Halcyon Recollections

When I was a child my father used to build boats. It was a hobby of his; his form of escape I suppose from the frustrations of everyday life, but it was something I very much took for granted - as though all fathers built boats in their spare time. It's only now, in middle age, I realise quite how extraordinary my childhood was because of this.

Every weekend and holiday throughout the spring, summer and autumn, saw my family spending time on the River Wey; in particular at Papercourt Lock, where my parents had a mooring. It was utterly idyllic in many respects. As children, my brother and I were afforded a degree of freedom which I think would be pretty much unheard of nowadays - we'd take off all day in canoes exploring the river and backwater, or build camps in the undergrowth that invariably grows up alongside the towpaths. Very much a 'Swallows and Amazons' affair. The evenings were spent building huge bonfires, sometimes at 'Spooks Abbey'(Newark);



where we'd toast bread, drink illicit cans of cider and try outdo each other with ghostly tales around the fire. If the weather was particularly clement we'd maybe swim in the lock by torch or candle light, long after the last day tourist had gone home. At night we'd be lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat and gentle lapping of water around the hull, and bid our escape at first light by climbing through a hatch at the front without waking our parents (or so we thought). Early morning mists across fields filled with the shadowy outline of cows, is an abiding ethereal memory of that time.


This was my life from the age of four until around seventeen, when ill health forced my father to give up work. Economics then dictated my parents could no longer afford luxuries such as mooring fees and boating licenses which would have left a huge gap in my life, had it not been for the fact that I'd acquired my first boyfriend and was more concerned with developing a social life closer to home.

And so it goes.

Just lately I've found myself thinking about the those days at the lock with more than a healthy degree of nostalgia. For some obscure reason, this summer in particular, has found me longing to return there, which I attempted in part a couple of evenings ago. At this point, I should explain that my own ill health ( I have a form of rheumatoid arthritis) often means I sometimes encounter problems when trying to walk any distance, and access to the lock is via an amble along a tow path which I didn't quite feel up to making at this particular point in time. So I wandered across a bridge from the car park at the tannery with Ian, to the backwater which runs parallel to the river and just stood there a while soaking in the atmosphere and taking a few photos before the sun set across the fields. In many respects it felt like I'd come home.




Last time I wrote here, I mentioned a story that's been mulling around in my head for a while now. Whilst the majority of it isn't centred around my experiences as a child, I very much want to weave my story around life on the river at a particular period in time. This 1907 photo of Papercourt in particular, intrigues me;



I think maybe, more research is in order!