The Thames in a year, who was I kidding? It’s a struggle to believe I meet deadlines on a daily basis. This chapter of my journey includes return trips in better weather, invites too lovely to turn down, unexplored regions … and the odd logistical nightmare.
A dawn scull on the Thames at Port Meadow.
I headed to Oxford hoping to soak up freshers’ week. Anticipating late nights to deliver, instead, unexpectedly, the dawn delivered a fresh-faced rabble of students from the university’s Islamic Society sharing a sunrise walk through Port Meadow followed, a little later, by a wild swimming event. It was the largest turn out they’d ever had, and despite my hijacking it for a group photo, I was warmly welcomed by the shivering dippers.
Students from the Islamic Society on their termly sunrise walk in Port Meadow, Oxford. The male students all ploughed on ahead. I hope they saw the sunrise.
Hiring a boat from Salter’s Steamers by Folly Bridge felt like hitting the jackpot. We were briefed to sail Magical Lucy by lovely James, a man so relaxed that I felt we embarked with an air of confidence belying our ability. Despite a sign warning of shallow water, it wasn’t long before we’d run aground, a horse had poked its nose through our window, and as the river increasingly began to resemble a regatta, we almost ran into another vessel.
At Godstow lock we forgot to close a sluice gate, all had a row and then after 10 minutes of umbrage made up with a group hug. Thankfully geese and ducks do scatter, like chickens, when you sail into them. Curious cows on the banks looked at us like we were idiots, as did people. I was fascinated by the magnet fishermen, seeking underwater treasure, delaying us further. We finally stepped onto dry land two hours later than we were expected.
Lovely restful cows cooling down in the river at Godstow lock in Port Meadow.
James was still laidback, even lovelier, and thankfully The Head of the River pub was only an oar’s length away to restore our emotional and physical exhaustion with delicious food, fantastic staff and a much-needed pint of shandy. And then another.
I abandoned the night shift – we’ve all seen pissed students – and the next day made a dawn start again, this time in Christ Church Meadow. The sight before me was so breathtakingly beautiful I felt giddy. Sandwiched between spires and steeples, scullers and joggers, among the softly rising mist, Old English Longhorn cattle gently grazed on what must surely be the most desirable pasture a cow could ever wish for. They even have a perfect hawthorn tree as a back-scratching post.
As the only city pub on the Thames, the Head of the River in Oxford is clearly a tourist mecca. It’s got the loviest staff, fabulous food, wonderful location and was originally a wharf and boatyard. The name was the result of a competition organised by the Oxford Mail and associates the inn with the finishing post for the Eights bumping races held on the river.
Not far downriver at Sandford lock, I’d been invited to the 40th anniversary of the World Pooh Sticks championships, which raises money for the Yellow Submarine charity, and really ought to be televised. After a five-year absence there was a wonderful turnout. Mim Adams had travelled from Melbourne and made it through to the second round. The “keeper of the sticks”, Richard Kirby, had a very important role … but not quite as vital as the stick-collecting duo, local Captain Tim and Shipmate Ariel from Michigan.
With sailing dexterity and speedy netting, they didn’t let a single stick float away. Just as well, because each stick had been diligently cut to size and weight and painted a particular colour.
Captain Tim and Shipmate Ariel.
Arguably there’s a degree of skill involved; where you stand and drop, your timing, reading the flow of the river. The defending champion, Innes Turnbull, lost to nine-year-old Bertie, a worthy winner, closely followed by Tristan, 11, and Chris, 48. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re too old to play Pooh sticks.
Chaotic and unprecedented scenes at the Duck Derby as 3,000 plastic ducks were released in the wrong location.
Sea cadets assisted in ‘moving them on’ or using shopping baskets to catch them.
Or indeed participate in the Duck Derby. As the mayor of Windsor and Maidenhead, councillor Neil Knowles honked a horn, and 3,000 meticulously numbered yellow plastic ducks were released next to the powerful, foaming Boulters weir. I envisaged photographing a calm scene; ducks gently drifting towards the finishing line, maybe a photo finish. Instead there was chaos as the ducks just swirled round and round in a circle, refusing to leave, and sea cadets were required to assist in valiantly nudging them from the foam or using shopping baskets to catch them.
Downstream, as crowds lined the banks and waited patiently on a pedestrian bridge, Jo Manisier, the chair of the Duck Derby committee, guessed that “this was probably the longest duck race on record”. About 1,500 made it to the finish with a generous first prize of £250. It also should be televised.
Swimming in the rain at Hampton Court in June.
In early June there was one downpour after another. I was so soaked after a bike ride to Hampton Court that I looked as if I’d swum there. Sensible people actually got in the river or sheltered their BBQ under an umbrella like Andy and Lynn. More plastic ducks sat stoically on barges, and baby geese huddled together to keep warm. I hoped a man on his laptop had got his work done.
Once summer finally arrived, I hugged the coastline from Margate to Whitstable. If the beach is too rammed, a grass bank makes a perfect picnic spot. If you fancy your chances bring your own cards. There’s always a queue for the loo, but at least you can see where they are easily. I’ve used it as a classy meeting spot before.
Husband and wife John, 90, and Mavis, 84, loved everything about Westgate-on-Sea. Including their dear friend Enid, 88. We chatted for ages and I felt a twinge of mobility scooter envy as my camera bag was heavy and it was probably 30C. Beach hut shelters looked inviting – the Love Shack potentially shadier than the rest. A camper van in a car park had everything covered.
John, Mavis and Enid, neighbours and great friends since moving to Westgate-on-Sea in 2012. Enid told me: ‘Most choose to retire down here from London, primarily to be near the sea. We are a little down from the Thames estuary, but everywhere is very accessible by train from the station.’
I met with much debate about where the greater Thames estuary ends. The north coast of Kent sits at the very top of where the North Sea joins the river. It’s a spectacular stretch of coastline, with the rise and fall of Reculver, the gorgeous Georgian pastel palette of Herne Bay, the beautiful balconied beach huts of Tankerton and the Street, an unusual strip of land extending into the sea at low tide in Whitstable. All with charming, distinctive personalities as well as rough edges I’d be wise not to mention.
What I can say for certain is there’s a quiet rivalry between some of the above, and I’ve definitely got a soft spot for Herne Bay after being warmly invited to a garden party when I was nosing over the wall. I’m also a bit partial to St Mildred’s where Jack, a bay inspector, told me how much he loves his job.
Second attempt to reach the London Stone in Yantlet Creek, only accessible at low tide for short period of time.
What’s not up for debate is where the extent of the city’s legal powers, and that of the Port of London Authority, end. Two stone obelisks, the Crow Stone and the London Stone, cross north to south from Chalkwell, near Southend, to Yantlet Creek on the Isle of Grain, and are the historical demarcation of the official end of the estuary. The Crow, at low tide, is easy to reach on foot. Although it might look as if you could walk almost directly across the estuary, it’s 4.5 miles across to the London Stone, far more impressive but very difficult and treacherous to get to. It took two visits and some careful planning to successfully cross Yantlet Creek, but when I did, it was incredible, a highlight of this entire project. I’d recommend wearing wellies, and don’t wait around too long or you’ll be cut off in an isolated area with no option but to sit tight and wait for the tide to go out again. Don’t be tempted to walk off through a large military no-go zone. Or call 999. They’ll think you’re time-wasting idiots.
Gill, Rachel and Kath at Grain, the finish of the Thames Path. Gill told me that walking in sun, rain, mud and freezing fog had strengthened their already fantastic friendship.
With no time to dawdle, we met Gill, Rachel and Kath almost at the end of the Thames Path at Grain, only two miles away. After 232 miles they were ready to pop open the prosecco and enjoy a brief, bracing plunge in the grey and somewhat uninviting looking sea. There’s surely a business opportunity here. It’s not even possible to get an ice cream or a cuppa.
The beach at Chalkwell in June.
Across the bay at Chalkwell, the more family-friendly beach has a lovely cafe, regular swimming groups, fire throwers every Thursday night, and it’s a short walk to Leigh-on-Sea, where I had to wrench myself away from the jovial regulars of the Crooked Billet, or to enjoy the old-fashioned vibe at the Alexandra Bowling Green in Southend. They all kind of merge into each other.
Swimmers at Chalkwell.
A group of friends were releasing balloons in memory of their friend, and local swimmers timed their entry into the high tide with perfection. I struggle to fathom out logistics such as routes and times. Essentially, I wing it. Miraculously it usually works, but heading out to Cricklade on the hottest weekend of the year almost turned into a near-death scenario, thankfully avoided by Maryan, a wonderful lady taxi driver from Standlake Cabs. She was determined we could get two bikes, one with a child seat, into the back of her vehicle when my friend was at near exhaustion in Newbridge.
The Maybush pub at Newbridge. A much-needed sign of human habitation and welcome pint of beer.
That area of the Thames is a bugger to get to by public transport but it’s worth it. In hindsight the drama was counteracted by the dew-drenched beauty of the far upper reaches of the river. A tree-lined tunnel spewed us out from the 5am darkness into a magical spider-webbed wilderness. Within moments we were both soaked from the waist down. Old Father Thames looked nonchalant. I’m not sure why he needs a spade, when machete might be handier. Above Lechlade the river is not navigable to rivercraft. Graceful collapsed reeds create the illusion you could literally walk across them.
Friends James and Allen had found a tough but beautiful spot to sleep near Cricklade.
As I peered through a tiny pillbox window into the exquisitely, ethereal, misty murk, it was a stretch to imagine that the Thames required such a defensive line against Hitler’s forces during the second world war. It’s a very remote stretch of river. We’d underestimated how remote. That’s not to say you don’t meet people. James and Allen were sleeping rough but happy to chat. A tough gig, even in such a stunning location, especially holding down a job as Allen was.
Joanne and her partner were enjoying a picnic in the late afternoon sunshine.
Joanne and her partner were just chilling, but their knowledge prevented us heading along the wrong side of the river. A man in high-vis was standing, intriguingly, in the middle of the river, there to haul out – OK, help – participants in the annual Sexy Walrus intra-club triathlon. The river was the lowest it had been in the history of the event and the weather unseasonably boiling hot and energy sapping … I think I’d have wanted the swim last.
The annual Sexy Walrus Intra-Club Triathlon, or SW Tri as it is more commonly known, is a unique affair exclusive to the Walrus community.
Despite a restorative drink and delicious meal at The Trout Inn at Tadpole Bridge, I knew there was not a cat in hell’s chance of us getting to Oxford that day. Canal boats and paddleboarders were moving faster. We looked the complete opposite of the relaxed, calm fishermen across the river and jumping off Tenfoot Bridge with Vlad, Dani and Theo could never have seemed more appealing.
Friends Vlad, Dani and Theo jump off Tenfoot Bridge near Buckland in Oxfordshire.
At the Second Chance touring park, Colum and Sue were enjoying a drink in some welcome momentary cloud cover. I asked about the name and when Sue shouted across “this is the second chance, the next one will be the last chance and after that there is no chance”, I sensed which chance we were on. The only thing that got us to the Maybush pub, which rather incongruously had the energy level of a rave, was meeting Anne and Julia, two friends walking the Thames Path. Their moral support, kindness and patience went a long way. But not as far as Oxford.
The Thames Path has, indeed, made this project a relative breeze. As has the Guardian for giving me the time and space to do it, and even extending it. So it was fantastic to hear someone call my name and see Fiona, my boss, with her friends also walking the path near Windsor in May. If I don’t see their photograph in the final cut, I’ll be sad.
Fiona and her friends were walking the Thames path near Boveney. Luca brought his own stick.
The same goes for Jaine and Mervyn’s. When I asked if I could take their photograph, Jaine replied: “We don’t know anyone who reads the Guardian so go ahead.” Windsor to Maidenhead is a very interesting and pretty meander, especially when the banks are full of May blossom, and despite mayflies falling like ash. I met a dog called Blossom who, despite having webbed feet, doesn’t particularly like the water.
Jaine and Mervyn.
There’s Georgia, the lovely lock keeper at Boveney, keeping tempers from fraying with her happiness and patience. Excruciating Eton student japes and special spots like “sunset point”, a favourite mooring place for Dilwyn and Lynne near Windsor racecourse. I accidentally woke them up from an afternoon snooze on Lady Midge.
Lynne told me that ‘sunset point’ was their go-to place for a picnic after a day’s work.
They’d just made their longest ever journey, taking three days to get to Shillingford. Lynne told me “going through Mapledurham lock felt like going through the gateway to another magical world”.
St Mary Magdalene church at Boveney.
I loved the charming simplicity of St Mary Magdalene church at Boveney, a hidden gem a few metres from the river. If the doors are open, go in. There’s a piano waiting to be played. It was built to serve the bargemen working on the river. Although the quay is long gone, it’s easy to imagine barges being loaded with timber from the forest nearby.
Over a year ago, when I started this project, I never imagined I’d be friends with bargemen and travelling the river with them. My heart leapt when I was invited to spend a couple of days with the crew of a Cory tug.
On arrival at Charlton Pier I watched wholesome hugs all round – standard greeting apparently – and was presented with my own new mug – to keep! – and offered an array of tea, rosehip, mint and Yorkshire, before I’d stepped on board, and then promptly asked if I wanted brown sauce or ketchup in my bacon sarnie.
The Cory tug Resource pulling barges upriver through central London.
The orange-topped tugs are Tardis-like and surprisingly roomy. Below deck are showers, bunk beds, a rest room, an engine room and a well-used and well-equipped kitchen. I’d been offered a cup of tea nine times by 11.30am; we started at 8am. They have reliable names; Resource, Regain, Recovery, Redoubt, Reclaim. The metal barges they pull can carry 30 containers with a combined weight of up to 600 tonnes of non-recyclable waste. They are as big as a bus, stacked two deep and are all rather wonderfully named after rivers or birds. Except four, including two named after the founder Wm Cory and Gemma D, the daughter of a Cory employee with 47 years of service. My dad would have loved that I spotted the Tees.
Tom Jones, Cory’s youngest captain.
As they are expertly corralled into place they occasionally collide with a clang and a clash, but tug-towed through the water they seem unstoppable and determined. They seem faster when you’re on board, and I appreciate now why I fail to keep up with them if I’m running along the embankment.
What I hadn’t appreciated was the skill and sheer graft that goes into umpteen deliveries of waste on a 12-hour shift. The crews navigate the Thames with precision manoeuvring. Competing with a seven-metre tidal range and a current moving at speeds averaging three to four knots, they leap across gaps and ledges, spin tugs on a penny, lug massive chains, lasso ropes as thick as your arm on to bollards … and avoid them, if they snap, as one did on my shift. Imagine a tea towel thwacking you: it hurts. Now imagine a rope lashing out at 90mph. It would take your head off. Despite the dangers there are very few accidents. Danny is gently ribbed for slipping on ice and thankfully popping up under the far end of a barge with only a small head scratch. Hard hats have been introduced as a result, although some find them restrictive and it’s a bit controversial.
The crew all run tight ships with tidy camps and true friendships. Most either knew or had worked with someone’s grandad, nephew or father. It seems as if everyone has a family member looking out for them. Given it’s been in business for over 300 years I’m hardly surprised. Women were a bit thin on the river, there are currently no female tug crew but, they said, they were equally welcome.
Crew of Regain. Jo Coughlin, Nigel Spiers, Terry Gooch, Connor Corps, Caroline Dobbin, Mark Filmer and Tom Jones. Caroline told me “London was built around the river Thames and working for a company that has played such an important role in this aspects of the city’s history is a real privilege. I never get bored seeing tugs on the river”.
C
Our captain, Gary, chimes in, telling me he honks the tug horn for his daughter every time he sails past her office block on Upper Thames Street and asks me: “Do you live near enough to the river to hear us?”
Without exception everyone loved their job. “ I’ve seen the river as a way of life since I was a teenager,” Mark Filmer explains. “Me and Tom used to laugh about the older lightermen in the jobs and now it turns out we’re doing exactly the same thing.”
Three geese fly in on cue to be fed at a regular barge stop near Battersea. One of them genuinely taps its beak on the window for attention from Terry. They’re always happy to see the crew, unlike the residents of Battersea power station, who would like to see the closure of nearby Cringle Dock waste station. I suspect they’d probably prefer it levelled and turned into pricey apartments with vintage photographs of barges, blokes chucking ropes and quaint little tugs framed on the walls.
Empty containers on Cory barges being delivered to Cringle Dock in Battersea.
There’s a genuine pride among people who work on the river. Everyone who waves gets a toot back. Tugs from other companies bob and bow, respectfully acknowledging each other like black cabbies.
There’s also some well-deserved downtime, enabling tidy-ups for the next crew, Dave to work on his Thames tan, or simply watching the river roll by. Dagenham, Creekmouth and Barking are an industrial paradise, certainly from the perspective of the river.
Riverside views in east London.
I cancelled a later commitment and remained on board to visit a waste facility at Belvedere. A constant stream of lorries arrives at the barge pier to take the yellow containers into the plant. They look like tiny bricks of Lego against the backdrop of a building that resembles a giant tidal wave; a wave converting waste into electricity to power about 195,000 homes. I think a toy range for kids would sell out in no time.
Once we’re done, I’m offered a chance to take the wheel and actually sail into the sunset. I asked Terry, Danny’s uncle, if he had ever thought about working at sea. “I like getting home at the end of the day,” he replied.
I can honestly say I was in no rush to get back on dry land.
