Page published: 26 September 2025
The Origins of this Page
Once upon a time on the Internet, one would sign up with an Internet Service Provider and your account would include access to Web, Mail and Usenet servers. The last being short for Users Network. It was where anyone could post an article on a particular topic. You accessed a Usenet server with a program such as "Outlook Express", and selected the "Groups", or topics, in which you were interested. The program would then retrieve the subject lines, author, and date/time of all articles posted to that newsgroup since you last logged in. You would scan these, decide which you wished to read, mark them for download, and so fetch from the server the text of those articles. Yes, this was a text-only medium, just as Email was in those days.
I was an early adopter of the Internet, having previous been active on the amateur Fidonet and one of my interests was canal boating so I subscribed to news:uk.rec.waterways, which as you can probably guess covered the recreational use of UK waterways. Back in the late 1990s the group probably got 25-50 posts a day. With the development of broadband, such text only services virtually disappeared, although, for a time, Google Groups provided a mirror for all the newsgroups on UseNet server, but even that has stopped now.
It was on Saturday 18 May 2002 that I spent skippering Liberty Belle. The article that appears below (with just a few corrections to typos that I've spotted while preparing this page) was posted on 22 May 2002 to the newsgroup. You can see the original and the response it got on the Google Groups archive of the newsgroup. The article references the script for The Commentary I was to deliver during each cruise. The Commentry was posted on the site at the time that I moved the original Blog post here, following Steve's death. At some point I may well add a few illustrations, to make it appear a little more modern and "web-friendly"!
The Article on news:uk.rec.waterways
Imagine the scene! The warming sun high in the sky, and a sense of anticipation that one would finish the day bronzed and incredibly attractive to the opposite sex without being the slightest bit burned, rippling water and a gentle breeze, bird song in the surrounding trees and the gentle burble of a diesel engine at tickover coming in to moor at the pumps outside the marina opposite.
Well! It wasn't like that!
Saturday was overcast, with many clouds still lower than the dull grey ceiling that was the sky above the Ely waterfront. The breeze was anything but gentle. The clouds scudded across the sky appearing to bump into that ceiling above and once or twice were to spill just a little of their contents.
I had arrived at 11:00, armed with keys supplied by Stephen King, owner of Liberty Belle. This was to be my first day as a working boatman! How I remember the days of my youth, when I imagined such a day! The joy of that first time each year, in the sea off Sandown beach, with my brother, astride a Li-Lo, singing "Ooooh, a life on the ocean waves is better than life at school...". The family's tradition of a fortnight by the seaside every summer in the mid-1950s has a lot to answer for. But this wasn't the ocean waves. This was just the quiet backwaters of the Great Ouse passing through Ely. But it was earning a wage on the water, and I never had done that before. This was to be an important moment in my life!
Though, it didn't turn out like that!
Clutching the notes, which Stephen had sent me, following my day's training the previous Sunday, I reminded myself how to prepare the boat for its first passengers. The cushions were in place along the benches. The sign boards were out on the quay. I had plugged in the microphone and checked the amplifier. I'd negotiated the precarious gunnel on the far side without incident and managed to roll up the sidescreen neatly and fixed the press studs to keep it in place.
The life belts had been placed on the roof. The stern tube greaser had been turned. The engine had been test run. The gauge needles were pointing where they should. The circuit alarms had made all the right noises at all the right times. The bow and aft mooring lines had been released and the Liberty Belle was now held in place against the quay only by a short line from an eye mid-way along the gunnel ending in a simple galvanised hook attached to a mooring ring on the quay. Only the tension provided by the engine, at idle and in forward gear, ensured the hook didn't become disengaged.
Now there I stood, a large leather change bag hung over my shoulder. I imagined that, apart from the lack of London Transport uniform and ticket punch, I looked quite the bus conductors on the 118 route that ran past our front door, between Clapham and Raynes Park, back in the days when those seaside holidays were taken. I was ready! I was a working boatman!
Well! Actually, I wasn't!
I would have been a working boatman, but there were no passengers. It was mid-day, the time of the first scheduled 30 minute trip. Those who were on the waterfront seemed to be making a bee-line for the Maltings, which according to the script of the commentary that Stephen had supplied, was built in 1868 and had a working life of about 100 years.
As the script explained, having survived a fire, it was now used, amongst other things, as an exhibition hall, and today was the day of the annual Ely Model Railway Exhibition. Given the weather, it was hardly surprising those that were around were not interested in a boat trip.
The rain didn't last long. In fact, there was so little you could still see the individual drops protruding like randomly placed miniature rivets, from the chocolate-brown painted stern deck. So what does a working boatman do, when there's no cargo? Like a fireman from Penny Lane, he sets to and polishes the brass! That seemed to do the trick.
A mother and young daughter appeared. "Can we eat our sandwiches on board?" asked the mother. "Of course!", says I, figuring that at least people might realise that the Liberty Belle wasn't just some static aquatic exhibit, if there were some others already aboard. To make them feel at ease I even pointed out that there was a large swing bin on board where they could throw all their rubbish, in case they felt that it all looked too tidy for sandwich munching.
At last! I was a true working boatman!
It was 12:35. We set off, on the dot, with my two passengers aboard. I set the revs at 1600rpm. I had been told that, if late, 1700rpm would cut half a minute off the trip. That precision had surprised me during training the previous week, but then Stephen is a much practised professional, with experience on the Thames as well as the Great Ouse and Cam! What I hadn't experienced was the wind. In spite of the script being encased in the plastic sleeves of a presentation binder, the pages were being blown over. I had to wedge the clipboard over them to keep them in place, while I stumbled over the words about Babylon, where the river went to downstream, and how, with enough time and a suitable boat you could reach London, Bristol, Liverpool and Leeds from here. I'd like to say that the rest of the trip proceeded without incident.
But, it wasn't like that!
The moment approached that I had worried about most - the return to the quay! It had been the weakest part of my efforts, during training the previous week. Now I had to face up to doing it solo. I felt a sudden empathy with the pilots of Apollo 8's Lunar Module when approaching the Moon's surface. OK! I hadn't got several million TV viewers taking note of my every move, but I had got half dozen fresh passengers on the quay, and a selection of other gongoozlers, and unlike those TV viewers back in 1969, they weren't about to board the vessel which I was piloting directly towards them.
Of course, it wasn't the plan to be heading straight for them!
The plan was to sweep in a gentle arc towards the mooring. Then, with a deft bit of reverse gear, and the paddlewheel action of the propeller, now turning backwards, the stern would nudge the quay first, allowing me to step ashore, flick the hook over the mooring ring, and proceed to the front of the boat where I could assist passengers disembark and warn them to watch their step and head as they came off the boat.
So much for the plan! Does a working boatman offer explanations or excuses? It was like this M'Lud!
Stephen had demonstrated how to approach and I had had three goes at it myself the previous week. The first two of those attempts were following his detailed instructions with regard to helm, revs and forward and reverse gear. Only one of those attempts had been, what I thought was passable. Stephen had explained how he had even specified the screw so that on engaging reverse the stern would be swung into the quay. But none of this seemed to work for me now. Stephen had said that the secret was in doing it slow. I had failed to get the stern in first. This wouldn't be a worry, if boating by yourself, but there's the risk that passengers will suddenly take it into their heads to disembark before the boat is secure, with all the risks that that implies.
But all seemed well! My passengers left, with the mother remarking on it being a pleasant trip. Obviously, they had been totally unaware of the worries of a working boatman! Now for the next worry!
Those not used to boats, often don't appreciate the implications of the fact that boats float. This means they bob up and down in the water. They bob more if you suddenly place a large load on one side. That's just what happens every time someone gets in or out. Now, you, dear reader, will be aware of all this. Passengers on trip boats, even if they think about it as they step aboard, once they have negotiated the steps and are down on the "level" deck, often seem to forget. They compose themselves, look around, and stride forth boldly to their chosen seat.
Now imagine, dear reader, that the next person to board, is not some slender young thing, fresh from the catwalks of a fashion show and is, instead, someone whose bulk, if slightly differently arranged, could be used to smooth freshly laid tarmac on a motorway. The effect, as you know, will be to materially change the angle of the boat. As our original passenger takes their second or third step, with less care and ever gaining confidence, the floor is no longer in the expected position, but instead several inches lower or higher. The effect, is not unlike that where someone runs along a springboard over a swimming pool and misjudges the bounce in the board. We've all seen it many times on "You've been Framed" and we all laugh like mad as unexpectedly horizontal, our subject finds themselves travelling in directions and at speeds they certainly did not intend. Stephen had given me detailed descriptions of passengers, having bounced off others, on their backs legs in the air, with skirt around their heads, having to be calmed down and sorted out.
To counter all this, my training said that I was to stand astride bank and boat, with 80% of my weight on the boat. That way I would be able to pull my legs together to counter any tendency of passengers to push to boat off, and also, should a passenger be particularly large, ease my weight onto the bank foot as they stepped aboard, so minimising any sudden change in the angle of the boat.
I can tell you that I rapidly decided that this manoeuvre, when done while engaged in tasks of mental arithmetic, of a kind not attempted in thirty-odd years, but necessary to calculate, and then find in ones shoulder bag, the right change, is the kind which only those who are bold enough to take part in simultaneous sessions of "The Krypton Factor" and "The Weakest Link" should consider. However, I seemed to manage it, and we set off for the second trip.
This time, I was just reaching the part of the commentary where I talk of the last of the old eel catchers of Ely, when there he was! Sid, a wonderfully wizened local, of untold years was there, on his boat, a blue-hulled wooden cabin cruiser. What's more he was waving at me. For a moment panic set in. Was I too close? Was I about to wreck his nets? My commentary was becoming a little hesitant by now, not just because the wind was whipping the pages over but as I struggled to decide whether I should be moving into deeper water in mid-river. I struggled to continue to articulate the carefully constructed script, paced to work at 1600rpm.
Finally I decided that this was just a friendly greeting. Perhaps, his eyes losing their faculties, after so long spent staring in the water for eels, had mistaken me for Stephen. Perhaps, Stephen had briefed him that I would be on Liberty Belle today, reminding him of the fellow that had sat next to him for a meal in the Maltings, the last time that Anglia TV had come to film a documentary on the Ely waterfront.
Whatever the reason, with microphone in one hand and tiller in the other, I had no spare arm with which to acknowledge him. I finished reading the sentence and flipped the switch to off. I placed the microphone on the cabin roof, only to watch it crash to the deck below, as I raised my hand to wave. The microphone's fall was broken only slightly by the cable from which it dangled, and the spring like action of the mesh dome on its top popping off and rolling its own course towards the open cabin doors and the depths of the cabin beyond. By the time I had picked up the microphone again and reconstructed it, Sid was well astern. There was no point in pointing him out to my passengers and they had missed the chance of knowing that they had seen the great man himself who, every day of the season, still sends off Ely eels to top restaurants in London. Three minutes later we were passing the spot again. Sid, and his boat, were gone not to return.
In spite of, from my perspective, another imperfect landing. Once more there were pleasant remarks about the trip as the passengers disembarked.
The next trip was also only a half load. As I arranged myself in the required position astride boat and quay, a man had flashed past me and onto the boat. "He's not with us!" said another, who I thought had been head of the queue. Having got the fare from the queue jumper and sorted out the change, which caused problems, as he needed a fiver, which I didn't have until after I'd got the following party on board. We set off and there I was, pen in hand, knowing I'd got six on board, but only one according to the ticket numbers I had to record on the waybill. It took me a while to work out that I'd managed to forget to issue the tickets rather than mis-record the numbers last time around.
No dramas on the trip this time. I did have to do a bit of hasty reversing as I boat did a U-turn in front of me and headed for a gap in the boats on the bank opposite Sid's mooring.
No dramas? Well! Not until I came into moor again!
Perhaps I should have explained last time. Part of the reason for my difficulty, is that Liberty Belle is not a purpose designed trip boat for Ely. Bought as a shell by Stephen, it is based on a design used, in days gone by, by Canal Company Directors, for the annual inspection cruise of their waterway. It has short bow and stern decks and a roof running the full length of the rest of the boat. The roof covers an open cockpit for the first third of its length, a glazed cabin for the second part, though Stephen has not fitted glass and has the roll-up side screens instead, and a fully enclosed cabin towards the aft, which has just a couple of small portholes. the significant thing about the design, however, is the hinged hatch in the roof at the forward end. This is where the steps are and passengers embark and disembark. It is on the port side. And the quay is on the left bank!
This means that one has to come alongside the quay facing downstream. Not the way one is taught to do, if you want to maintain control of a boat. Not only that, on this day, a magnificent GRP cruiser complete with flying bridge, of some 13ft beam was breasted up with a similar only slightly smaller vessel immediately upstream of Liberty Belle's mooring.
Conscious that Stephen had said the secret is to do it slow, this time approached still slower than before.
Mistake!
I had slowed so much I lost all steerage way. I looked behind me and realised that I had swung the tiller over a full 90 degrees. In that state the rudder was acting virtually as a brake, not a steering device. I was now drifting gently sideways and pointing directly at the bank. My stern was turning, but the wrong way, caught by the wind and flow of the river, while the bows were nicely out of both the wind and eddies from two breasted boats upstream.
Had I been in a conventional narrowboat, equipped for use on the canals, I'd have nuzzled the bows into the bank and then applied a bit of throttle to bring her round. But Liberty Belle is equipped as a river cruiser, with no big button fender on the bows. Just lots of shiny paint, which I didn't wish to damage. Reversing, did not appear to swing the bow into the stream. Somehow, with various forward and reverse manoeuvres, I managed to bring the craft alongside the quay. Not without some paint being lost along the way. Ignominy!
The sky still looked grey. If anything the clouds were lower still. The 14:20 trip left with just one person aboard. He still got the full commentary, though I didn't put in the extra bit that I had thought about adding when I told the young girl on the first trip about the rare black swans that have been resident in Ely for a number of years. No one seems to know where they came from, but I understand that the variety originates in Australia. I had expected to see them above the High Bridge but they had spotted them out side the Cutter Inn, which the commentary reminds you is named, not after a type of sailing boat as the inn sign suggests, but the navvies who cut the new course of the Great Ouse between Adelaide and Littleport in the early 1800s.
Another imperfect landing! News must have got about, that I gave bumpy rides. There was no one waiting for the 15:00 trip. On the dot of three, the rain started to fall. Once again it was only a few spots, over in a couple of minutes, but there were no longer families promenading along he waterfront. Incongruously, it seemed to contain just people rushing between Mr King's ice cream van and the warm and dry of the model railway exhibition.
I did a quick calculation. Unless I was very careful I would cost Stephen more by staying trying to drum up business than he would take in fares. Enough was enough. I called it a day. I counted the money. Several times over! I hadn't checked the float, but now I seemed to be one pound over. Back on board came the sign boards, everything was locked up and battened down. Mooring lines were taken back on board and tied with a round turn and two half hitches, as requested. Padlock and chain were applied as a further deterrent to those thinking of casting Liberty Belle adrift.
I left the boat at the end of my day, stopping only to have a word with the ice cream vendor, who was surprised that he was, indeed, still doing a good trade on such a miserable day. I thought of the answers I'd given to questions I hadn't been given the answers to on my training day. "Can I book the boat for a family party next month?" Yes, but not in public trip times. And another, "Will you be here, tomorrow?" Yes, but it will be the boss, not me! And the long conversations with the very pleasant guy in the boat moored downstream of the Liberty Belle mooring It seemed he had known that Stephen would be away today. So did the ice cream man. Perhaps, Sid had been told and remembered me?
Still more fascinating was the chat with the history teacher, who wanted to know if Liberty Belle could be used for making a film about the Cambridge Crew of the boat race from some date I didn't quite catch. Initially, I thought she had said the original boat race, but later realised that couldn't be the one, as she referred to six of them still being alive. They'd found some archive footage of them. They were making a film which they hoped to show to Channel Four to get the go ahead for a full blown project. 'Twas all fascinating stuff, but my brain wasn't working entirely well at that stage in the afternoon. In spite of my early employment being with the Westminster Bank Ltd, I can confirm that mental arithmetic takes regular practice and it's not like riding a bike - something you never forget how to do!
So! Will I do it again? I guess that depends on how desperate Stephen is and how much paint he is prepared to lose. I do need a bit more practice, preferably without adjacent breasted up gin palaces during my early training, before I'll be happy that I'm really familiar with the boat. New jobs are always tiring, and I'm sure I'd get over that. Even the worry about finding time to visit the loo, didn't turn out to be a problem.
Won't it be boring, just doing seven and a half minutes downstream and return following by seven and a half minutes upstream all day, some had asked. But there are fascinating changes from minute to minute, always different activity around you on the water and, at the times, you're working, always plenty of activity on the banks too.
Given the chance - Yes I'll do it again!