6/8/2021
Batchworth Lock, Rickmansworth
Archive Photo: Rickmansworth Festival, 2018
Like most journeys, the picturesque voyage from Uxbridge to Rickmansworth, Ricky to its mates, was not without a minor incident or two. The first was when I came across an unaccompanied boat tied to one of the lock landings. Black Jack’s lock, for those in the know.
For those not in the know, a Lock Landing is a row of white topped bollards approaching a lock which is to be used, and only to be used, by boats which are travelling through the lock. They are not to be used as seats for fishermen. They are not to be used for people to tie up while they make a quick sandwich down below, then eat alfresco on the deck while wistfully watching the swans gliding under the dappled light below weeping willows, no matter how how pretty the day. And they most certainly are never, ever, to be used as a mooring while you nip up to the local cafe and enjoy a ‘cheeky’ cup of tea – which is where I found the owner of this tiny vessel.
The upside is that, once I found him, he agreed to go take his boat through the lock alongside mine which, especially for a solo boater, makes the process a lot easier. Unless, that is, the skipper of the other boat suddenly announces that he has a broken arm, possibly associated with his raging hangover, so can’t really wind the windlass properly – and, anyway, he isn’t entirely too sure about the mechanics of operating a lock.
Poor chap. I left him at the next lock, not out of rudeness or impatience, but because it happened to be adjacent to a water point and I was desperately low. There he asked me how long I thought it would take him to get to Tring. When I estimated, at the speed he was going, about a week and a half, he looked most perturbed and mumbled that he had arranged to meet his wife for lunch there the following day. Perhaps, if he found some help, he arrived only marginally late: the journey would usually take about two days at a casual pace. Whether he and his wife will, as he also stated was planned (there’s God laughing again), manage it all the way to Manchester with their boat, sanity and marriage still intact is another matter. I suspect something will have to give.
As I intimated in the opening of this instalment, this is one of the most picturesque journeys in the London area. Sadly, however, one of the prettiest stretches of this leg, the first couple of miles which goes from Uxbridge to Widewater Lock in Denham, is in the process of being horribly violated by the savage slice across the nation that is HS2. It’s an area I know well: as mentioned in the introduction I left Junie in the charge of Harefield Marina, which is adjacent to Widewater Lock, for much of last year. When I fled the mainland for the island Alderney, at the beginning of Lockdown Two, it was still the pretty, quiet collection of lakes, streams and light forest that I have known for the last decade. Six months later, when I walked the mile or so down the hill from Denham train station to the marina, I was both horrified and deeply saddened to see that acres of trees had been flattened to make way for a battery of bulldozers and heavy duty pile drivers. I also noted that the canal was patrolled by security guards, almost outnumbering the destruction workers. Surely, if you need to employ an army of security guards to fend of protesters and angry locals, you must know that what you’re doing might not be quite right?
But I digress.
Ricky is to me, as it is for many boaters, an old friend – in no small part because of The Rickmansworth Festival. An annual event, except for years when the world is on the verge of annihilation (the last two, I believe, have been cancelled), which is penned into many-a-skipper's calendar.
For me, Rickmansworth is the first town on the way out of London where the surroundings start to feel rural. As you approach there’s a beautiful, postcard-perfect farm with barns and buildings that boast terracotta-tiled, sagging pitched roofs over slatted wooden walls, above which lush, green fields play host to teams of beautifully sculpted horses. Often, the fields on the hillside are also crowded with camera and prop trucks as it seems to be a favourite for film productions. Most notably, in recent years, Bohemian Rhapsody and, in years gone by, the 1970’s series adaptation of Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty.
And what does the town itself have to offer? I hear you cry with eagerness and anticipation. Well, the high street comes equipped with most of the basic, essential features for any modern, mid-sized town: an Iceland, a Wetherspoons and a raft of charity shops. But nestled in amongst them are a few gems – mostly, I know you’ll be thrilled to learn, associated with food and drink. Next to the ‘Spoons is a superb little butcher, Meat As It Used To Be, which stocks cuts so local that the master butchers would probably be able to tell you, not just the former address, but also first and last name of your next meal. “Well, sir, this succulent rack of lamb came from Bobby Cottonsocks of Mr Flumperton’s farm just down the road. His favourite pastimes were leaping, frolicking, and getting stuck in hedges”.
Nearby there’s a bottle shop, with the almost perfect name of F.L. Dickins Wine & Spirits, purveying fine wines from afar along with craft beers, ciders and honey from anear.
But perhaps the shiniest of Ricky’s gems is the new(ish) tap room, Wishful Drinking, where one of of the walls is a collage of joyfully bright bottles and cans. Some from all over the world, others from just down the road, the entire collection under the stewardship of friendly, knowledgeable staff brimming with wide-eyed enthusiasm. A fine place to spend a quiet, last evening in one of my favourite towns.
Meanwhile, the boat refit continues with another crucial baby-step: thanks to the fine work of Des and Tom of Shipshape, Junie now has a new (well, refurbished) Morso Squirrel solid fuel stove, which almost makes me look forward to the long, dark evenings of the winter to come.
Almost, but not quite, which is why instead of accompanying this chapter with a photograph of the stove I’ve opted for an old image of Ricky during the last festival I attended – back in the pre-apocalyptic, giddy days of 2018 when sneezing in a lift was merely antisocial, not an act of terrorism, and covering your face in public was on the verge of being criminalised as opposed to mandatory.
t’s always sad to leave Rickmansworth but leave I must: at the time of writing I’m moving on from dear Rickey, although admittedly only a couple of miles, to the no-man’s land of Croxley Green and Cassiobury – up Watford way. There, in the coming weeks, I hope to see a man about some floorboards, hinges and possibly a window