Open steering? Not for the faint-hearted

In that early phase of my watery life, the one where I was still with the erstwhile and before I embarked on single bargehood, I had my first experience of the not-so-joys of an open steering position. The occasion was also notable as it was my first ever trip with Koos, but at that stage I must stress that we were merely friends with no more than a mutual fondness for boats and barges to connect us.

The way it happened was that Koos had heard from Bill (the erstwhile) that I was hankering for a boat trip that would take me somewhat further than up and down the harbour in a rowing boat with a dodgy seagull engine (see Lights Out post). Now in those days, Koos was the owner of two boats: a gorgeous tugboat called Loeki, on which he lived, and his newly acquired (at the time) Luxor, the dumb barge he was building up and converting into a home. Also in those days, he lived in Leiden, a beautiful Dutch university city between The Hague and Amsterdam. We knew him because he'd been in Rotterdam working on the Luxor, but it was the end of both his contract and his holiday, so he had to take it back to Leiden until the following year.

Word got round, Bill conferred with him and before I knew it, I was booked on a mission to accompany Koos on his trip back.

Well, it was a journey to remember, that's for sure. The day dawned dry, but it was grey and the sky was heavy. I can recall looking at the clouds dubiously and wondering if I really wanted to do this. Still, I reasoned, Koos' son would be there too, so we could take turns in crewing.

Some reasoning that turned out to be.

I joined Koos and son, Sanne, on board early on that dreary Saturday morning. All went well as Koos steered us deftly out of the harbour and onto the river. I don't exactly remember when it started raining, but it can't have been immediately or I might not have been happy to go at all. In fact I was visibly thrilled to be there.  Somewhere or other, there is a photo of me sitting smiling on the engine room roof as we motored west along the Nieuwe Maas toward the entrance to the Delftse Schie, so it was still dry then. Nevertheless, before we had left the outskirts of Rotterdam it was definitely precipitating with purpose.

In response to the general inclemency and with no sign of guilty hesitation whatsoever, Sanne disappeared inside the Luxor, found the only chair in an otherwise empty hull and promptly went to sleep. That left me trying my best to help Koos - a thoroughly noble duty that entailed holding a large green and white striped Amstel umbrella over most of him and a part of me. Meanwhile the rain thundered down and bounced off all the shiny steel surfaces rather like a million ping pong balls. It wasn't long before we were both drenched from both ends - bottom and top.

How Koos managed to steer through the downpour I'm not quite sure. He did though. Stoically and even cheerfully despite the fact that his glasses were spattered with rain and kept steaming up.  Every now and then, I would wipe the worst of it off with a soggy hanky, but of course it didn't help much.

And so in this style, we crawled our way north to Delft - the odd couple on the odd barge with the odd and incongruous protective cover of a beer garden umbrella. I mean you can just picture it, can't you?

The Luxor

It should have been a beautiful rural trip, but I don't remember seeing much of the bankside at all; it was effectively obscured by the thick curtain of rain. By the time we reached Delft, my umbrella holding arm was flagging somewhat and the brolly was shaking. At the same time it sported a slightly drunken tilt - quite appropriate really given its origins. This meant we were even wetter (if that was possible), so it was a huge relief to me when Koos decided we needed some lunch and pulled into the quay.

It was also in Delft that I decided I was one of the faint-hearted ones and that I wouldn't make it to Leiden.  So I abandoned ship (in this case, barge) and caught the train back to Rotterdam after some much needed coffee. All this makes it even stranger that later, when looking for my own barge, I ignored everything I'd learnt about the drawbacks of open steering positions and fell in love with the Vereeniging, a very obviously wheelhouse-free boat. I'm still wondering about my sanity to this day, but I'm afraid it can't be cured.

I still have no wheelhouse.
And I still love the Vereeniging.

Spring cleaning

I've been too busy to write a blog post this week. Work is making inroads on my free time again. There are exams to mark and deadlines to keep, so I'm having trouble keeping up with my blogging and tweeting. I'm also teaching some PhDers and that requires my brain, which I need to take to work with me (much of the time I leave it on board, and I'm not joking. I'd much rather be there anyway).

Anyhow, today I took some time out and went off to clean our 'other' barge, the little Hennie H (pronounced Hennie Ha here). We are planning a longish trip this year. Originally Poland was the intended destination, but we've decided that maybe it's too ambitious given my work commitments and the time it would take to get there. So...we've decided to become experts on northern France instead...every nook and cranny that can be explored will be!

But back to the Hennie H, I confess I haven't been very good to her this winter and she has been sorely neglected. We keep her at the marina in Sas van Gent, which is close to our weekend getaway and each time I go to the supermarket, I pass her and wave. In the past few weeks, though, I've been ducking and hoping she hasn't seen me as I know I've let her get dreadfully grubby and green.

Then yesterday, when I went to have our fire extinguishers checked and certified at the marina office (another story involving a bunch of delightful old boys who kept me waiting for two hours in the cold, but told me some good stories as entertainment), I felt too ashamed to let it go another day.

Today, then, I walked the three kilometres from our place to the barge and set about a thorough clean up. The green was mean but I rubbed and scrubbed till I could rinse it all away. Two and something hours later, this was the result.

A scrupulously clean little barge - well there are a few nooks and crannies still to be done, but I was very cold by the time I'd finished, and more than a bit wet too, so the three kilometre trek home was needed to get my coagulated blood moving again.

That apart, I believe it's the first day of spring today or tomorrow, so I thought I'd show you the daffs that are out in force in the harbour, despite the bitter wind.

And then below is a nice old tug boat moored near us. The owners were sitting in their wheelhouse enjoying their afternoon tea. Sometimes I wish I had a wheelhouse too. It's such a lovely place to sit especially in this weather!

And just because it was there, I took a photo of one of the biggies going through the bridge - which was open I hasten to add - on the Gent-Terneuzen Canal. Our marina is a harbour just off this marvellous waterway.

Well that's it for this week. More stories from the wet and wondrous next weekend, but for now, I hope it warms up for everyone in the coming days. I will confess it's just a bit too cold for me right now!

The making of the memoiries

A smallholding in Dorset - home before Africa

Memoirs have become an incredibly popular genre of book in recent years, haven't they?  I don't know when it started, but for me, the first memoir I read, which was Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence got me hooked on reading about people's lives in foreign countries. I loved it, and it was without doubt what inspired me to write about my life in South Africa. I think I even mentioned it in the first pages. 

Jus recently, though, I started thinking about this whole travel/living abroad writing area and what makes some of us feel impelled to publish our adventures, and I've decided it's probably rooted in our in-built spirit of adventure (see Jo Carroll as a prime example).

Like many of those who have set off for foreign parts, my (erstwhile) husband and I took ourselves off to South Africa when we were in our twenties. We both had a great drive for adventure and were in no way  daunted by having two small children to take along with us. Back in 1981, we were stony broke in England and we were fed up with being cold as well. The decision to up sticks and head off to the 'bottom end' of the world was thus an easy one when the temperature in our Dorset flat was as cold inside as it was out - and that was well below zero.

A dirt road in Africa...following the dust trails

The funny thing is we never thought that going to Africa might not be a sensible thing to do; nor did we wonder how we would survive with no job offer, no home and precious little money. Such was our determination to get up and go that we did just that: got up and went. And it was the best thing I have personally ever agreed to do in my life.

I loved Africa; I adored its wildness and the sense of adventure that just being there evoked. Now, I wonder if even then I was mentally writing a memoir; I absorbed and observed so much, capturing a multitude of details in my mind's eye. I honestly think I stored every experience so I could take each one out and re-live it again later on.

That sense of adventure took us to many remote places by all sorts of means. We travelled in and with what we had, which sometimes meant old and decrepit VW beetles (although these were actually ideal for climbing up muddy, mountain dirt roads). One year, we spent a holiday in the Namib desert using a small VW Golf, crammed to the roof with camping gear while the children were sandwiched between heaps of bedding and supplies. During that trip we scaled roads and mountain passes that were intended for four-wheel-drive-only vehicles. But we didn't care; we  bounced over rocks and riverbeds as if our little city car was a Land Rover, following in the dust trails of the real off-roaders. There was not much left of our tyres when we returned to civilisation, I can tell you. In fact we had to scrap the whole car shortly afterwards - the poor thing was wrecked - but the memories of the experiences have never died.

Out in the bush

Every day in Africa was an event and I loved getting up to the promise of a new day full of sunshine and anticipation. What this meant was that when I left to return to Europe, I already had a memoir waiting to be written. I'd never kept a diary, but all the stories were in my head and all the impressions, feelings and emotions were in my heart. The ultimate result was my first book, African Ways.

But that drive for new experiences and a vivid, different kind of life did not leave me, even when I arrived back in a cold, wet, colourless (to me) Holland. I couldn't bear the idea of living a standard life in a standard apartment in a standard suburb in the city. The only way to make sense of the change was to embark on a new adventure, so that's what I did.

As those of you who read this blog know, following divorce and a return spell in SA, I rented the beautiful Dutch barge, the Hoop. Then I bought the Vereeniging, which I set about converting into a home. Again, my writer's instincts began recording everything that made this new life so special to me. I kept a journal for a while, but most of the content of what became my second and third memoirs, Watery Ways and Harbour Ways, came from events, images, conversations and the many humorous incidents that occurred as I learnt (literally) the ropes of my new life.

The Hoop

But then the bug started to itch again and the desire for something new to look forward to started plaguing me. Before I knew what I was really doing, I'd bought another rusty old boat, but this time in Belgium. This was a new challenge, a new country and a new culture. Koos and I roamed the country by boat or by car every weekend for three marvellous, memorable years, enjoying every moment. The imprint of our experiences there took a few years to mature, as they did with my earlier books, but eventually they had to come out in a fourth memoir, Walloon Ways.

I've been very lucky, I know that, but if I analyse things, nothing I've done has been particularly wild, brave or dangerous - I'll leave that to Jo! It's just been a case of going with the flow, not resisting change and living life with a certain sense of wonder - often about what's going to happen next...

Jokes aside, what this all amounts to is my conclusion that having a spirit of adventure is almost a prerequisite when it comes to a certain type of non fiction writing. There are many different types of memoir, but you could say that mine - the living in a foreign land type - are the product of  my own desire to make every day worth remembering and to always be willing to try something new. I don't always succeed these days (advancing years and all that), but I do believe this attitude has helped me make the most of the experiences I have had.

So with that I'll raise a glass to you all this weekend and say cheers! Long may the adventurous soul in me survive - even if I don't... :)

Lights out

While reminiscing on my sloshy past, and reminded by my story of my run-in with the water police, I was musing on the adventures I had in the harbour before I moved into my single-woman watery life. These were events that happened in that sort of trial period I spent on the barge my ex-husband and I bought before I went back to South Africa.

I should mention at this stage that said husband, who I shall refer to as Bill for convenience, was very suited to the life of an eccentric barge owner. Just one symptom of this was that he had a passion for old Seagull outboard motors, loving their clean aluminium casings and fine-crafted design. In the boat's small workshop he had several of them undergoing various stages of dismantling and repair. Each one was lovingly nursed back to health before being despatched to a new home, hand-picked for the owner's ability to demonstrate proper respect for a vintage outboard engine.

A duck's eye view of a relatively small barge

At that time, we also had a small rowing dinghy and Bill used to test the success of his repairs by putting his nurselings on it and going for a turn around the harbour - or at least trying to. While his outward trip would invariably start off Seagull motor-driven, as often as not his return would be oar-driven with him providing the power. He was nothing if not tenacious though and always convinced of ultimate triumph even though this often seemed to be a long time coming. So when one night he suggested we test out his latest rescue job on a moonlight cruise on the river, I was understandably hesitant.

All the same, Bill was very persuasive and somewhere around 11pm, I found myself climbing into the rowing boat and taking up position. It was pitch dark with only the lights from the surrounding office blocks to show us where we were going as we puttered through the harbour and out towards the river. Not a hint of a moon in sight.

"Shouldn't we have a light?" I asked Bill.

"Hmm, yes, I've got a torch," he replied.

I wondered whether the river police would think that was quite the same thing.

"And the oars are here, aren't they?"

"No, I left them on board. It'll be fine. This motor's perfect!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth and we had left the harbour than the engine popped twice, puffed a plume of smoke, and died. 

There we were, out on the Maas in the middle of the night in a rowing boat with no oars, no proper light and no engine. Yes.

Daytime view of the way out of the harbour

Now bearing in mind this river is the main arterial route between the Port of Rotterdam and the German hinterland, the skippers of the huge container barges that plough its course do not stop for tea at six o'clock; nor do they settle down for an early night in front of the telly. They keep on going all night long (and I mean all night long!). As a result I didn't find the situation particularly amusing. The idea of seeing the bows of one of these monsters bearing down on us was just very slightly worrying.

"Er, Bill, what are we going to do?" I tried to sound calm, but it came out as a sort of strangled squeak.

"'Don't panic, Mr Mainwering'!" This was his answer to everything (anyone remember Dad's Army?). "I'm sure I can get it started again."

"Yeah, but what if you can't?" My 'what-if' syndrome has been around a long time, probably nurtured by this kind of incident.

"Just don't worry! You'll only make it worse!" was his waspish reply. 

I couldn't imagine how I could make anything worse than it was. 

"Hold the torch for me, will you?" he snapped.

And so I pointed a quivering torch in his direction while he tried in vain to pull-start the motor. At least, I thought, anything heading our way would see the torch light wavering madly on the water - I hoped so anyway. If it just slowed them down sufficiently to give us time to leap overboard, we might live long enough to swim to relative safety. 

But after some further yanking, encouraging and then cursing, Bill realised nothing was going to convince the motor to cough into life, which was my cue to forget his strictures and to panic without reserve. 

Luckily hysteria sometimes has the odd effect of making me resourceful. There was a broom lying in the bottom of the boat. I whipped it up and plunged it in the water 'rowing' for all I was worth (it's amazing how strong fear can make you, isn't it?). To Bill's surprise, it actually worked and we began heading back towards the harbour entrance, albeit at the angle of a directionally challenged crab. To compensate, Bill had the idea of removing the plank he was using as a seat; he began paddling with it on the other side.  To my immense and almost pathetic relief, it wasn't long before we were safely under the bridge again.

Another 'brooming' trip with daughter, Mo

We used the wall to push ourselves through it and once on the other side, we were able to 'broom' the boat back into the harbour. By this time, my Herculean strength had collapsed like a pricked balloon, and I was completely exhausted. We made for the nearest jetty, tied the boat to it and staggered the rest of the way home. 

Bill wanted to bring his ailing baby with him and for once I made no offer to help. Well, after what he'd just put me through, you can't blame me, can you? 

And that was it. I don't remember now, but I expect it took me a few days to forgive him. What I do know is that he never suggested a moonlight cruise again.

High tide trauma

In previous posts, I've mentioned the troubles I sometimes have with my gangplank. This is an issue that causes me unease, especially when I am away, as is often the case at weekends. I don't know about you, but I am the world's worst 'what if' worrier and spend far too much time tormenting myself over what could, might and probably will go wrong when I leave my barge on a Friday to head south. Such anticipation of disasters can be an awful spoiler to enjoying myself, but it can also be a good thing as I tend to anticipate every possible problem. As a result, I am paranoid about checking things before departing. And even then I worry about what I haven't done right up until I'm back again. Healthy huh? Well, maybe not.

Anyway, last Friday, I did my usual rounds, tightening ropes and checking attachments, but of course I have no control over certain factors, one of which is that a neighbour might decide to move; another is that we might have extreme weather conditions that can cause all sorts of havoc. This last weekend, I have a suspicion that both of these unforeseen factors came into force so when I arrived back at the Vereeniging on Tuesday, I found a 'situation' that confirmed all my 'what if' anxieties.

When I stood on the quay looking at the normal scene, I noticed three things that puzzled me. One was that the information board about my barge was missing. Being museum exhibits, many of the barges have an official sign with a description of the boat's history. I had one too, but on Tuesday it had disappeared. The second puzzle was that the rope I'd attached to hold my gangplank to the bollard on the key was broken, and the third was the presence of a very long boat hook on my foredeck. Oh dear.

As I cautiously stepped onto my gangplank, I felt it wobble alarmingly. I crept very carefully down and stepped on board. Then I thanked all my collective neuroses for my care. The steel support on which the gangplank normally pivoted was completely loose and looked liable to tip off at any moment. The plank was also alarmingly close to the edge of the quay, so one puff of our unruly wind was likely to send it sliding over the side.

Bearing in mind it had been rock solid when I left it, something had clearly gone very wrong. Not bothering to change from my work clothes (typical me), I grabbed a spanner and a large five pound hammer and knelt on deck to try and secure it again. To cut a long story short, one pair of shredded tights later and with my dress and boots smudged with mud, I realised I'd need someone with more strength than I had to release the bent bolts and repair the damage. As an interim measure, I loosened the ropes at the back of the Vereeniging, and then pulled it as far forwards to the quay as I could to avoid any risk of the gangplank sliding off. I then used another rope to tie the barge end of the plank to the bollard on the foredeck of the Vereeniging. Satisfied it would not now disappear into the depths, I went inside to change into clothes more suited to the task. Better late than never.

But that got me wondering what had actually happened. I thought about the broken rope, the missing sign and the boat hook and put a few twos together. Over the weekend, we must have had an exceptionally high tide, in which case the rope holding the Vereeniging to the bollard in quay wall must have slipped up and off it. I also noticed I was no long tied to one of my neighbours; they must have moved away for a day. This all meant the Vereeniging probably drifted backwards; the gangplank slid off, hit the information board in passing and sent it hurtling to the bottom of the river; and the rope holding the plank probably broke in the process. I also guessed that some kind soul had rescued my plank with the very long hook and had left it on deck to come and collect later.

And indeed, I was right. It had all happened exactly as my fertile imagination had deduced. My other neighbour came home and recovered his boat hook. He had kindly saved my plank from a certain death although the info board wasn't so lucky. I think I owe him a bottle of wine for helping me out, don't you?

As I've said before, life with a barge on a tidal reach is never boring, even when you are harbour bound. As for my anxieties, I guess they will never be put to rest now. What was that about 'life's rich tapestry'?

Busted!

Apologies to Carol Hedges. This story was first published as a guest blog on her fabulous Pink Sofa blog, but seeing as my last post was the back story to my life as a resident of the Oude Haven, I thought it would be fun to edit and repost this. It's part of the pre Watery Ways era and so doesn't come into the book.

Most of you know by now that I spend an inordinate amount of time sploshing about in boats and talking to the ducks. That said, it might be quite a surprise to some to know that I loathe being wet, detest being cold and the worst thing of all is a combination of the two. So yes, you've got it. I do NOT like swimming. At all! 

But you live on a barge, I hear you say. 

Very true, I reply, but I live on it and in it, not under or around it. That's for the ducks. Not me.

So. This story is about the time I got arrested by the Water Politie for supposedly trying to hurl myself off a bridge in Rotterdam. Now keep what I have just told you about my predilection for keeping dry and this will make you laugh. It still has me chuckling and it's fourteen years down the line.

A water police launch
courtesy of Wikipedia

The way it went was this: When I first came to Rotterdam, and as I mentioned in my last post, my erstwhile husband and I (sounds like the queen doesn't it? Only her husband isn't erstwhile - not yet anyway. Neither is mine, actually. He's just not mine anymore) decided to buy an old barge to fix up. Which we did. Now he and a few others went off to collect said barge from a harbour in Amsterdam, but because I had to go to work, I couldn't go too. 

The arrangement was that they would let me know when and at what time they were approaching Rotterdam and I would go down to the river to see them in. The other part of the plan was that they would pull in close to the river wall before sailing into the harbour, and I would jump on board and do the last half a kilometre with them - just for the fun of it (yes...well, it sounded like fun at the time).

That was all well and good as a plan. In practice, it didn't happen that way.

The thing is it was late November, so the evenings were dark. Added to that, my husband and his crew were late. By the time I got the call to go down to the river, it was already about eight o'clock. And cold.

So, I wrapped up warm, but just in case I emptied all my pockets of anything of value. I was going to jump on board the barge, see, so I thought I'd better not have anything that I didn't want to lose just in case things fell out of my pockets as I was launching myself off the quayside (it does sound a bit 'off the wall', doesn't it? Sorry).

Please note that at no time whatsoever did I imagine going swimming either accidentally or on purpose.

Well then, off I trekked down to the riverside. I found my way to the appointed place, the quay next to the harbour entrance, and there I waited - in the dark.

It was pretty icy, I have to say, so I started pacing up and down, every now and then peering over the edge to see if I could spot any barge lights approaching. Nix, nada, nothing. Not for ages.

I waited and waited and paced and paced.

But then I did see some lights. A boat was coming hurtling towards me at great speed. As it approached, I saw it was a police launch. Then I saw another one and from the way they were positioned, they both seemed to be interested in me. I started to worry. Maybe they thought I was - you know - a lady of ill repute. I tried moving along the quay, but they followed me there. And then back again. Then after walking away from the side a bit, I noticed they just stayed put, which unnerved me even more. Why were they just watching me?

After playing 'follow me' up and down the quay for a few more minutes, I decided enough was enough. Our new barge was nowhere in sight, so I thought I'd better just go back to the harbour and wait there. Anything was better than this rather disturbing standoff. I waved jauntily at the water cops (hoping they'd be happy to see me go), backed up the steps quickly, ran across the road and headed back along one of the harbours.

Well no sooner had I gone fifty yards or so, than a couple of police vans came screaming up the road towards me. Then another one came from behind and blow me down, a whole regiment of policemen leapt out and grabbed my arms (I never said I wouldn't exaggerate).

The ensuing conversation was too bizarre for words:

"Good evening, mevrouw," said one. "Can I see your ID?"

"Why?" said I.

"Well, mevrouw, we had a report from a bus driver that a woman was trying to jump off the Erasmusbrug."

"Really? Well that wasn't me."

"But you were there, yes?"

"Yes, but I was waiting for someone...coming by boat."

"By boat." Picture cop's cynical grin.

"Yes."

"So why were you waiting there for a boat, mevrouw? There's no, how you say, jetty there."

"No," said I, "I was going to ju...." 

Oops. Better shut up now.

"You were going to what?"

"Erm, I was going to...er...join them on board."

"Where is your ID, mevrouw?

"I'm sorry, I don't have it with me because I was going to ju..... join them, that's it...join them...and I didn't want to risk ...."

Picture cop's second cynical grin.

"And you weren't going to jump in the river?"

"No. It's true," I said. "Look," I went on frustrated now, "Anyone who knows me will tell you I'd never do that. Never!"

"But we don't know you, mevrouw, and the bus driver said..."

 "Look, I don't care what he said. Why don't I phone my husband and you can speak to him. He'll tell you too. I would NEVER, EVER do that!"

The disbelief on their faces was almost rude. I mean as if I would lie about something so true.

"Do you have a phone, mevrouw?"

"Erm...no...I left it at home...with my ID..."

"Because you were NOT going to jump in the river. Is that right mevrouw?" I blushed.

By this time I was surrounded by about ten policeman, all vying with each other to hold on to me and make sure I didn't make a break for it and hurl myself into the adjacent canal. If only they'd known. Just the idea makes me shudder - even now.

But in the end, one of them had a phone and so I was able to give him my husband's number to call. I wasn't allowed to speak to him myself. Oh no. They had to do it. Hubby, of course, thought it was an absolute hoot, and nearly got me locked up for a lark, but in the end, he had the decency to confirm my story. Apparently he'd come into the harbour from the other end, but he'd forgotten to tell me. Brilliant. 

The upside was that the police gave me a lift to the mooring in their van complete with flashing blue lights. It seemed they still didn't really trust that I wasn't going to go late night skinny dipping. Can you credit it?

So this, friends, was my baptism into the world of the Oude Haven. Fortunately for the cops and for me, it wasn't a wet one, but I'll never forget that's how it all began. 

Next time, I'll tell you the story of how we got stranded on the river at night in a rowing boat with no lights. 

It's all part of life's rich tapestry isn't it?

Our first mooring spot 

Watery Ways - the story behind the book

There may be some readers here who don't know and might be wondering how I came to be living on an old Dutch barge in Rotterdam at this somewhat advanced stage in my life. Well, I suppose I wasn't so 'senior' when it all started, but I was definitely on the wrong side of forty five, so it wasn't exactly a youthful sense of adventure that drove me to this wonderful floating life.

I first left my home in South Africa at the end of 1998 to follow my husband to the Netherlands. He was working for a film company in Amsterdam at the time but was living in Rotterdam. He'd been gone for a year and decided he didn't want to go back to SA, so being ready for a new adventure myself, I agreed to shut up shop, leave my job and have a go at life in Europe again. No thoughts of boats and barges ever entered my head. I'd been living so long with SA drought and water restrictions the only boats I knew were the canoes on the  puddle-that-used-to-be-a-lake in the park. But then when I arrived in Holland, I discovered this whole new world of life on the water. I was like a child in my own wonderland.

The hold of the Hoop with Sindy as a puppy

In those early days in Rotterdam, my husband had an office in one of the city's working harbours and I was fascinated by the commercial barges that came in and out. They often moored up against the quay outside the office and I would walk along them surreptitiously peeking through the net curtains of the windows in their back cabins. I was so taken by the idea that people both lived and worked on their barges that when said husband suggested we buy one ourselves, I never hesitated - this being in spite of the fact I hated sea travel, loathed being wet, and abhorred the cold. I suppose I conveniently forgot about all that. In wonderland, you don't usually do rational stuff like pros and cons, do you?

In any event, we bought an old barge that needed renovating some time that year - I forget exactly when. It was a beautiful hull, but the built up superstructure was horrible and anyway, by that time, we'd got to know some people in the Oude Haven, a harbour designated for restoring historic barges. We'd been lurking around the yard with serious intent as we hoped to get a place there to restore our own. Anyhow, this all took some time, a great deal of stress and more money than we'd ever imagined. The strain took its toll and to cut a long story discreetly short, we as a couple didn't survive.

Rescue for me came with an invitation to go back to South Africa to work at my old company. I'd already been back for a few spells to help them out and now they wanted me for a longer period. I knew it wouldn't be permanent but it was an offer I made no effort to resist. So in the course of 2000, I found myself back in Johannesburg. I loved being in my old home town again, and I was lucky enough to travel all over the country too,  but as time went on I knew I had to make a decision about life.

I had nothing of my own in SA anymore; I was staying with friends; and the end of my contract was looming.

The Hoop as she is now. Still in Rotterdam, but
a different harbour

At the beginning of 2001, I headed back to Holland. This was, I thought, my chance to make something new for myself and of myself. I'd also found myself missing the boats and the barges, so I had this plan. It was to work, save money, buy my own boat and go to France.

A Godsend had come in the offer of a barge to rent. My dear friend, Philip, who saved my day rather often in those early years, had one I could rent. It wasn't very luxurious, he said, but it would be a roof when I had none. It was also a floating home. Since I hadn't had much chance to get a feel for life on the water before I hotfooted it back to South Africa, I wouldn't have cared if it had nothing of life's luxuries at all. As it happened, it didn't, and that's where the story of Watery Ways begins.

The wheelhouse of the Hoop - where the toilet remained
throughout my residence

The lovely Hoop on which I lived for a year and a half had no running water, no electricity, and no toilet when I moved on board. The electricity was my first challenge, the water came later, and the toilet remained where I found it for the duration of my occupancy - upside down on the seat in the wheelhouse. But that was all part of the charm - and so was Philip, and Koos, and a whole plethora of other wonderful, quirky people. This was my Watery Ways background.

And I never did get to France - although I haven't given up that dream yet...

If you'd like to read more about that first year of my watery adventure, my book is currently reduced to 99p or its equivalent on Amazon's Kindle. 

Wet and windy or just plain watery...

"Today was one of those days when I realised the full measure of my dislike for being cold and wet. It was totally undiluted (or rather overly diluted) yuk. And then the crunch came when my umbrella blew inside out on the zebra crossing where the rain and wind were competing with the cars in a race up the road. I clutched onto what remained of its frame, huddling under the flapping, soggy fabric and fought my way against the tempest to the safety of Buttons, my little Daihatsu, which I'd parked some distance from work to save money on parking (I also have this insane idea that it's better for my health, but it really isn't, not in weather like today's it isn't).

Anyhow, once ensconced in my personal haven, I got to thinking about other times when I've been wetter, but not half as miserable. And yes, there have been a few...

The first one I really remember well was when my girls were small and we were spending some time with my father in London. It was a very hot summer (remember when we had those?) and in Essex the temperature was up in the high thirties. Anyway, being that hot cooked up some good old cumulo nimbus clouds and we had a humdinger of a thunderstorm. The three of us were walking down a road between my father's flat and where we were staying when the heavens opened. Now we were used to tropical South African storms and this equalled those and some. Within seconds we were totally drenched...but I mean so drenched that even our knickers were wet through. And so we laughed and danced in the puddles and enjoyed it to the full. There wasn't really much else to do, and I don't think I've ever had such fun in the rain since.

Early days in the harbour

The second occasion was in my early barge days in Rotterdam. We were having a barbecue on board and friends came round to join us in their rowing boat. I wasn't very agile then...well, I'm still not, but I've learnt how to get extract myself from sticky and potentially embarrassing situations a bit better these days. Anyhow, these friends asked me if I'd like to go for a spuddle with them. With innocent enthusiasm, I literally jumped at the chance - which involved launching myself overboard and landing in their rowing boat while I was still holding on to the side of the barge. Not a clever move, that. The boat swung away leaving me stretched like  a suspension bridge between it and the barge. The more I tried to cling on, the further it floated until I just had my toes curled round the rim on the side. My self inflicted torture was greeted with no help and much hilarity by everyone around. Beasts.

Eventually gravity gained ground and I collapsed. But while the bottom half of me was in the water, I was still gripping somewhat perilously onto the barge. Luckily a friend, who happened to have an arm in plaster, grabbed me with his good arm and hauled me back on deck. I still don't know how he managed that; I was laughing too hard to ask at the time, but it was pretty heroic.

A year or so later, I took another dive off the side of a friend's barge, but this time I'd just had a lovely hot bath and in my pleasantly relaxed state, I climbed out of their hold and straight overboard. My hosts thought I'd decided to go turkish and were a bit surprised, but not half as surprised as I was when I hit the water fully dressed in leather jacket and jeans with my mobile phone in my pocket. After they hauled me out, I walked home adorned with twigs and leaving a trail of water and weed behind me. The local pub-goers had the grace to say nothing as I passed.

My first harbour home - The Hoop

Ah yes, those were memorable occasions, all of them. Soggy surprises they may have been, but much more fun than our friend Frank or George or whatever they like to call these winter gales now.

The book where some of these
soggy surprises are described

Watery Ways, my memoir, is reduced this coming week to the special price of 99p, or just over $1,00. If you'd like to give it a try. The offer starts 6 February and will run until the 20th.

And just to finish off, do you remember getting hopelessly wet like this? Unintentionally, of course.