Drugged on the graffiti of east London

East London — that is to say, east London, and not East London — offers the tillerman an extraordinary visual experience. From his mooring in Limehouse Basin, where, if you squint and hold your breath, you can still imagine Dickens passing by at dusk, on his way to The Grapes just round the corner from this terminus of the Regent’s Canal.

The Grapes appears, hardly altered, in Our Mutual Friend. It was, Dickens wrote, “… a tavern of dropsical appearance… long settled down into a state of hale infirmity. It had outlasted many a sprucer public house, indeed the whole house impended over the water but seemed to have got into the condition of a faint-hearted diver, who has paused so long on the brink that he will never go in at all.”

Limehouse Basin pan 2

Surrounded by a series of new apartment blocks, like clippers heading into a strong north-easterly, the Basin is home to a handful of lucky souls rich enough to afford the steep mooring fees — the highest in England. For the casual visitor, there’s a 24-hour limit which we extended by another twelve hours after a chat with an obliging harbour master.

And then we were off again up the Lee Navigation which passes through the Olympic Park and a series of desolate industrial estates and along the western flank of several large reservoirs, the source of much of London’s freshwater, and home to tens of thousands of gulls.

But what intrigued this particular tillerman as much as the sights of the east — the huge building projects sprouting cranes by the dozen, the linear suburb of residential narrowboats tethered to the banks of the waterway for mile after mile after mile (the cheapest way to live in London these days), the cormorants, the swans and the odd mix of joggers on the towpath and canoeists in the water — was the graffiti.

Canoeists

Well, you know already that good graffiti sends goosebumps up my spine. There’s something about its iconoclasm, its fuck-you attitude, its streetsmarts, that intrigues and excites me. And when it’s done with flair and dash, well, you can imagine the effect.

Here is a sampling of some of the more colourful graffiti of east London. Some of this appears on the buildings and walls along the Lee Navigation, and some on the margins of the Regents Canal.

Here are some (more or less) representational images, rendered in many cases with skill and humour.

Plus more of the same:

Graffiti 25 - grinning pink skull

Then there are the more or less abstract graffiti:

Graffiti 13 -Wall

Graffiti 14 - Abstract

Then the more traditional ones, both flamboyant and severe:

Graffiti 1

And, finally, a message in a bottle:

Graffiti 24 - The future

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A far-flung corner of a remote province

Braunston to London: Days  9 – 10

Motoring on a highway is about getting from A to B as comfortably and as fast as possible.

Narrowboating on a canal is about the details of the journey. The destination – when you remember there is one – is of secondary importance.

Motoring on a highway is about mile-long sweeps of cambered concrete, about the large print on the road map, about last-second instructions on the GPS.

Narrowboating on a canal is about the secret views you catch through gaps in the hawthorn hedge… It’s about small signs erected almost shyly, along the way, promising cream scones or local ales… It’s about maps that plot your progress on a scale of a mile to an inch…

Motoring on a highway, above all, is about the big picture. Narrowboating, above all, is about the miniature.

And that’s what today’s blog, nominally tracking our progress from Berkhamsted to Uxbridge, is dedicated to: miniatures.

Take the plants that have found a niche within locks, for instance. They grow on the walls, or on the gates; they flourish in the cracks along the margin of locks; they’re small and infinitely tenacious… For the moment they must be nameless, because, to my shame, I haven’t yet mastered the botany of nondescripts.

Or take the wildflowers that flourish… everywhere. Fields of dandelions and buttercups and daisies… Banks of Queen Annes Lace… Forget-me-nots in extravagant profusion.

And then, of course, there are the details you notice scrawled in the shadows beneath bridges, or more flagrantly, on the buttresses that support them. We followed one artist through the bridges spanning the canal as it dropped down through Hemel Hempstead and Kings Langley.

So down we came through Apsley to Watford’s Cassiobury Park, through Rickmansworth to the outskirts of Uxbridge. En passant, we threaded our way delicately through a canalboat festival in Rickies at which some vintage boats, lovingly restored, prepared to show themselves off in all their finery. (And what some of them lacked in age and distinction, they more than made up for in colour and exuberance.)

And finally, thirty three locks after we left Berkhamsted, we’ve come to rest along a quiet stretch of canal just a mile or two from Uxbridge. We’re in London. We were left in little doubt about that when we witnessed with our own eyes an underground train passing across the canal on its way to the heart of the metropolis. And yet here, if we mute the distant thrum of traffic, we might be in some far-flung corner of a remote and watery province, the haunt of moorhens and herons, of mute swans and cormorants.

Reflections

Damp pilgrims beneath a weeping sky

We’re sitting in Berkhamsted while the rain descends steadily about us. Trickles of icy water make their way through our window frames – one of the unintended consequences of the big paint job. At breakfast this morning, the temperature was nine degrees centigrade. Now, at the very height of the afternoon, it has dropped to eight degrees.

These are not great hardships, of course, but we shiver in Patience because our diesel stove, after some years of disuse, now refuses to release the thin line of diesel it needs to fuel it. We curse, and swear we’ll have it replaced with a solid fuel stove… next year.

We’ve come from The Globe, past sheep farms and reservoirs, up through the Marsworth Flight onto the Tring Summit pound. In the distance, on the Dunstable Downs, the Whipsnade Lion.


A summit pound, I hear you ask? Some writers hyperbolically talk about the “rollercoaster ride” of the Grand Union between London and Braunston. What they mean is that there are two high points along the hundred mile span of the canal: one above Braunston’s six locks; and another at Tring.

Tring’s summit pound was cut largely through a hill. That it was done without benefit of earth-moving equipment, more than two hundred years ago, is an astonishing thought, since hundreds of thousands of tons of rock and earth had to be dug out and shifted elsewhere. The legacy of that monumental effort is a beautiful stretch of canal, lined with sycamores and oaks and a dozen other species of trees I can’t identify. I throttled down to move as slowly as possible through the cut, savouring the play of light and shadow on the water.

So from Tring to London, a distance of forty miles or so, it’s all downhill. We enter each of the fifty locks between the summit pound and Paddington Basin full, and leave them behind us, empty.

Entering a full lock, and descending to the next level down is a much more peaceful process than entering an empty lock and having it filled to take you up to the next level. It’s less turbulent. You don’t have to tie up to a bollard. You don’t have to strain to keep the boat from being buffeted from side to side by the inrush of water.

A typical lock on the GUC, by the way, is seventy two feet long, fifteen feet wide, and anywhere between five and ten feet deep. Which means, if you work out the maths and do the conversion, that a typical lock contains about 230 000 litres. That’s about the equivalent of four average South African domestic swimming pools. So efficient were the 18th and 19th century engineers who designed and built the original locks, that, by means of an ingenious system of pulleys and chains, operated entirely by hand, they can fill – or empty – in between five and ten minutes.

And so through Tring and Cowroast, from swerve of shore to bend of bay – as James Joyce might have said – we come by a commodious vicus of recirculation back to Berkhamsted, a gracious town once served by Geoffrey Chaucer, who was responsible for the upkeep and maintenance of Berkhamsted Castle. The castle has been reduced to a few stone stumps in the grass – but Chaucer’s reputation has never been higher.

And we are ourselves, of course, on a pilgrimage of sorts. We’re not heading for Canterbury Cathedral – our destination is both more prosaic and less identifiable: it is a life we seek, of peace and serenity, of chance encounters with other pilgrims, of sunny days and, yes, miserably cold and wet days.

We met two other narrowboaters on the locks descending into Berkhamsted. Andy and Barbara on their boat Libertè. Living on the Lee River in London, with a boat moored in a marina in, wait for it, Yardley Gobion, they make an annual pilgrimage to bring their boat down to their house for the summer.

You can make a friendship over the course of a dozen locks. We’ll call them when we get to the Lee later in May, or early June.

And two more pilgrims in Berkhamsted itself. Three years ago we met Lindy and Brian on the way back to Braunston, sharing an impromptu feast on the canalpath at the end of a day of locks. We called them just a few days ago to say we’d be passing through, and they invited us to moor up at their private mooring in the heart of the town, where once they ran a boat hire business.

Since then, Lindy’s gone on to be mayor of the town – and, to petition the House of Lords in a passionate and successful plea, to prevent the effective privatization of aspects of the canals.

So here we sit, damp pilgrims beneath a weeping sky. Tomorrow, they say, will be drier and just slightly warmer.

Rainy day in Berkhamsted

Written in wind

Braunston to London: Day 3

The story of the next stage of our odyssey to London is written in wind – specifically an unrelenting south westerly gale that started gusting as we set off from Weedon Bec, and whipped us along the 15-mile pound that ends only at the seven-lock flight at Stoke Bruerne.

Let’s start with a definition: a pound is a length of canal between locks. It can be just eighty or ninety feet in length, between locks in a leisurely flight up a hillside. Or it can be miles in length.

What it gives the intrepid traveller, of course, is several hours of lock-free travelling. Bear in mind that we average three m.p.h. on a lock-free section of a canal – so fifteen miles translates into five hours of cruising bliss.

Or in this case, hell. Because that gale, which gusted about us unevenly for the entire duration of the day, was not only freezing, but it severely challenged my steersmanship.

A narrowboat of our length – 50 feet – possesses a side-on profile of about 200 square feet. That’s the size of a small yacht’s (say the Beetle 14’s) main sail. So when the wind’s coming at you beam on – to landlubbers that simply means, at right angles to your direction of travel – it’ll tend to push you very rapidly to the side of the canal.

To counter this, you have to steer into the wind. Which means that from above it looks very much as though you’re scuttling along at a decided angle both in terms of your horizontal axis, and in terms of your procession through the water.Canting before the wind

But aesthetics aside, it also means that when you pass a line of narrowboats moored to the canal path, you have to take great care not to risk colliding with them. And even greater care when another narrowboat approaches and the two of you cautiously pass one another, exchanging worried gestures of greeting as you do so. And the greatest care when both events occur simultaneously.

Ah, the delights of simply messing about on boats!

(A short digression:

‘Believe me,’ (said the Water Rat,) ‘my young friend, there is NOTHING – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simple messing about in boats. Simply messing,’ he went on dreamily: ‘messing—about—in-boats; messing – ’

‘Look ahead, Rat!’ cried the Mole suddenly.the-wind-in-the-willows-illustration-e-h-shepard

It was too late. The boat struck the bank full tilt. The dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.

‘— about in boats — or WITH boats,’ the Rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh. ‘In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.’ )

Virgin train with birdsSo after several hours of buffeting, we arrived at a likely spot, far from any tree that might be uprooted by the blast to fall on us, and moored up snugly against the bank. On our left, a hawthorne hedge leaning compliantly away from the wind. On our right, the railway line on which at regular intervals a banshee wail presages the passing of a Virgin train.

And above, rooks like sheets of black paper, tumbling before the wind, and clouds scudding across a pale blue sky at simply astonishing speed.

 

Braunston to London MapAngela asks, where precisely are we, and can I provide a map so that she can keep track of our slow progress south? I hope this helps. We’re travelling from Braunston near the top left of the picture down to London, bottom right. Right now we’re just north of the village called Cosgrave — although, if the wind ever lets up, we’re hoping to pierce the complexity of Milton Keynes tomorrow.