a fee.
Needless to say, I signed up on the spot, and a few days later when I was heading to the frozen north to collect Monty, I was confident that I had somewhere sensible to take him.
The journey up for the incompetent crew was reasonably uneventful. Although somewhat off the beaten track, the seller's location was accurate enough to find him. However, on arrival in a narrow street in a little Yorkshire village, we saw no boat.
We parked up, with an exhalation of breath and a sideways glance that conveyed what we were both thinking "well now what do we do?"
In answer to this unspoken question, a man emerged from one of the nearby houses and wandered over to the car.
I found this immediate response to the arrival of 'outsiders' quietly disconcerting, we are living in a time of plague after all. My intrusive thoughts of being dragged off to a Wickerman by a horde of angry, torch-bearing, pitchfork waving villagers was quickly dispelled by a friendly enquiry "are you Duncan come to collect the boat?"
Once we had established that yes I was and yes I have and hello's, the seller informed us that the boat was in a barn on his friend's farm and that the postcode for it "plays hell with sat-nav" so it was easier to bring us here to his home so we can follow him to the boat's location. Mystery solved.
The seller then popped back into his house and came out carrying a large tarpaulin. "This is the cover included in the sale description" he informed me. After placing the tarp in the boot, we followed him for the short journey to the farm, and there was Monty, sat upon his trailer.
I had done some homework with towing and in the car was a new light board with an extension lead and a pair of mudguards to make sure I was absolutely road legal. It's a long drive back to the wharf, and I was nervous enough about towing an unknown quantity a hundred miles. I haven't towed anything of note in almost 20 years and wanted to avoid any unnecessary entanglements with law enforcement if at all possible.
Once I got up close to the boat, I was pleased to see that the photos and the description were honest, the trailer did indeed have new trailing arm axels, new tyres, and a new hitch.
On further enquiry I discovered that the trailer was originally an agricultural trailer - it looks like it was made from old tank parts. I was dismayed to discover that what looked in the photos like bunks supporting the hull were the mounts for four supermarket trolley wheels welded into position to act as rollers presumably. All of them had deformed over time and two of them were supporting nothing. I put the replacement of this nonsense high on the mental 'to-do' list as 'urgent'.
I asked the seller if we could fit the mudguards on in the farmyard before venturing out onto the open road. He responded with a cheerful "no problem" and told me more about the boat's history as far as he knew.
The seller had bought it as a project. He had spotted it quietly mouldering away in some waste ground behind the school he works at as a teacher. After asking around, he managed to track down the owner who had also bought it as a project. The seller (The one I am talking to not the seller who sold it to him - pay attention at the back) has no idea of the original manufacturer, or whether the engine which does indeed turn freely as described, runs.
What he does know is that the boat was initially named 'Sarah', which became visible after years of dirt and grime was jetwashed off before the sale photos. - No doubt where the water in the bilge had come from.
While we were clearing that up, incompetent crewman Mike had climbed into the boat to unbolt the outboard from the stern, stow it away onboard and secure the light board. There was an unpleasant cracking sound from inside the boat, and a panicked glance was shared between the seller and new owner.
After looking, it became clear that the rough-looking fibreglass flooring was cracked in places and worn away in others along the boat's length either side of the bilge. The sound was the cracked edges snapping against each other.
Something else on the 'to-do list' also marked urgent.
With Mike now having climbed gingerly out of the boat we set about securing the other mudguard, light board and boat to the trailer.
With that, we bade farewell to the seller and got back into the car for the journey home. "You ok?" Mike asked,
My internal monologue went something along the lines;
"There are 106 miles to the wharf, and we have three-quarters of a tank, a boat of unknown origin with a cracked floor balanced on its bow and two warped trolley wheels all of which is strapped to an agricultural trailer with dubious welds and no brakes. I haven't towed in almost 20 years, it's partially cloudy, and we're wearing sunglasses with half a packet of cigarettes."
What I actually said was, "yeah, I'm fine mate, what could possibly go wrong?"
