The ebb and flow of life on a houseboat

In the spring of 2021 I took a man to a pub in Hackney and bought him a drink. Perhaps he should have been doing the buying, since I had just handed him a large sum in return for his narrowboat. But I was in an exultant mood. No London flat, I reasoned, could ever be as cosy as that low-ceilinged, teak-panelled interior with its coal-burning stove and narrow cabin bed. And outside it lay a pathway to adventure through the hidden districts of the capital, their parks, nature reserves, railway bridges, gasholders, locks, warehouses and waterside pubs.

Such thoughts, amplified by a sub-genre of YouTube and Instagram accounts, tempt scores of idealists on to the canals each year. They quickly discover reality. On day one the shower sputters out before you have rinsed the shampoo from your hair, and you remember that you are dependent on an onboard tank for your water supply. On day two a cold snap descends, and after several attempts to light a fire you shiver through a miserable night, eventually falling asleep at 4 a.m. to dreams of shipwrecks. On day three the toilet overflows and the nearest emptying point is out of order, though rumour has it it may reopen as soon as next month. By day ten you trudge home down streets of lighted windows to your freezing vessel, slightly smaller than a Tube carriage, half-submerged in diseased, rubbish-choked water, wondering what possessed you to abandon the ordinary comforts of civilised life.

Nobody discusses this subject more eagerly than the tradesmen who work both on land and on water, and like to drive home the rashness of the latter choice. Our mechanic, a man of profound generosity who undercharged us for a superb job, crouched in the engine bay firing off insults against marine engines and their owners.