Three Men in a Boat

The Ship, Marlow

Three hours later we were still stuck at Henley. Chris had received copious advice on the chilling of champagne from four elderly dames. While Jon retained his customary silence, Chris and Gary quizzed a salty old seadog by the rather unsalty name of Sean about swan upping and the life on the ocean wave. Looking something like Grandad from Only Fools and Horses, and sounding a little like Mariella Frostrup, he turned out to be very personable indeed.
The Swan Uppers finally departed looking pissed and liable to ring anything that moved, so, dodging a sudden torrential downpour, we unmoored. Gary and Jon made a manful push down the regatta course; 14 minutes 40 - approximately a brisk walking speed. Although rather faster than walking carrying 20 tons of shite.
Chris had profound difficulty remembering the name of Hurley lock, in which Jon had a brief contretemps with a narrowboat. Passed Medmenham Abbey, former home of the Hellfire Club; no debauchery to be seen.
Moored up in Marlow near the weir. Strange appearance of matronly ladies popping up, staring at us and going away again. We polished off Chris' bottle of pink champagne and, beginning to feel hunted, cast off.
Moored up by the park and took advantage of the free shower (but not sadly the attendants) at the leisure centre. Gary did 10000 lengths of the very tiny pool. Consumed the Michelin starred Major sausage pasta, washed up while Gary heroically fended off a narrowboat bore, and retired for beer.