“Do you ever get lonely?” A question many folks ask me. I assume they’re referring to towpath life as opposed to my being in general. It could be the latter, but in the following, we shall assume/hope it is the former.

The canal network of Great Britain was designed as a transport link connecting towns and cities and allowing the passage of huge quantities of goods, weighing tens of tonnes, towed by no more than a horse. Naturally, many sections of the waterway run through industrial heartland, such as Birmingham and London, posh towns (who used to and possibly still do like coal) such as Berkhamsted and Rickmansworth and quaint villages like Tring. Also, the occasional shit hole, but I will leave these unnamed. In-between these landmarks lie acres of countryside (and cement factories and water treatment plants and the occasional flour mill, but mostly countryside). I like the countryside. I moor in towns to use the laundrette and do a big food shop, but I spend most of my time moored in-between, enjoying the sights of herons and kingfishers rather than pigeons and domesticated swans. I spend most of my weekdays aboard, going on the occasional walk, cycle ride or run and endeavour to make weekend plans if I can. This means that I spend most of my time by myself, which I quite like, but I am not left without conversation. The canal is a chatty place.

Let’s start with a typical Sunday – boat moving day. I’m taking my rubbish out. I meet a neighbour – Steve. We chat for a while about boaty things. This works out very well because I am about to head into Waitrose. I will only learn at 10:58am at the checkout that despite opening at 10am, Waitrose does not serve customers until precisely 11am on Sundays. It does not take one hour to find three red onions and a four pack of tinned tomatoes, so thank you Steve for filling this time that I did not know needed filling. I do wish we could have spoken for two extra minutes.

In the time it has taken me to select my shopping, wait patiently for the tills to open and then pay, a new boat has moored up right next to mine. There is a friendly couple on board. I am leaving in 10 minutes and feel the need to jest that I am not leaving on their part. Following this excellent banter, we chat for a bit. During this time, their dog pees on my boat and I do not draw their attention to it because that would not be proper. It’s not like it’s a shit. As I am setting off, one of them is rubbing their back hatch sliders with a candle. I question this act and she explains that it serves as lubricant. She snaps off some of the candle and hands it to me for my own use as lubricant (neither of us actually use the word “lubricant” during this exchange as this would also not be proper).

I set off, reverse the boat and do a quarter turn to line myself up with the water point (not an easy job with no bow thrusters). A woman watches this superb bit of manoeuvring with her child and shares her sadness with the lack of canals where they reside. I am listening, but also trying not to crash. I moor up at the facilities. As I am emptying away cassettes full of my own sewage, my aunt and uncle turn up (they are my crew for the day – they did not come to watch, hear or smell the flowing excrement). We catch up over a coffee and set off.

Crew member one – Andy – has given himself the duty of watching the bow. His gentle nudges from ship to towpath align us beautifully through the tight bridges. Crew member two – Suzie – keeps me company at the stern and keeps an eye on the side of the ship that I can’t see from my skipper’s perch. We arrive at the first lock and start with a lesson. The lock fills quickly and it isn’t a long journey to the next one. It is common that lock operations will attract the attention of the towpath. At the second Camden lock back in April, my friends and I attracted an audience of what could have been a hundred tourists. In today’s case, it is a woman and her son. She is very friendly and he is very inquisitive. He asks questions about how the lock works. In particular, he asks us how we will drive the boat over the front gate once the water levels equal out. I know children don’t have GCSEs, but what an idiot. Rather importantly, this is a thought I have rather than a communication. I explain to him that we open the gate instead of driving over it. He is very accepting of this and doesn’t look embarrassed. This is because, as a child, he will be used to saying stupid things. I say this all in jest. Most fully grown adults will admit to having no idea how a lock actually works. We enjoy the final leg of the journey, move through the final lock and moor up in time for lunch. It is a lovely afternoon.

Later on, I am cleaning the crud off of my roof in preparation for a solar installation. A man with two dogs is passing by and stops to ask some questions. He is in the process of purchasing his first narrowboat. We chat for an hour and I share whatever useful information I can think of. I also learn that he works in Horsham – my origin town. A place no one north of Surrey has heard of.

My human interaction count of the day is a solid eight (and this doesn’t even include everyone). The towpath is not a lonely place. On the day of writing this, I went for a morning stroll to forage apples and spent 20 minutes chatting with another walker. This isn’t uncommon. Furthermore, regular exchanges with passing boaters provides another source of conversation, though usually brief and very repetitive:

“Morning. Nice day for it.”

“Rather windy this afternoon.”

“Shallow here, innit?”

Or, sometimes, if you’re feeling feisty, you challenge them with a “that’s more than 4mph”. Interestingly, it is often older people who exceed this unthinkable speed. They get towpath pace and canal pace mixed up, cruising the cut at 4mph and walking down the towpath at 1mph. 

On my journey down the Arm, I have been spoiled to an array of crew members – Caitlin and Olly, Jacob and Saskia, James and Josie, Andy and Suzie and next time Tom and Clare (these are all couples and I have just realised that I am a master at third-wheeling). But even on solo voyages, there is plenty of chit chat. Dog walkers will speak to me from the towpath, complimenting the boat or making some witty remark about something or other. It’s hard to be too certain because what they don’t seem to realise is that I cannot hear a word they’re saying over the engine roar. I reiterate that locks are a social place too – either providing an opportunity to chat with other boaters waiting in the queue or occasionally a means to engage with the local community out on their saunters. Two weeks ago, a cyclist took great interest in a lock James, Josie and I were struggling to open. He even offered his help. The next day, we cruised past him and his family and he looked pleased to see us (and possibly relieved that we must have eventually made it through the lock). We assume it was his family. It could have been some people he was following in close proximity. Maybe he thought we were his family? Maybe we are all family. No. Definitely not. Then everyone would be inbred. See you next time.