A reading of Max Arthur’s Forgotten Voices of the Great War during Armistice.
It’s always an honour to read these recollections, and hope to share with you some poignant pieces from my favourite book during this time of remembrance.
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Be a fly on the wall onboard Maggie during a rainstorm and see a slice of the goings on in Lizbef and Leela’s day to day life!
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“I know what I’ll do,” I said decisively to no one. I stood up and marched to my bedroom, tossing through the clothes and blankets on my bed, frantically searching for the one thing that would make me feel better.
“Yes!”
Pulling out my hot water bottle, I returned to the kitchen and lit the hob for the kettle.
A hot water bottle had never failed to cheer me up. I was confused as to why I would need to feel comforted, but I did. Maybe it’s from living alone for so long. When you live in a household, you take it for granted how many times you hug someone. And I knew that I was craving contact.
I hesitated and returned to my room, searching through the covers until I found him.
Sighing in relief, I hugged Hopsy to my chest, allowing the comfort to sink through my muscles as a 33-year-old woman, and returned to the lounge.
My love-ravaged soft toy stared back at me with scratched black beady eyes, partially bulging from its grey mismatched head that my Nan had over generously restuffed for me.
I hugged Hopsy again without shame. I was in my own home, I could cuddle my childhood teddy if I wanted.
Returning to the sofa, I set him down beside me as I began to research my next move along the canal.
I wouldn’t say I’m naturally a brave person. It comes in sporadic waves. And then leaves me in a drought.
I left my previous location four weeks ago. It was a successful journey, and I was glad to say that my confidence had come back. I had made it to the winding hole at Atherstone Locks, filled up with water, turned her around, with the help of Tommy and Deakin, found a new location in Hartshill.
I had spent a week there, enjoying the scenery and peace, and moved where I was now, closer to Nuneaton. Time had come and gone so quickly. There were quite a few parties, celebrations, a birthday, and I had even caught and recovered from Covid during my time at this space.
And now it was a matter of days before I had to move.
“A lot of 70ft boats have trouble moving around the bend in Nuneaton,” Xavier’s mum told me (on one of Xavier’s and Lily’s many faithful visits to me). “You’ll be wanting some help.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
Xavier and his mum explained that there is an area where boats moor “double parked”. This wouldn’t be a problem if there wasn’t a bridge with a direct sharp bend where afterwards, people also liked to moor up their boat.
I’m not scared of bumping into the towpath, and getting stuck in the silt, but hitting someone else’s boat feels very unforgivable. I know that I would understand if someone tapped into Maggie around a bend, but there is something so hideously awful about it that I have found myself feeling sick at the idea.
But I know I have to get over this. Because the entire point of getting Maggie was to travel. And the Ashby is calling.
It’s been 2 and a half weeks since I filled up with water. I was able to make Leviathan’s water supply of 175litres last two weeks before I need to fill up. And Maggie can hold 750litres of water. Regardless, this is also something I have been worrying about. I have concocted plans to fill up a large portable water container on a daily basis to keep Maggie topped up, as it looks like another four weeks before I’ll top up again. Maybe that should be exciting. The pressure to move. The pressure to survive.
Sometimes I’ll weave any sort of difficulty into something to overcome in a storyline. And it may not be a sword fight or a pursuit through a forest, but for me, it’s a race against something. A challenge. How long I can last out.
Whereas the solitude was difficult in the beginning, I have begun to thrive in my own company- probably because I’m so close to town now that I see my friends at least 2/3 times a week. I’m enjoying it, but I know it’s dulling my productivity. So when I do get my alone time (despite loving my social time) I am so grateful for it.
I sighed, squeezing Hopsy tighter. His eyes bulged at me pleadingly. I had to get a move on. It was time to restock the provisions and find a new mooring spot. Time to film, time to write, and time to finish some commissions. I needed to wake up from this comatose energy slumber I’ve been in since I moved on board. I think so much was happening from selling Leviathan, shutting down my art studio, and moving on board Maggie, that everything had to stop, just so I could process what was happening.
Sometimes I’ll feel a heaviness in my stomach that I’m not where I want to be in terms of success- it’s as if I’m greedy for it. Each time I achieve a goal, it never feels enough. There must be another and another- something to reach and aspire to.
Something to overcome.
And as the weeks have gone by, I know that I want more. I want to achieve more. If only my brain could work like a normal person’s and actually get stuff done.
The hiss of the kettle jarred me from my thoughts and I jumped up to turn the hob off. Filling up my hot water bottle, which was shaped like a long furry noodle, I returned to my seat and hugged it close to my chest.
The warmth slowly sunk into me, reassurance trickling through my bloodstream bit by bit.
I thought of how much I would just like a hug from my mother and how much it would make everything better. I imagined myself turning up at the house and asking if I could have a sleepover and then swallowed down the idea as quickly as it came.
I didn’t want to leave Maggie tonight. I wanted to hole up, get a fire going and do something productive- something, anything that would make me feel as though I was moving forwards.
And plus, wasn’t I too old now to be needing a hug from my mum just to make things better?
That would worry her.
“I’m fine,” I said out into the open space. And I was. I was just feeling scared and a little vulnerable. I had spent the previous night in Stroud with friends and had seen how much they supported and loved each other. The constant touching, the hugs and lying next to each other.
It made me happy and sad at the same time.
Because I wanted that. And wasn’t entitled to it from anyone.
This was a solo journey and I needed to create my own comfort.
I held onto the hot water bottle a little bit tighter, Hopsy falling in a partially concussed state as he stared blankly up at me.
“Yeah, buddy,” I exhaled, setting in behind my laptop. “I know the feeling.”
My dream life has been activated! With some incredible highs, there’s also been some growth in overcoming fear. We’ve had parties, been to Crick, talked about the importance of water and future plans. I’m just so stoked and pleased that I made this choice.
During the ups and downs of transitioning to life on Maggie, my 1920’s narrowboat, I have found myself slip back into full time cruiser mode. And I have really been thriving.
I picked up my green tartan shirt and gave it a tentative sniff.
Wrinkling my nose, I shrugged, picked up my trusty bottle of fabric febreeze and gave it a quick spray. Pulling it on, I shrugged.
“Good enough for another two days.”
With water wastage still on my mind, I wasn’t near a laundrette and didn’t want to waste water on washing clothes until I really needed to. Maggie luckily enough has a small bath tub, which the previous owner used to wash his clothes in, and I was intending to do the same, when that fateful day came.
Setting in front of the fireplace, I opened it to see a few simmering coals remaining from the previous night. Throwing some scraps of cardboard from food packaging inside, I stoked it enough for a small flame and placed some kindling that I had gathered along the towpath.
I sat in front of it for a few minutes, mesmerised by the twisting orange and gold within. This always was my favourite job on any boat. Keeping warm. Feeling as though I was transported back a hundred years ago and as though I could survive.
I smiled, brushing the hair away from my face and placed some lumps of coal on top of the smouldering fire. Waiting for the flames to burn without further immediate assistance, I shut the fireplace door.
There was some satisfaction of needing to do narrowboat jobs before you had managed to have your first cup of tea.
Tredding to the engine room, I checked the oil, and then satisfied with the level, cranked old “thump” into action to charge up my batteries. I tried to run thump for at least half an hour every day to give me enough power to use the lights and my fridge. I had already had emails from people telling me I should get solar power arranged- my narrowboat was 70ft- plenty of room for a few panels- but looking at my fast-dwindling bank balance, that was a next year’s job.
As I returned to the kitchen to boil some water for a cup of tea, I resisted checking my phone. I hadn’t heard from my London date in a while, and despite knowing the inevitable had happened, a small vulnerable part of me hoped that I had been mistaken by everything. But I knew.
The joys of dating.
As the kettle boiled, I moved into the bathroom, checked the compost loo to see how much room I had left in my urine container, and seeing it was already three-quarters full, carefully removed it. Checking left and right as I exited the boat for stray walkers along the towpath, I managed to dispose of it into the earth away from the path. It wasn’t a pretty job, but it made me feel some pride that I was no longer using a chemical toilet as I had been on Leviathan. Finding an elsan point along the canal every four days was a nightmare at best, and now living on Maggie where I liked to enjoy myself for two weeks at a time, made me more self-sufficient.
Diving back into the point, I placed the container back, thoroughly washed my hands and found myself standing above my phone once more.
“I’m just checking to see if my mates have contacted me,” I told myself, tapping my notifications bar. But there was nothing, except from my car insurance reminding me that I was due for renewal.
My jaw clenched and I placed my phone back on the counter harder than I meant to.
I hated dating. Hated everything about it. Becoming vulnerable, opening myself up and enjoying someone’s company.
“It’s fine,” I murmured to no one. “It’s fine. You were fine before, and you’ll be fine now.”
A high-pitched screech from the kettle jolted me from whatever depths I had momentarily plunged into, and I reversed back into the kitchen.
As I set about making a tea, a droplet of hot water scolded my toes. I looked down at the dirt around my feet and then turned, catching myself in the mirror. My shirt was creased. My hair, unwashed for three days was a wild mass, still in vain attempting to be held together in the plait I had slept in. Bruises covered my shins from climbing up and out of the cratch window to the roof and a line of coal was smeared on my cheek from arranging the fire this morning.
“Oh wow,” I said, a grim smile twisting my mouth. “Aren’t you a treat, Elizabeth?”
And for a split second, I doubted what I could bring to anyone. I took in another breath and took a step closer to the mirror, forcing myself to look truly at my reflection.
“You’ll stop this, you hear?” I warned, pointing at the girl staring back at me. I flicked against the cold surface. “You made choices and you’re a badass because of them.”
Annoyed and a little sad, I stomped to my bathroom and picked up my red lipstick. I stared at the scarlet tube as though it held the antidote to the poison I was feeling, before carefully applying it against my lips. I didn’t care that I had no one to see. I didn’t care about any of it. I just needed to feel powerful again. I felt as though all of my power had been stripped away, all of those talks and monologues about being ok alone had drifted away like the smoke from my fire.
I was ok alone. I was more than ok. I didn’t need to wait for someone to call me or message me. I didn’t need someone to tell me nice things about myself. I didn’t need the embraces of late-night talks. I didn’t need any of it. I didn’t want any of it.
I didn’t want to get to know someone and learn about them. I didn’t want to have to share memories of my past or aspects of my personality. I didn’t want them to see what I had done or achieved or talk about what heartache those choices had cost.
I didn’t want to be vulnerable. Because where would it get you? Hugging a hot water bottle for comfort because you didn’t have anyone to ask for a hug. Applying red lipstick when your feet were covered in mud, just to feel like some semblance of the Elizabeth I had before.
I allowed the annoyance to grow to anger that I had allowed myself to open to the idea of sharing my life experience with anyone. I had always been able to rely on myself. I had myself to count for stability, myself to count for love. I had never let myself down.
The hours passed until the light from the sky began to dim. I heaped more coal on the fire and applied more red lipstick after each cup of tea.
I stood in the centre of Maggie, the golden light from candles making every dark surface bounce with bronze and copper shimmers.
I felt the disappointment wash over me that this experience was yet another one to write in my diary, another footnote on my journey to meeting someone. And then felt disappointment in my excited naievity.
The darkness within Maggie wrapped around my bones, coating me in a blanket of safety as the fire cracked and snapped in the hearth.
You have everything you need here, Maggie seemed to whisper.
I lifted the cup to my red lips. At some point, it had turned from a cup of tea to a glass of red wine. Clever boat.
I didn’t need anyone. The rich liquid poured over my tongue and down my throat, heating up a comforting path. I exhaled, allowing the tension to run from my shoulders.
See? I could look after myself.
“I don’t need anyone,” I said to myself as if saying it aloud would finalise it into fact and I would stop feeling this way. “I don’t need anyone.”
But for once, I had to admit…
It would have been nice.
Lizbef does her final preps on Maggie before finally cruising away from the marina! with the help of friends, she finds her first solo spot along the canal in the beautiful countryside of Warwickshire. Big Love, Lizbef 💕
“When are you moving the boat?”
Never, a voice said in the back of my mind.
I smiled through it. “When my two weeks are up.”
I had been at the same stop for ten days. I had spent my days with Leela, scouting further along the canal and trying to judge if I was going to smash and destroy anyone’s floating homes on the way through Atherstone Locks. After Atherstone Locks, I was intending on doing the Warwickshire Ring for the Summer and then hole up somewhere near home for the Winter.
But even that I couldn’t make my mind about. Maybe I should do the Ashby instead? Stay closer to home on this famously beautiful 21 mile stretch of canal with no locks, all to learn Maggie better before I took her afar.
All of my life, I had jumped into scenarios and dealt with the consequences later. My life lessons, I called them. Sometimes plunging into the water was the best way to learn how to swim.
The Ashby Canal felt a very safe bet. But would I be a coward if I chose that route? What happened to plunging onwards ahead? Maybe it would be good just to crack on with the Warwickshire Ring and learn everything as I went. Maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to hold off doing locks again- maybe I had to face it and get it over with.
Or maybe I should learn how to properly steer and not crash this God damn boat on a beautiful stretch of water.
The thoughts rolled over and over in my head as the days passed by.
The solitude on Maggie for the past ten days had been… a struggle. Some days I enjoyed the sound of the birds, the water and passing boats and nothing else. Other times, I craved company, my car- just some easy access refuse and water. I had made good friends with a young couple called Xavier and Lily from Mancetter Marina during my stay there, and luckily, they did come and spend the weekends with me.
When they left, I felt like a child watching their parent drive away from the school gates. Sad and strangely vulnerable.
I would have to get used to this life.
I had chosen it and there was no going back.
The fear of doing the Warwickshire Ring was getting to me. And yet, hire boats passed me all the time with newbies as they overcame obstacle after obstacle. Shame would wash over me as I stood watching them- me, a seasoned boater who had become frozen with fear, whilst these people with a couple of days knowledge was willing to give anything a go.
I think what shocked me was the sudden stark difference in how I had felt before. My confidence had been so high. So many people had told me I couldn’t cruise Maggie and that I was a fool. I had simply fallen into the “I’ll prove you wrong” overdrive, shoving all doubt and fear from my mind as I focused on the task at hand.
I would do this. I could do this. There was no room for any other thought.
And then reality had hit.
What if I couldn’t?
Could I do the Warwickshire Ring solo? Could I do locks with Maggie solo? Going up wasn’t a problem- but going down was. With locks in general being about 72ft long and Maggie being 70ft, there’s little room for mistakes. If she got caught on the cill, and I didn’t have the body strength to correct her, then my new home was doomed.
Doomed, doomed, doomed…
The word reverberated around my head.
Alone, alone, alone.
Watching Xav and Lily help each other with tasks made me smile. I was happy for them to have each other, to have that emotional support. To be able to lean on the other and make decisions together. I am a stout believer in doing things solo to build a better relationship with yourself. But maybe it was time to start putting myself out there…
“You’re too picky,” Xavier pointed out to me as we sat around a fire pit outside our boats.
“You are joking, aren’t you?” I laughed. “Welcome to dating in your thirties, my friend.”
“It can’t be that hard…”
I raised my eyebrows and then gestured for him to sit beside me. “Fine, lets pick together.”
Opening my phone, I began to scan. Xavier’s face slowly began to fall.
“Oh no,” he said, his mouth twisting in disgust. “Why is he doing that in his picture?”
I tilted my head to get a better view and quicky swiped left. “Let’s not dwell on it…”
Xav stared, mesmerised at my thumb swiped left. “No, no, no, red flag, red flag, no, no, God no, he’s looking for a hiking buddy, no, no, no, this guy doesn’t know what he’s looking for, red flag, no, maybe, no…”
Dating with a boat can be hard, and now when I look for a match, it’s usually with the added requirement that they can keep cool under pressure, can start a fire and won’t be too precious to shit in a compost loo. On top of that, you have a required age range, emotional intelligence, morals, shared interests, the ability to make the other laugh, locality to take into account and attraction. To top it off, even if you found someone matching all of those requirements, they could still be looking for something, ‘casual’, which is not my cup of tea.
Ah, the joys of dating.
Despite this, after Xavier’s encouragement, I did end up swiping on someone and began talking to them for a week. It was a pleasant experience, and they seemed enraptured with the idea of living on a boat along the towpath. I’m slightly ashamed now to recall how much I looked forward to those conversations.
And so, in my second week of living along the towpath, I went to London on a date to freshen my state of mind, enjoy some of the easy parts of life. I painted my toenails and cleaned beneath my soot stained fingernails, attempted to rid my engine-scented clothes of creases and cleaned the mud from the towpath from my boots. I had fired up my precious gas supply and treated myself to a hot water, scrubbing away coal and dust of boat living.
A lady. I was a lady now.
Regardless of how the date ended, which did not put me in such a ladylike light (we can all pretend, can’t we?) I ended up in a London kitchen.
One thing I have found about boating, is that it eschews you from normality. There are things that others take for granted that, as a boater, gives you a physical reaction.
Sitting at a table, my date walked over to me from the fridge with a tray of plum tomatoes. It wasn’t incredibly fresh, but the taste was refreshing on my tongue. I watched my date take one, his face twisting at the texture and then toss the entirety into the bin.
“What are you doing??” I stared at him, not even aware that I had opened my mouth.
“They’re past their best,” he explained, brow raised as he took in my indignation. “In fact, I think you picked the worst one. You must have tasted how soft it was.”
“They were fine!” I couldn’t believe a whole tray of them had been thrown away. Oh no. I realised what I sounded like. “I can’t stand wasting food,” I said quieter. I had been in plenty of scenarios when all I had to eat when some pasta and half an onion. Nothing got wasted. You had no idea when you could next be in dire straits.
But that’s me, I reminded myself. And I’m usually always in dire straits. It’s not like that here. He’s not like that here. He’s an adult. A responsible adult wouldn’t let themselves get to the point of surviving on half an onion and a handful of pasta.
But to be honest, there was a certain joy in trying to save every scrap piece of food. Being inventive. Imagining that I was the main character in one of my stories. There was some satisfaction in knowing that you had barely anything and it being enough.
Once a river rat, always a river rat, I supposed.
I gazed around the beautiful house, the fine clothes and looked down at my still creased skirt that I had tried my best to make presentable.
Even my phone charging cable was covered in some sort of boat grime.
For a moment, I felt embarrassed.
I was a far cry from the girl I was six years ago, always hitting the gym, wearing the nice cocktail dresses and heels.
Now I was a boat scallywag, trying to make a good impression. Trying to find a partner in this city .But I know that boating, sailing and cruising had changed even my language. There’s no time to be delicate. There’s no time to be self concious about subject matters.
From my perspective as a woman, dating is hard when you have a boat. It’s hard to come across as feminine, when you’re covered in bruises, smell like engine oil and have calluses on your palms from bringing the boat in along the towpath. 70% of your clothes are still in bags ready to take to an elusive laundrette and the other 30% are creased or too small. And even when you rejoice in the hard decisions you have to make, or the manual tasks, some people get threatened by it in dating.
Some people see only that. The boat. The thing about you that makes you special.
Take it away, and you’re just a girl pouting over thrown away tomatoes.
However, the weekend in London was a great experience. It reminded me what it was like having someone to look after me after doing the job solo for so long. We parted with promises to see each other again soon.
On the train home, I stared out of the window with a ridiculous smile on my face. I had dared myself to imagine cruising along the cut with someone. Lying on the roof next to the other person, retelling stories and staring up at the stars. Having a cup of tea made for you in the morning or walking along the towpath in the winter to collect firewood.
It had been refreshing to go on a date that genuinely seemed to enjoy all of the things that I had been taught were my “compromises” or “negatives”. I felt accepted. Celebrated. And by the time I had gotten off the train, I happily walked the forty minutes along the towpath to Maggie, still with that naive smile on my face.
I felt incredible, invincible. I wanted to be that. Prove that. And regardless of not knowing at the time that I would never see this person again, and that sometimes pretty words, are just pretty words, for a moment, I was swept up in the fantasy. The fantasy that I was great. That I could achieve greatness.
That night, I celebrated my London date success with two friends, Tommy and Deakin. We spoke about relationships, what had happened on the date, boat work and my intentions to move her the next day. I felt strong. I felt good. I felt powerful.
Maybe that was just the rum.
The next morning, we were all a little bit delicate. My newfound courage had begun to slip way, bit by bit and faster than I had expected.
“Maybe the wind is too high to move today,” I said as an excuse. “Tomorrow will be better. I’ll move tomorrow…”
Disappointment flooded me. I wasn’t this great person that got excited at a challenge. I was still this scared little girl, pretending- always pretending. I exhaled slowly, battling with myself as I wondered when I could pull myself together. As I was making a cup of tea whilst the boys remained in the sunshine, a boat went past.
I glanced up, spotting a lone woman stood behind the tiller, without a care in the world. I watched her as she cruised along with a big smile on her face in the sunshine. I wanted to have her confidence. Her experience.
The spoon I was holding hovered in the air for a moment, tea dripping into the sink from a squeezed teabag. Each drop hit the basin like a countdown.
That lady wasn’t scared. She was just… doing it.
Throwing the indignant teabag into the sink, I swung my body out of the side cratch and hauled myself up. “If I don’t do it now, I won’t do it at all,” I announced to the boys.
“Do what? Move?” They blinked blearily down at me.
“Yes. The fear will just get worse and worse.”
“But you said about the wind-“ Deakin interjected, fingers frozen around a half-eaten biscuit midway to his mouth. He had made a very comfortable cacoon with a duvet and pillow on the roof and was loathe to move.
“I was bullshitting,” I said, irritated at myself. “We’ll move now. There won’t be a better opportunity.”
They nodded, surprised and I ducked back below, heading towards the engine. With a few movements, Maggie’s Armstrong Siddley engine thunked into life, reverberating through her entire length like a pulse.
I stared at it for a moment, my heart thudding along with the machine.
It didn’t matter how someone had made me feel in London. It didn’t matter that a woman cruiser had given me confidence. What mattered was the reality that I was already great. And that only I could bring my courage back.
I had crossed the South Atlantic Ocean. I had done the Caribbean Sea. I had solo cruised a 32ft canal boat. I could do this.
And I would do it for me.
I thumped on the ceiling a few times. “Time to go, boys!”
As I slid the tiller and pin into place, I picked up the Captain’s hat hanging on the hook and placed it on my head with a smile.
It was this river rat’s time to go.
My heart hammered beneath my ribs.
What was I doing? What was I doing? What was I-
Everything that my boatbuilder had taught me about Maggie had suddenly been stripped from my mind. My eyes picked up the odd figures standing on the docks, watching as Maggie was reversed slowly out of her mooring space by her bow and stern lines. My friends, Maddy and Steve, brought her back, listening as I called out instructions on how I wanted her brought out.
But now it was time to push forwards, turn the tiller starboard, and I had forgotten everything.
Oh, God, Oh God, Oh God-
People were watching from their windows, as I attempted to log into my muscle memory and trust my hands with the gear stick and accelerator wheel.
I had to do this. I had to.
I found a heavy wave of stillness wash over me. Suddenly I was back on Papageno, attempting to navigate her through buoys and millionaire boats in the dark. If I didn’t do it, then no one would.
It was a feeling of being encased in steel. There was no way out. Only forwards. Only this overwhelming and suffocating obligation to see it through.
It never occurred to me to give up. Giving up and passing her over felt like the more terrifying option.
“Right, Liz,” my friend Maddy said as he jumped back on board, settling beside me at the tiller. “If you tell me what these things do, maybe I can help?”
I stared at the brass instruments before me. What was forwards, neutral and reverse?
How had I forgotten everything?
I stared at them. “I would,” I said, my voice far more chipper than it should be. “But I’ve completely forgotten.”
A pause hung in the air between us both.
“Ah, that could prove tricky…”
Delving deeper into the abyss of recollection and allowing my hands to take over, Maggie drifted further and further back towards the neighbours’ very expensive boats. An overwhelming sense of panic began to wrap around my throat. I needed to stabilise Maggie. Get her secured and safe.
“You’ve got this, Liz,” Maddy said next to me. “Easy does it.”
Swinging the tiller, and finding the pressure on the gear stick, I pulled until a burst of water came from the propellor.
Forwards.
At last.
Encouraged by this, my courage came trickling back, and I managed to slowly ease Maggie ahead until she finally turned her spine portside away from Mancetter Marina.
Relief bubbled inside me, echoing out in a frantic and half-mad laugh. After getting close enough to the towpath for Steve to jump off to head home, Maddy and I were faced with a boat moored at a bend.
Maggie is 70ft.
70 bloody feet of 23ton steel and no longer had enough space to turn. Sending Maddy to the “pointy end” as prevention, Maggie got away with her nose merely giving the other boat’s fender a kiss and then turned away.
I’m going to have a heart attack, I thought. I’m going to have a fucking heart attack.
Another bend came ahead and Maggie eventually stopped moving.
She was stuck. Hard and fast in the silt.
But the panic didn’t come. Just simple embarrassment this time. At least this sort of problem could be dealt with without the need to be hasty. Getting a barge pole, we shoved off the silt and headed straight towards our friend, Xavier’s boat, Oakwood. We had been planning on tackling the Atherstone Locks and then reward ourselves with a pint at the King’s Head.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said to Maddy, laughing and half sobbing at the same time. I was so relieved still at not hitting anyone’s boat. The thought was making me feel sick that it could have been a possibility.
Everyone was right, a voice said in my head. Everyone was right. How can you do this? How can you do this? You can’t- you’re a silly girl. A silly girl who is way over her head.
Everyone was right.
“Oh, mate, don’t say that!” Maddy put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got this! Look- you already did it! You did it, Liz!”
How was I going to do all of those locks? I couldn’t do this- he was wrong- I had made a mistake-
Xavier had paused his boat ahead of us, and I glanced down at my phone to see 7 missed calls. “The pub is shutting in twenty minutes!” he called over. “May as well moor up here!”
Relief almost made me choke.
“Thank God,” I breathed, turning Maggie into the direction of the towpath. I needed to be still. I needed to rest. I needed to process everything that had just happened.
I was faced with another thing I had forgotten. As the boys jumped onto the towpath, secured Oakwood and then turned to Maggie, there were no mooring pins. I usually had them always prepared, but today it had fallen from my mind. I had been so preoccupied with leaving the marina and focusing on mooring at the mushrooms in Atherstone, I had forgotten to familiarise myself with where the pins were.
Yet another thing I had been lacking. Racing inside the boat, opening the lockers and cupboards, I eventually found them and a hammer and secured her with my friends.
Lifting the hammer and settling it back on board, I realised that a faint tremor had begun to vibrate through my fingers.
Shit. I had really scared myself.
Well- disappointed myself.
The heaviness of that feeling, of all the things I was lacking and the new supposed realisation that I was an idiot, careless and no way cut out for Maggie would have me clinging onto that spot on the towpath for the following two weeks. My confidence was crushed. My bravery nowhere to be seen.
I stayed inside that boat, panicking and giving myself a hard time about the things I had and hadn’t and should have done.
I went over and over them in my head, wondering how I was going to do this alone, whether I was brave enough and where would I even go?
Can I do this? Can I do this? Can I do this?
When we sat down together inside and had a glass of wine, I am slightly ashamed to say that I cried a little in front of my friends. Hearing my own voice speak out the sentences that others who had wanted me to fail had said, was painful.
Silly girl. What does she think she’s doing?
After much reassurance from Xav and Maddy, I settled back in my chair, the wine twirling around in my glass like the whirlpool I was feeling within. Dread of what lay before me in two weeks’ time crept along with my bloodstream, promising more change, promising more lessons to be learned.
It’s a lot, it’s a lot, it’s a lot, my mind kept humming.
But there was a small very quiet voice that made me grip my glass tighter.
I can do this.
It’s time to move onboard! Lizbeth finally cruises Maggie through Atherstone locks and into Mancetter Marina, where it’s time to move onboard! Serious paint choices were made… It’ll be ok- right?!