Berko Visitor Moorings to Cow Roast Marina
Yesterday I thought I’d managed to fend off a migraine, this morning I knew I’d failed. Sadly we needed to keep moving. Dark glasses and a slow pace, aided by hobbling anyway, would be the way forward and upwards today.
At the two Gas Locks I was very pleased to see a volunteer, who set the second lock for us and closed up too, saving crossing gates. Blimey I felt rotten. Should I opt to be at the helm instead? Less walking, but guiding Oleanna into locks was not something my brain wanted to deal with. Thankfully by the time we reached our third and forth lock the Co-codamol had kicked in and I started to feel a little bit less than 97 years old.
A single hander jumped onto his roof. Two boats approached Northchurch Lock from above, advance crew about to lift the wrong paddles. Mick corrected them, then I corrected them again. I apologise if I was a touch short, by now I’d reached 87 years old and was turning a touch crabby. Two more boats followed these guys.
At Dunswell Bottom Lock we could see someone filling the chamber, shame I’d have appreciated an extra pair of hands. I managed to chat to the chap with his dog, they were on a mission to do 24 lock miles a day to reach Limehouse in time, not sure what for though. He made comments to the lady at the helm via walkie talkie, I could only hear her side of the conversation ‘That’s because I wanted to do it that way!‘. The dog dictated that they wouldn’t go down the steps to get on the boat, but would walk over the bridge to get back on, leaving his gate open for me to close along with mine which I’d opened so Mick could come in on my side. Maybe aged 82 now I couldn’t be bothered with the chap. He apparently ordered the lady to pick him up from in front of Oleanna, she’d been hovering waiting for Mick to move into the lock. She was then told off for coming in too quickly, the dog fell in and was hoiked out on it’s lead.
Now 80 I could appreciate the cottages on the other side of the road, the sky was blue and they made a pretty picture, I’ve always liked them. I hopped on board to get to the next lock, here I noticed for the first time the hills and fields around us. Of course they’ve always been there, just grey days and aiming for the summit clouding them from view. Today at the good age of 77 I had time to admire them.
A Heron preened itself sat in a tree, hunched over as if it was miserly counting it’s pennies, keeping them out of view from thieving prying eyes.
Boats lined the final pound up to Cow Roast. Where did the name come from? Well according to wikipedia the village lies on an ancient drovers route through the Chilterns and here was where cattle could be rested in pens on their way to market, Cow Rest which over time became Cow Roast.
As always at this time of year a group of Duke of Edinburgh award walkers came past, rucksacks on their backs. As we rose up the lock they came past us again, they’d gone wrong somewhere and were having to retrace their steps. Quite a distance to the next road or two, if their route was meant to stay alongside a canal, they’d have all the way back to Bulbourne to walk for the Wendover Arm! Good job they were teenagers.
At 75 we turned the steep turn into Cow Roast Marina, steeper than we remembered it being. Camera zoomed in to check the numbers on the end of the berths, there was ours just to the left. Blimey they are narrow! All three of us held our breath as Mick did his best to straighten Oleanna up so she wasn’t jammed against the next boat and the pontoon at the same time. Finally we could go straight in, just enough room for fenders on both sides of us.
At 73 I accompanied Mick to the office, hobbling along, maybe a colourful walking stick might be a good accessory! We’d just caught the chap before he disappeared into the attic. A key fob and instructions on how to top up the post with electric were handed over then we were left to ourselves.
Lunch then the finishing touches to my painting. I also wanted to scan it and our printer/scanner wasn’t playing ball. My 72 year old brain just couldn’t cope so handed it over to the IT department, after a while a new program had been downloaded and a decent scan of my painting scanned. I’ll show it to you in a couple of days, someone else needs to see it first.
A quiet evening of being in my late 60s. Pair 28 were cast off. Now I just need to make up my mind on what yarn to use for the next pair, purple, orange and turquoise, or scrappy socks of many many colours? I decided to leave that decision for when I’m back in my late 50s.
7 locks, 2.7 miles, 6 downhill boats, 1 soggy Pekinese, 30 years in a day, 1 heron, 1 disappointed cat, 1 fob, 1 tight squeeze, 1 more lodger booked, 1 risky plan paid off, 1 painting scanned and packed, 2 boaters hemmed in.
TV had to be watched via the Roku this evening as there was no signal to be had. I now have a question for ourselves. Is it worth continuing to post thumbs at moorings anymore? Or are they now redundant?
