Exhibitionists
A mate once lent me his VW camper-van to run my daughter and her friends to their prom. I remember that on seeing the quirky vehicle people we passed the whole way there and back waved at us. A narrowboat elicits the same sense of smiley friendliness. Only you’re travelling at 3mph so people can engage with you beyond just waving.
Residing aboard a narrowboat you have to accept that you become a living, breathing, floating museum exhibit. People are naturally curious and, by water it seems, unashamedly so. They peek in your windows, they stand and watch you - even film you - going about your daily business and they talk to you. Our boat draws a lot of attention. Dædalus is unique and I never tire of people telling me, “what a beautiful boat you have!” This happens two or three times a day and it makes me smile. But the compliment usually opens the sluice gate for a line of questioning from strangers that I never ever encountered as a house-owner. “How much did that set you back, then?” is probably the most asked and brazen of questions! “Is it yours?” others pry, as if you’ve shiftily hi-jacked 67’ x 6’10” x twenty-three tonnes of steel from a marina, without asking. On hearing the affirmative the follow-up questions flow faster than the River Severn in flood, “Do you live on it?” “Why?” “Is it cold?” “Have you retired?” even, “How old are you, then?”
This irked me for the first week or so but now I find it amusing and endearing. People are genuinely curious and I do love chatting to people.
Dædalus at HMS Dædalus
As well as her name, “Lee-on-the-Solent” is painted on the boat. “You’ve come a long way” people shout from the tow path. It begins a conversation about the fact that the Inland Waterways can’t be reached from The Solent and that a blacksmith, Robert Kranenborg - whose name is also sign-writern on the boat - from The Midlands started building her to live aboard. On moving his business to the New Forest he realised there wasn’t anywhere to moor his floating home so he reluctantly sold her to a couple from Lee. They moved the half-finished boat to a hangar at the Royal Naval air station there: HMS Dædalus, where with Robert’s help they completed the build and fit out. And that’s why she’s so named.
Recognising the significance, a surprising number of people, mostly men, stop and wistfully say, “I served/trained/worked at HMS Dædalus.” They clearly loved their time there.
It’s not a Lister. It’s a Gardner.
And it’s men who ask, “Is that a Lister?” referring to the beautiful purring sound of our engine. It’s not, it’s a fifty-six year old Gardner 4L2.
So, yes, at times it feels like we are the curators of a floating museum exhibit but we are cruising along in one heck of a beautiful conversation starter and we absolutely love it.