fucknits

My dad has a great saying.  “Worry about it when it happens.”  I’d been stressing pretty badly about crossing the Ribble Link, I thought that not only would I be the only boat that day venturing out into huge open waters, I’d be sailing single handedly.  Then my dad bought two life jackets, one for me and one for him.  This only stressed me more.  My dad isn’t as sprightly as he used to be - he has bad hips - and I didn’t want him going to any trouble.

In the end, after the cowboy motherfuckers had pronounced a premature death on my engine, I arranged to get towed across by a local boater.  This guy boosted my confidence a lot - he was an older, grey haired sailor type in a navy woolly hat.  The hat made me trust him implicitly.  He looked like he was at home out at sea.

Another turn up for the books was that after weeks of rain, the sun came out on the day we were crossing.  But it had been a cold night.  When my dad arrived I made sure he had a waterproof and a fleece.  He humoured me by bringing them along, but this is Scotsman we’re talking about here, and immediately stripped down to his shirtsleeves.  Me, I had my mittens at the ready.

So I was really worried that he’d be bored or tired or seasick. Pah. He loved it. At lunchtime I told him there was stuff for sandwiches in the kitchen and he looked at me incredulously and said, “I’m not going inside! I might miss something.” He’s always liked boats - apparently when he was younger his dad dragged him out of the queue for signing up to go to sea. And I think the story of the adventure will go down well with his pub and dogwalking buddies.

The tugboat dropped us off at the entrance to Savick Brook and there was a James Bond moment when I had to walk along the side of the boat to the bow and unhook the tow rope. We then had to go up 9 locks to reach the Lancaster Canal, and because we were the only boat that day, two lockkeepers from British Waterways did all the work for us. We moored in a really nice, safe speck in Preston and got the bus back to our cars in Tarleton. Then we had a well earned and very delicious pub dinner.

The next day when I woke up in Preston, everything seemed to be falling into place. I was moored a short walk away from not only a Booths Supermarket (best selection on real ale, delicatessen and tea cakes in the country!) but smack bang opposite was also a yarn shop! I was able to get a third ball of Sublime Cashmere/Silk/Merino to finish my dad’s scarf. I spent the day cruising up to a place called Bilsborrow, where there’s this crazy ‘thatched hamlet’ which has a pub and gift shops and hotel in all these olde worlde thatched buildings and I watched Everton’s thrilling 2-2 draw with Standard Liege.

Next day I cruised to Garstang. Ok, good bits first. YARN SHOP! With Noro Kureyon! So I bought a ball in colourway 220 for my Lizard Ridge, even though I have more than enough on the needles at the moment. I really need to start thinking like a student with no income. This yarn shop (Stitches) was super-friendly, and when I explained to the lady what Ravelry was, she seemed really enthusiastic and wrote down the URL. Most people I speak to sound interested but immediately say they can just about send an email.

Ok, the bad bits. I knew there was something up with my water pump (no, not the one I’d just paid £180 to have replaced, the one that pumps fresh water to my taps and shower) because it was running constantly. Then as I was about to go to the pub, I picked up my bag from the floor and realised it was wet. The carpet was wet. So I opened the hatch in the floor and saw exactly what you don’t want to see in your living room on a boat - water. Full to the brim.

So I spent over an hour on Saturday night bailing out. Bucket after bucket after bucket. Then I went to the pub anyway and treated myself to a steak sandwich. You can see I’m in some sort of economic denial here. I’m optimistic that this problem won’t need a costly repair, I may well be able to do it myself when I locate the leak. But I’m pretty sure locating this leak will involve dismantling a big part of the interior of my boat. Ah well.

So here’s my water feature in my living room. I was pissed off when I took this picture because it was keeping me from the pub, but I’ve grown quite attached to it. It’s equal parts feng shui/booby trap/foot bath.