Chapter XVIII

by Jerome K. Jerome

　　LOCKS. - GEORGE AND I ARE PHOTOGRAPHED. - WALLINGFORD. - DORCHESTER. -ABINGDON. - A FAMILY MAN. - A GOOD SPOT FOR DROWNING. - A DIFFICULT BITOF WATER. - DEMORALIZING EFFECT OF RIVER AIR.WE left Streatley early the next morning, and pulled up to Culham, andslept under the canvas, in the backwater there.The river is not extraordinarily interesting between Streatley andWallingford. From Cleve you get a stretch of six and a half mileswithout a lock. I believe this is the longest uninterrupted stretchanywhere above Teddington, and the Oxford Club make use of it for theirtrial eights.But however satisfactory this absence of locks may be to rowing-men, itis to be regretted by the mere pleasure-seeker.For myself, I am fond of locks. They pleasantly break the monotony ofthe pull. I like sitting in the boat and slowly rising out of the cooldepths up into new reaches and fresh views; or sinking down, as it were,out of the world, and then waiting, while the gloomy gates creak, and thenarrow strip of day-light between them widens till the fair smiling riverlies full before you, and you push your little boat out from its briefprison on to the welcoming waters once again.They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The stout old lock-keeper, or his cheerful-looking wife, or bright-eyed daughter, arepleasant folk to have a passing chat with. * You meet other boats there,and river gossip is exchanged. The Thames would not be the fairyland itis without its flower-decked locks.* Or rather WERE. The Conservancy of late seems to have constituteditself into a society for the employment of idiots. A good many of thenew lock-keepers, especially in the more crowded portions of the river,are excitable, nervous old men, quite unfitted for their post.Talking of locks reminds me of an accident George and I very nearly hadone summer's morning at Hampton Court.It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and, as is a commonpractice up the river, a speculative photographer was taking a picture ofus all as we lay upon the rising waters.I did not catch what was going on at first, and was, therefore, extremelysurprised at noticing George hurriedly smooth out his trousers, ruffle uphis hair, and stick his cap on in a rakish manner at the back of hishead, and then, assuming an expression of mingled affability and sadness,sit down in a graceful attitude, and try to hide his feet.My first idea was that he had suddenly caught sight of some girl he knew,and I looked about to see who it was. Everybody in the lock seemed tohave been suddenly struck wooden. They were all standing or sittingabout in the most quaint and curious attitudes I have ever seen off aJapanese fan. All the girls were smiling. Oh, they did look so sweet!And all the fellows were frowning, and looking stern and noble.And then, at last, the truth flashed across me, and I wondered if Ishould be in time. Ours was the first boat, and it would be unkind of meto spoil the man's picture, I thought.So I faced round quickly, and took up a position in the prow, where Ileant with careless grace upon the hitcher, in an attitude suggestive ofagility and strength. I arranged my hair with a curl over the forehead,and threw an air of tender wistfulness into my expression, mingled with atouch of cynicism, which I am told suits me.As we stood, waiting for the eventful moment, I heard someone behind callout:"Hi! look at your nose."I could not turn round to see what was the matter, and whose nose it wasthat was to be looked at. I stole a side-glance at George's nose! Itwas all right - at all events, there was nothing wrong with it that couldbe altered. I squinted down at my own, and that seemed all that could beexpected also."Look at your nose, you stupid ass!" came the same voice again, louder.And then another voice cried:"Push your nose out, can't you, you - you two with the dog!"Neither George nor I dared to turn round. The man's hand was on the cap,and the picture might be taken any moment. Was it us they were callingto? What was the matter with our noses? Why were they to be pushed out!But now the whole lock started yelling, and a stentorian voice from theback shouted:"Look at your boat, sir; you in the red and black caps. It's your twocorpses that will get taken in that photo, if you ain't quick."We looked then, and saw that the nose of our boat had got fixed under thewoodwork of the lock, while the in-coming water was rising all around it,and tilting it up. In another moment we should be over. Quick asthought, we each seized an oar, and a vigorous blow against the side ofthe lock with the butt-ends released the boat, and sent us sprawling onour backs.We did not come out well in that photograph, George and I. Of course, aswas to be expected, our luck ordained it, that the man should set hiswretched machine in motion at the precise moment that we were both lyingon our backs with a wild expression of "Where am I? and what is it?" onour faces, and our four feet waving madly in the air.Our feet were undoubtedly the leading article in that photograph.Indeed, very little else was to be seen. They filled up the foregroundentirely. Behind them, you caught glimpses of the other boats, and bitsof the surrounding scenery; but everything and everybody else in the locklooked so utterly insignificant and paltry compared with our feet, thatall the other people felt quite ashamed of themselves, and refused tosubscribe to the picture.The owner of one steam launch, who had bespoke six copies, rescinded theorder on seeing the negative. He said he would take them if anybodycould show him his launch, but nobody could. It was somewhere behindGeorge's right foot.There was a good deal of unpleasantness over the business. Thephotographer thought we ought to take a dozen copies each, seeing thatthe photo was about nine-tenths us, but we declined. We said we had noobjection to being photo'd full-length, but we preferred being taken theright way up.Wallingford, six miles above Streatley, is a very ancient town, and hasbeen an active centre for the making of English history. It was a rude,mud-built town in the time of the Britons, who squatted there, until theRoman legions evicted them; and replaced their clay-baked walls by mightyfortifications, the trace of which Time has not yet succeeded in sweepingaway, so well those old-world masons knew how to build.But Time, though he halted at Roman walls, soon crumbled Romans to dust;and on the ground, in later years, fought savage Saxons and huge Danes,until the Normans came.It was a walled and fortified town up to the time of the ParliamentaryWar, when it suffered a long and bitter siege from Fairfax. It fell atlast, and then the walls were razed.From Wallingford up to Dorchester the neighbourhood of the river growsmore hilly, varied, and picturesque. Dorchester stands half a mile fromthe river. It can be reached by paddling up the Thame, if you have asmall boat; but the best way is to leave the river at Day's Lock, andtake a walk across the fields. Dorchester is a delightfully peaceful oldplace, nestling in stillness and silence and drowsiness.Dorchester, like Wallingford, was a city in ancient British times; it wasthen called Caer Doren, "the city on the water." In more recent timesthe Romans formed a great camp here, the fortifications surrounding whichnow seem like low, even hills. In Saxon days it was the capital ofWessex. It is very old, and it was very strong and great once. Now itsits aside from the stirring world, and nods and dreams.Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village, old-fashioned, peaceful, and dainty with flowers, the river scenery is richand beautiful. If you stay the night on land at Clifton, you cannot dobetter than put up at the "Barley Mow." It is, without exception, Ishould say, the quaintest, most old-world inn up the river. It stands onthe right of the bridge, quite away from the village. Its low-pitchedgables and thatched roof and latticed windows give it quite a story-bookappearance, while inside it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied.It would not be a good place for the heroine of a modern novel to stayat. The heroine of a modern novel is always "divinely tall," and she isever "drawing herself up to her full height." At the "Barley Mow" shewould bump her head against the ceiling each time she did this.It would also be a bad house for a drunken man to put up at. There aretoo many surprises in the way of unexpected steps down into this room andup into that; and as for getting upstairs to his bedroom, or ever findinghis bed when he got up, either operation would be an utter impossibilityto him.We were up early the next morning, as we wanted to be in Oxford by theafternoon. It is surprising how early one can get up, when camping out.One does not yearn for "just another five minutes" nearly so much, lyingwrapped up in a rug on the boards of a boat, with a Gladstone bag for apillow, as one does in a featherbed. We had finished breakfast, and werethrough Clifton Lock by half-past eight.From Clifton to Culham the river banks are flat, monotonous, anduninteresting, but, after you get through Culhalm Lock - the coldest anddeepest lock on the river - the landscape improves.At Abingdon, the river passes by the streets. Abingdon is a typicalcountry town of the smaller order - quiet, eminently respectable, clean,and desperately dull. It prides itself on being old, but whether it cancompare in this respect with Wallingford and Dorchester seems doubtful.A famous abbey stood here once, and within what is left of its sanctifiedwalls they brew bitter ale nowadays.In St. Nicholas Church, at Abingdon, there is a monument to JohnBlackwall and his wife Jane, who both, after leading a happy marriedlife, died on the very same day, August 21, 1625; and in St. Helen'sChurch, it is recorded that W. Lee, who died in 1637, "had in hislifetime issue from his loins two hundred lacking but three." If youwork this out you will find that Mr. W. Lee's family numbered one hundredand ninety-seven. Mr. W. Lee - five times Mayor of Abingdon - was, nodoubt, a benefactor to his generation, but I hope there are not many ofhis kind about in this overcrowded nineteenth century.From Abingdon to Nuneham Courteney is a lovely stretch. Nuneham Park iswell worth a visit. It can be viewed on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Thehouse contains a fine collection of pictures and curiosities, and thegrounds are very beautiful.The pool under Sandford lasher, just behind the lock, is a very goodplace to drown yourself in. The undercurrent is terribly strong, and ifyou once get down into it you are all right. An obelisk marks the spotwhere two men have already been drowned, while bathing there; and thesteps of the obelisk are generally used as a diving-board by young mennow who wish to see if the place really IS dangerous.Iffley Lock and Mill, a mile before you reach Oxford, is a favouritesubject with the river-loving brethren of the brush. The real article,however, is rather disappointing, after the pictures. Few things, I havenoticed, come quite up to the pictures of them, in this world.We passed through Iffley Lock at about half-past twelve, and then, havingtidied up the boat and made all ready for landing, we set to work on ourlast mile.Between Iffley and Oxford is the most difficult bit of the river I know.You want to be born on that bit of water, to understand it. I have beenover it a fairish number of times, but I have never been able to get thehang of it. The man who could row a straight course from Oxford toIffley ought to be able to live comfortably, under one roof, with hiswife, his mother-in-law, his elder sister, and the old servant who was inthe family when he was a baby.First the current drives you on to the right bank, and then on to theleft, then it takes you out into the middle, turns you round three times,and carries you up stream again, and always ends by trying to smash youup against a college barge.Of course, as a consequence of this, we got in the way of a good manyother boats, during the mile, and they in ours, and, of course, as aconsequence of that, a good deal of bad language occurred.I don't know why it should be, but everybody is always so exceptionallyirritable on the river. Little mishaps, that you would hardly notice ondry land, drive you nearly frantic with rage, when they occur on thewater. When Harris or George makes an ass of himself on dry land, Ismile indulgently; when they behave in a chuckle-head way on the river, Iuse the most blood-curdling language to them. When another boat gets inmy way, I feel I want to take an oar and kill all the people in it.The mildest tempered people, when on land, become violent and blood-thirsty when in a boat. I did a little boating once with a young lady.She was naturally of the sweetest and gentlest disposition imaginable,but on the river it was quite awful to hear her."Oh, drat the man!" she would exclaim, when some unfortunate scullerwould get in her way; "why don't he look where he's going?"And, "Oh, bother the silly old thing!" she would say indignantly, whenthe sail would not go up properly. And she would catch hold of it, andshake it quite brutally.Yet, as I have said, when on shore she was kind-hearted and amiableenough.The air of the river has a demoralising effect upon one's temper, andthis it is, I suppose, which causes even barge men to be sometimes rudeto one another, and to use language which, no doubt, in their calmermoments they regret.