River voyages are not to be undertaken lightly.
We went to Oxford yesterday, a journey that was not without its perils. Roadworks on the A40 have resulted in massive traffic tie-ups that seem to get longer every time I travel to Oxford. I suspect the same cars are just piling up, mile upon mile, day after day. It took an hour to get through the roadworks, whereas last time it took only 20 minutes. (That's right, I said "only". Traffic jams here usually include bottles of water airdropped by helicopter on hot days, free coffees during the winter months.) But I had convinced the girls we should try our hand at punting. So once we got there, we headed for Magdalen Bridge (pronounced "maudlin") where we managed to procure a punt. (£12 an hour, plus deposit and proof of sanity.)
A punt is a flat-bottomed boat about the size of a canoe, but instead of rowing with paddles you pole it around from behind. (Rivers in England aren't very deep; this would never work in the Atchafalaya River, for instance.) They also provided a paddle, for steering, or maybe just to avoid the proverbial analogies to a certain creek.
As we boarded the boat, I ordered Daughter Number One's friend, who looked like a strong girl, to swallow her ice cream cone and grab the pole. But the rest of the crew quickly lost confidence in her leadership and mutinied. DNO took over, and she proved an excellent, if somewhat bossy, skipper. It did take her a while to get the steering thing figured out: we floated around in gentle circles while our fellow punters laughed at us, offering friendly tips. I reverted to dog training mode: "Good girl!" I shouted whenever she managed to get us headed in the right direction. "Shut up!" she barked back, "and paddle in the OTHER direction!" (You've heard of seasickness? I have sea dyslexia. Remember this term if they institute the draft.)
By the time we'd gone halfway round the route they'd outlined for us on the map she seemed to be in fine form, although I could tell from observing the other punters that she was facing the wrong way, employing more of a shoving action than a propelling one. But we brazened it out. "We're Americans," we shouted to the other punters, in case they didn't guess from our accents. "We own the seas!" (Okay, we didn't say that. Probably because most of the other punters were Americans too. We own the airlines.)
The voyage did not prove to be without obstacle; forget those images of gently floating along the river, a plastic cup of champagne in your hand, the quiet sounds of water sloshing against the bow (or is that a prow?) while a nocturne plays in the background. (We really did hear a nocturne, at one point, coming from one of the nearby buildings. This is Oxford, remember.) It was a little more like shooting the rapids in the Rockies, except instead of dangerous shoals we had dangerous foliage, which for some reason they have allowed to line the banks of the Cherwell. Like a siren, it lures novice punters to its green depths, entangling them in thorny limbs...you get the picture.
Daughter Number Two was along, too, but she was more or less an impressed sailor. She doesn't like water, she informed me as soon as she'd taken her seat in the punt. In fact she hates it, she told me a minute later. Further, she didn't want to be there, she added as we lodged ourselves firmly against one of the docked punts. When we nudged against the sloping riverbank later I offered to look the other way while she went AWOL but she refused to abandon the ship. (I think it was the education benefits we'd promised her.)
When we finally made land, we were all a bit grumpy with each other. This may be an indication that long sea voyages are not a good idea, at least not for landlubbers like us. I'm much more at home with a steering wheel and anti-lock brakes. We were, however, pretty proud that we'd returned mostly undamaged, except for the scratches from the foliage and wet bottoms. As we floated gently under Magdalen Bridge, careful to avoid ramming it this time, another punter almost hit us. "Sorry about that," he shouted. "It's our first time!"
"It was ours too, an hour ago," I told him, with an encouraging smile. "You'll get the hang of it!" Then, as he propelled his punt toward the center of the Cherwell, I called out, "Good boy!"
More photos lie below the fold.
*Not to be confused with the book Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome, which if you haven't read you simply must. Especially if you have any intention of taking to the high seas.
This is what a proper punter looks like.
Our skipper, whom we playfully called Sacagawea, realizes the boat should be facing the other direction.
Uh oh. Limbs are, however, helpful for steering.
We come to a fork in the river. Note the excess room in the front of the boat; this is ideally where a picnic basket should be placed. And an ice-filled bucket of champagne, for ballast.
Magdalen Bridge presents one last obstacle. But Magdalen Tower is pretty.
