The Flying Lentil The log of Festina Lente, Sigma 38

From Rowing on the Thames

The problem with coming home to reality is that there is too much to do. Every room in the house needs to be cleared of the accumulated detritus of years, whilst the lofts contain generations of belongings which have grown on their own ( and we have 3 lofts!). And as for the garage…!
“What we want is rest” said Lynda .
“Rest and a complete change” said I. “The overstrain upon our brains has produced a general lassitude. Perhaps a change of scene and the absence of yet more sorting out will restore the mental equilibrium”
Which is how we found ourselves that afternoon rowing away from the navigable head of the River Thames at Lechlade , bound downstream for Oxford. Did I say “rest”?
Jerome k Jerome regarded weather forecasts as a fraud which predicts precisely what happened the day before, and precisely the opposite of what is going to happen to-day. 100 years later the Thames may not have changed much – but weather information has improved beyond his wildest dreams so that we were able to time our arrival at Lechlade just as the rain stopped and the sun peeped out for the first time in 48 hours. For these first few miles the river winds through water meadows far from human habitation , but is populated by huge numbers of migrant geese and a fair number of adolescent swans determined to get in our way. Much of the time it is so narrow , and the bends so acute that it is difficult to settle down to a rhythm, but towards the end of the afternoon we came upon a straight stretch. With the low autumn sun in our eyes and a following wind , the boat glided on between strokes , the crew perfectly in time . The click of oars feathering in the rowlocks , the chuckle of the strakes as they rushed through the water and the whisper of the wind in the trees all gradually brought us into a state of deep meditation . Forward , click , pull, click , forward , click, pull , click , forw……. A sudden loud rustling sound combined with instant deceleration deposited us in a huddle into the bottom of the boat and banished the trance instantly . It really was most inconsiderate of someone to leave a large clump of reeds in the middle of the river and that crowd of ducks quacking up with laughter did nothing to help the situation either!

From Rowing on the Thames

It was “only” 11 miles to our campsite at the side of a deserted lock , but we were glad enough to be there by dusk. The clear skies that had allowed the sun to warm us were now chilling fast , and the wind that had helped us on our way was distinctly nippy. Tents have also come a long way over the past 100 years , and it took us no more than an hour and 20 false starts to have this one up and facing the wrong direction, a task that was but nothing compared to the heroic struggle we waged with the meths cooker . This deceptively simple device is usually assembled by our children in seconds , but in the dark and without our glasses it took on the characteristics of a puzzle from MENSA . Supper however , when it came, was superb . So it should be , having crossed the Atlantic twice in Festina ‘s bilge , but what it needed was a desert to finish it off. At the traditional cry of “Whats for pudding?” there was a surprising silence. Admittedly, if you listened carefully you could hear an owl hoot , or the scuttle of some unmentionable creature on its nocturnal wanderings , but strain my ears as I might , there was a distinct absence of any mention of a second course.
The nearest civilisation was a lonely pub next to a bridge 1 mile down the river path , so off we stumbled with only the stars to light our way, imagining perhaps we might share a humble plate of cheese with the local yokels. The lights were on , there were cars parked nearby ( what is the collective noun for 100 BMW’s?) and the first thing we saw on entering was a blackboard advertising 20 scrummy puddings. Had we found our way to heaven?
The next time we go to heaven we will try not to look as if we have rowed all day and then rolled on the grass in a losing fight with a man eating tent. Oxfordshire yokels seem to dress rather better than this when they go to their gastro pubs , but once we had arranged a mortgage the landlady provided us with a splendid pudding and we rolled back along the path to our tent , wonderfully replete.

From Rowing on the Thames

When planning the trip , the next days leg to Oxford ( 22 miles) seemed a doddle ,as after all ,the stream would carry us along nicely and all we would have to do was occasionally lean on the sculls as the scenery slipped by. It is a truth universally acknowledged that rivers flow from their source to the sea – acknowledged by everyone except the Environment Agency who appear to have found a way to reverse gravity . There was no stream , and we were going to have to scull every inch of the way.
Despite a rather overcast and drizzly sky , the deserted nature of the river and the wonderful autumn colours made the mornings exertions a constant delight. For added fun Lynda and I played pub cricket , and as each riverside hostelry approached through the trees we exulted ( or worried , depending on whether we were “in “ or “out”) about the number of legs on the inn sign. After the 5th “Trout” , with the odd “Perch” , or even “the Rose Revived “, we concluded that legs were rare indeed on the river and perhaps we should change the rules and count fins instead. Sadly our piscatorial anatomy was not up to this , so we reverted to the even better game of “Get a smile out of the grumpy fisherman!” A cheery wave didn’t work , nor did Lynda’s chirpiest “GOOD morning” as we swept by. To a man they scowled as they reeled in their lines , so we changed tack. On spying the next rod we silently shipped our oars , and drifting unseen round the bend , propelled only by the wind, we roared out together “LOVELY MORNIN!” as we drew alongside. This grumpy fisherman was so startled he fell off his stool , and whilst he was far from smiling , we had grins from ear to ear which counted as a result!

From Rowing on the Thames

Like many of the pubs the above mentioned “Rose Revived” was nearly as ancient as the river itself , a half timbered building hidden amongst weeping willows and about as British as you can get. By now we were over half way to Oxford and deserved a break , so we landed and went though the front door. It was completely deserted. We hallooed and whistled , and eventually a youth of Eastern European origin peered round the corner . Once he got over his surprise that there was indeed human life proceeding down the river this late in the season he produced coffee and cakes of magnificent proportions that ” revived “us as well as the rose , and we set out on the second half of the trip in good spirits
It had been a while since we had been on an expedition like this , and we had forgotten that you need a fender in the locks. To our surprise we soon came upon the perfect fender , blue to match the boat , drifting in the reed beds and it was gratefully retrieved and put to use. We had also forgotten how long trips tend to be quite hard on the derriere , and were just rueing the fact that we didn’t have any cushioning on the thwarts to alleviate this problem , when a roll of blue foam drifted by. This too was appropriated. If we had found some blister plasters floating in the water , our day would have been perfect.
It was a seriously tired crew who sculled into Oxford that afternoon. With just a few breaks to go through locks it had been seven hours since we set out that morning , and we were able to partake of pudding that night secure in the knowledge that we had definitely earned it.