Tag: solo traveller

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The British Diaries The Papageno Diaries!

The 1920’s Boat Diaries; Part 4 “Something to Overcome.”

“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.”

Categories
The British Diaries The Papageno Diaries!

The 1920’s Boat Diaries: Part 3 “Aren’t you a treat, Elizabeth?”

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.

Categories
The British Diaries

The Reality of Living on and Renovating a Boat.

Luxurious. The word echoed in my head as I fumbled through my scattered belongings to search for a bin bag.

I’m going to make this boat as luxurious as possible.

My words were definitely coming back to haunt me.

“Ah-ha! Gotcha!” I pulled out the forlorn crumpled bin bag from behind a bag of clothes and scrambled to hook it over my bathroom window. The towpath was busy today, and after three days of not showering, the scent of my own armpits offended me.

I knew people couldn’t help but look in through the windows. But I still glowered as I pulled shut two makeshift curtains I had created from old sarongs for my bathroom doors. I was guilty of that myself. I tried not to. But I find it too irresistible to get a flash of someone’s life. See what they’re watching on tv. What book they’re reading. If they’re sitting with an arm around a partner. Or alone in a chair with a dog asleep in their lap.

But I’m sure when people looked through my windows, they didn’t expect to see a 30-something naked woman sitting in a dog’s paddling pool with a camping shower.

“Why don’t you use a shower curtain?” someone had asked me on Instagram.

“If I had a shower curtain, do you really think I wouldn’t use it?” I thought with gritted teeth. Sometimes it can be annoying when people point out the obvious.

What you need is a shower curtain.

What you need are solar panels.

What you need is a fridge.

I know.

I know.

I know.

“When I move onto the boat, my costs will be mega low,” I had assured my parents. “I’ll be able to bank a hulk of cash. Don’t worry!”

Those words were haunting me now as I moved to the kitchen, two steps away from my wet room. Having my gas connected was going to cost on average £750- or so I had heard. £750. Just to have hot water.

I placed the kettle onto my small camping stove, which stood just over my new Thetford three burner- the burner that I couldn’t afford to connect.

Renovating a boat was not cheap. And although I had moved onto Leviathan, I still had previous bills to pay. My old boatyard for rent. My boat builder. I needed to save for solar. For an inverter. For a gas fit out. For a wet room to be built. For a custom mattress to be made.

Mild panic rolled in my head before I squashed it down.

“You’re fine for now,” I told myself. “Stay in the present.”

I turned briefly and stared at what was supposed to be my “luxurious” lounge. A space with a bookshelf stacked with history books, encyclopaedias, poetry and fantasy. Opposite sat two airbeds perched on top of each other, covered with a green throw. That was my makeshift settee for now. Before it lay a purple, gold and green rug my sister had gifted me and the fireplace. The fireplace was probably the most successful and openly beautiful thing about this boat. A black multi-fuel burner set upon Victorian-style pale green tiles. Gloss teal tiles surrounded the burner and set within were antique metal plaques. Moulded into the metal was a scene of men and women at work in the fields.

I swallowed at the sight. They had belonged to my late Granddad, hidden away in a shed, of which he had intended to use for a later project he just never got round to.

“He would love all of this,” my Nan had told me. “He would have loved to help you with everything.”

And it was true. If there had been a man designed to help with this boat project who could do everything it would have been him.

My dad had crafted the fireplace setting together, and it made it mean even more to me. The only source of warmth in my home had been crafted by my family.

The whistling of the kettle jerked my thoughts back to the present. Turning off my small camping stove, I set to pouring it into a bucket and found my desired temperature with cold water.

My washing method was a £30 electronic camping shower. I’d sit in the paddling pool to shampoo, condition, wash my face, body and then- if I was feeling particularly luxurious- shave my legs.

What a treat for the world.

I padded into the tiny paddling pool and set about washing the week from my body, hair and face. That was the biggest change from land to water life. The lack of frequent hot showers. The difference of water pressure. The ability to step out and actually have room to move.

I had started sadistically making everything into a game. How quickly I could do it all. How tidily. How much water I could save in the bucket for the end where I could simply sit, relax and be.

With tasks like these, I made sure to make myself associate them with something positive happening. Sometimes it was a glass of wine in front of the fire and music whilst I bathed. Today it was listening to an audiobook and Maltesers.

Sometimes it was hard to keep that mentality. Sometimes it was hard to not feel exhausted before the day had even started and go to work with full energy.

Wake up, boil water, start the generator to charge my phone and other electronics, run the engine to charge the batteries, make breakfast after boiling water for tea and shower, pack away padding pool, and then get dressed and ready for the day on a swaying boat as hire boats whizz past.

I had always thought other narrowboaters were over-exaggerating when they complained at the speed when other boats went past. In the past, living on a sailboat prepared you for the entire boat to ricochet back and forth, dishes smashing and possessions falling from shelves as the crew were shoved from one side to the other. And if it wasn’t other boats, it was from the swell of the sea.

And although it was nowhere near as bad, an inconvenience is still an inconvenience.

I finally stumbled out into the cockpit, fresh and dressed, to head to my art studio, which was now an hour’s drive away. I had been cruising and commuting to work as best as possible to ensure I still had funds to come in for renovations, fuel and provisions. But the commute was getting further and further away as I progressed, petrol costs were spiralling and constantly moving my car was getting to me.

The sunlight hit me in one shard of dazzlement. I blinked, trying to adapt my sight from the shadows from inside the boat.

“Good morning, darling!” came a cheery wave and greeting from my boat neighbour. I released a bundled breath and my shoulders relaxed.

And as I dragged in the scent of grass, fields, blossom and damp earth into my lungs, tinged with the familiar smell of coal, oil and the scent coffee being made somewhere, it all felt worthwhile.

You can’t rush on a canalboat. It’s impossible. So I’d sit on my roof and stare out. Recalibrate. Remind myself that this was why I was doing all of this. To have this to soothe my brain when times got hard.

Despite all of the long routes I had to do inside my boat to achieve minuscule tasks, I didn’t hate any of it. I enjoyed it. Yes, I could complain and whinge. But… I liked it. I liked knowing that I was capable. That I could survive. Make do. Persevere.

And that gave me a sense of pride in my ability.

It was making me build a better relationship with myself. Made me feel proud.

See? You can do it! Look at you go!

“I’m making coffee, would you like one?”

I scanned the blue skies, the rolling green fields, watched as the other boaters prepared for their day. Someone had come back from provision shopping and another was painting the exterior of his boat. An older boater was laughing at his dog, attempting to pick up an overly large stick, his gravelly laugh travelling along the water.

This. I could get used to this.

I didn’t bother checking my watch. I thought of the traffic. Of the buildings. Of needing to get more petrol. Of reality caving in around me in a case of concrete and pylons. Deadlines. Emails. The internet.

A part of me recoiled at the idea of going back to it.

I grinned. “I’d love one.”


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