Canalling
By Max Austin
We took the early morning train into Reading. I looked over at my sister who’s gormless confused look gave nothing away – but that was always the way she looked. I knew she was just as excited – well at least I hoped there was something going on in there. I was 16, Ali was 14 and Dad was 45. But we all shared one thing – an utterly juvenile sense of humour.
We were about to embark on a canal boat trip. Ali and I had never been on a canal boat before and we knew very little about what it entailed. In fact even this fact was a little hazy for my sister:
“Maxie”
“Yes…”
I dreaded the level of stupidity the ensuing question would bring:
“Will there be sharks?”
“No. No there won’t”
I should have lied, I regretted my honesty instantly. Although there was no point adding fuel to the fire. There’d be plenty more opportunities to scare the shit out of the little crap sack.
We arrived at the long, narrow canal boat. I did think it odd my Dad had chosen this shape of boat, given we were both 6ft plus – we spent a lot of the trip conking our heads. Inside there were 3 small bedrooms and the world’s tiniest toilet. “Might have trouble fitting in there” I thought to myself.
All kit and food loaded we set off down the Shropshire Union canal. Dad was captain and sat triumphantly behind the wheel, probably imagining he was steering the Titanic. As the newness of the experience began to wear off, it struck me how boring this trip was going to be. There’s only so many times you can wave at an old couple.
The pace at which we moved down the river was excruciating. I did ask about water skiing but my Dad’s dismissive “you’re an idiot” look soon crushed that dream – I think his head was sore from all the conking.
However, one source of entertainment I hadn’t considered about a canal trip was the locks. Alice and I would have to grab two ropes and throw them over a metal hook connected to the river bank, lassoo style. The real attraction of this task was witnessing Ali’s notorious lack of coordination.
I went to see her play a rounders match once. She swung for the ball and let go of the bat, lamping a team mate on the head. She was worse at netball though. She’d jump to catch the ball and instead find it crashing into her nose. Now I got to witness her throw a rope several times a day – maybe this holiday wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The first lock approached – We grabbed our respective ropes – I threw mine over first time, not that it was a competition, I mean if it was there’d only have been one winner. Ali scooped hers up and executed. It was painfully short I considered sharing some encouragement or advice but I felt this was a mountain Ali had to climb herself. A personal Everest if you will. Her second throw went upwards. Not realising she looked at the metal hook perplexed- the rope was no where to be seen. The mystery was soon solved as it landed on her head.“Nice one Al!” Dad yelled as I laughed on the riverbank.
We’d spend the warm summer evenings going for walks and stopping at pubs for dinner along the river bank. Dad and I had a great time mocking Ali’s appalling rope skills.
However, I wasn’t to escape mockery that easily. My stomach had been feeling a little shaky since we set off on our voyage. A mix of the unstable environment and my Dads cooking was to blame.
One afternoon this came to a head. I managed to squeeze into the tiny bathroom and braced myself for a rough ride. I could tell the flushing facilities weren’t the most sophisticated. It’d take a fucking industrial pump to deal with what I was about to let rip. And so the suffering ensued. It was the Shropshire Union canal I felt sorry for. After finishing what was to put it mildly, a travesty, I thought I was over the hump and began to flush. One flush – no movement. Ok I thought, maybe a couple more will do it – still no progress. I began to get nervous. The sun was beating down and there were no gas masks on board.
I started looking for tools, Ali’s tooth brush sat on the edge of a shelf. even I wasn’t that cruel. Looking around I rested on the toilet brush. So courageously I plunged, really putting some elbow grease into it. Thankfully it worked! The only problem was – what to do with the brush? It was time to refer to the eternal wisdom of my Dad. I’d taken this project as far as I could solo.
I found my Dad standing on the side of the boat. He was enjoying the sun set over the beautiful English countryside.
“Dad – what do I do with this?”
My Dad turned to see me brandishing the soiled toilet brush. His expression of bliss turned slowly to one of agony as he realised what I was asking.
“Wash it Son, sweet Jesus amen so help me God wash it.”
The answer was so simple, yet in the pressure of the situation I hadn’t come to such an obvious conclusion.
This is a holiday My Dad, Ali and I frequently reminisced about. All of us learnt a lesson. Ali to never go near a rope again, Dad to never take us on a canal trip again, and I have a new found respect for toilet brushes.
