Impellerd Again

Abingdon, 1 mile, 1 lock

Woke up to rain beating down on the roof, so it didn't look like I was going anywhere, however it calmed down by mid morning and I started to think about maybe taking a chance on moving. First, though, I needed to have a look at the coolant in the engine. I'd filled my water carrier from the hose and set it emptying into the engine. It took about 20 litres! As I watched, the water level in the filler hole started to drop, so I started to look for a leak. After a while I found it—it was where the drive shaft goes into the auxiliary water pump. There are two large nuts where the leak was, one of which I remembered was a locking nut, however my adjustable spanner isn't large enough to go round either of them. Not really thinking it might make much difference, I tightened the grease nipples on the pump and to my surprise the dripping stopped. Surely it couldn't be that easy? I topped up the water to the brim and left it for a few minutes to see if it went down, but it didn't, so I decided to leave it for a bit longer to see what happened.

While I was waiting, I went to see the lock keeper. He asked if I was moving today and I explained that the engine had overheated last night but that I was looking into it and—all being well—would be moving soon. He seemed happy enough with that, so I went back to the boat and checked the water level and all was well. I started the engine and waited until the temperature started to rise, then walked away to chat to the people on a narrowboat that was filling with water. I had thought they'd whistled at me, but it turned out to be some kind of South American bird in a cage. It was nice to talk to them and hear some of the gossip from Wolvercote near Oxford, where they were heading.

Back at Oothoon, the temperature was a little below 90°, which normally would be causing lots of black smoke, but none was being produced. Maybe this was a good sign. I wasn't sure, but decided to take the risk anyway, so got into my 'boating' clothes, unmoored and headed for the lock. The lock keeper had the gates open ready and I shared the lock with a wide-beam cruiser and a man in a canoe, who snuck in at the last minute.

After leaving the lock, I headed gently downstream. It all seemed to be going okay, but I'd decided that if she overheated, I'd head for the moorings on the other side of Abingdon Bridge. As it happened, the temperature stayed at about 90° and there was still no smoke, so I decided to press on. I got around the bend in the river and on the straight and everything looked good, but then the smoke started. The moorings on the 'good' side all looked to be private, with the bank side being irregular and bushy, but Abingdon Marina was coming up on the right so I decided to nip in there and tie up. Big mistake. As you go in there's a sign saying that visitors should go to the right of the pontoons. This is confusing, as the pontoons are, at that point, behind you, however there are 'Visitors' signs pointing to the other end of the marina, so I followed them, with smoke still coming from the engine. Eventually there's a tiny landing stage on the end of a pontoon with a sign saying that visitors should moor there and talk to the site office, however all around are plastic boats and there's no way I could land a 67ft narrowboat there. Worse, I'd run out of marina, so I had to turn around. After managing to get around, I headed back towards the entrance, not sure what to do. By now the temperature was up to 100° and I was really starting to panic. Deciding that there just wasn't anywhere to land in the marina and that coming in had been a mistake, I decided to head back to the river and 'a bank'. I was just approaching the exit for the marina when the engine died and wouldn't start, and there was just enough inertia and steering to allow me to get around the guiding posts and across to someone's patio. Not knowing what else to do, I jumped off the back with the centre rope and managed to bring Oothoon to a stop, but now I was standing on someone's back patio, with the front half of the boat hidden behind a tree, with nothing to tie on to, and needing to hold the centre rope and the end of the tiller to hold her in place.

I stood there for a little while, wondering what to do. I figured that the owners of the house would be out any second, understandably upset that their private property had been invaded by me. As it happened, no-one appeared and I considered myself lucky that the house owners were perhaps out. Trying to work out what to do, since my only way out of the patio was on the boat, I figured that if I could just wait until the engine cooled down, maybe it would start again and I'd be able to reach the far bank of the Thames, tantalisingly close about 100 yards away. This was a terrible situation, but at least I was okay and the boat wasn't broken down in the middle of the channel with a weir coming up, and there was always the possibility that the house owners might be friendly. It would be awful if this was the patio where everyone broke down and they were sick of finding jetsam standing on it.

Just then I thought I heard a woman's voice. I looked around as best I could, but couldn't see anyone. I figured that maybe one of the neighbours overlooking the patio had seen me and was trying to 'shoo' me away. A little later I thought I heard it again, but this time I was more sure because I heard someone reply. This was strange. I looked around again and couldn't see anyone hanging out of a window, when it dawned on me that the voices were coming from the garden between me and the Thames, and that I couldn't see anyone due to the high wall and the tree. I called out "Hello" and the voices agreed that there was someone on the end of the boat. A voice asked if I was all right and when I replied that I'd broken down, it suggested that I use the boat roof to walk around the tree to join them. Not knowing what else to do, I did it, to find a kindly-looking elderly couple waiting for me. They asked if I was okay and then kind of took control, telling me that they used to have a boat and that the mooring cleats were still there at the front of the garden and that I could bring the boat round and tie up. I started to pull Oothoon towards me using the centre rope, but as their house was on the corner, I'd need to get her round the bend. Fortunately my front river rope was superb for this and by using a combination of pulling the centre rope to move her and the front rope to steer, I managed to 'walk' Oothoon around to the front and got her tied up. They asked a few questions, but worked out that I was probably all right, then asked if I needed hook-ups for electricity or water. I politely declined and they left me to call RCR. I'd asked where I was so I could give RCR an address  and the gentleman handed me a sticker with the address on and his name...with the letters O.B.E afterwards!

Keith Duffy from RCR rang back quickly to ask where I was and to say that he wouldn't be long as he was only in Wallingford. I popped back out to inform my hosts of what was happening. They were just off for a post-lunch snooze, but that I could use their side gate to let the RCR repairman in. I went back aboard Oothoon to have a cup of tea and wait, and before I knew it there was a bang on the side of the boat and a man in my engine room.

Keith was very efficient and was moving stuff out of the engine room to gain access to the engine as I got there. The end of the boat was a few feet from the bank, due to the bank's corner having been cut off, so putting stuff on the roof was a bit of a challenge, but I managed it. Then he started looking for basic stuff, like were there any leaks and was the engine's head gasket blown. This continued for a while, with us filling the engine with another 18 litres of water and then running it up. The leak I'd seen this morning was back, only much worse and required tightening the big nut on the pump to compress the packing within. Keith said that his daughter had described the packing material as being like a Walker's Quaver, but it sounded more like a Hula Hoop to me. 

He tried tightening the pump's nuts, then taking everything out of the engine room in an attempt to get the floor above the skin tank up so he could find a bleed point (which it appears my tank doesn't have). Then there were various other places that he checked for leaks. In the end, we refilled the engine and ran it up, occasionally blipping it to get air out of the system, and when it started to overheat it gave Keith a chance to see where the leaks were. It turned out that there were several, such as in one of the caps on the end of the header tank, another in the pipe from the header to the skin tank, another underneath the water pump, and perhaps even more. We stopped the engine and Keith continued to look for leaks, eventually working out from the 'output' pipe of the water pump being cold, that the water pump wasn't circulating water through the skin tank.

My host returned and I explained what had happened and what was going on. He was absolutely fine about the whole thing and said that if it couldn't be fixed tonight, I was welcome to moor overnight. I thanked him and we went back to see how Keith was doing. He was taking a short breather—mainly to cool down because it was roasting being near the engine. Turned out that my host had been in the Glider Pilot Regiment in World War II and had been at Arnhem; and that Keith had been in the RAF and had been a keen glider pilot. The world being a very small place, there were several people that they both knew, with my host having seen the man who taught Keith to fly only the day before. I hadn't realised that we used gliders to get troops and tanks across to the WWII battlefields, but my host pointed out that there were no helicopters able to do it at the time, so huge gliders—like the Horsa that he flew—were the only option. He'd also served time as a POW, having to walk from Poland to Germany when the Russians invaded. It made me realise that my current difficulties—an inconvenient stoppage in my cheery jaunt around the canals—was nothing in comparison.

At this point it was sunset, now at it's new improved time of 5pm, but Keith decided that while he couldn't fix my engine tonight, he didn't want to leave the job without at least knowing what he was up against. I went inside to warm up, as the temperature had dropped significantly in the previous 10 minutes, and when I heard banging on the wall to summon me back, Keith had the pump off and in bits and was tutting and shaking his head in a most disgusted way. He showed me the inlet pipe, which seemed to have an inordinately narrow washer in it. This, it was pointed out, was actually packed particles of impeller that were blocking the pipe. Additionally there were more bits of impeller inside the pump and damage to some of the vanes, but only to two of them—most of them were intact and working nicely. Keith managed to get it all out and cleaned the pump, then fitted my newly bought impeller, but by then it was dark and as I needed more parts to fix everything, we agreed that Keith would return tomorrow.

My host again asked if there was anything I needed and I asked whether I might take up the offer of an electrical hook-up, since the engine hadn't run much today. I was supplied with an impressively long cable and shown where I could connect it, and left to arrange things as I wanted.

After connecting the electricity and looking at the way the engine room was—with parts and tools and pumps all over—I decided to leave all the engine room contents on the roof. It wasn't going to rain tonight, although it would be cold, but I didn't think there was anything that would really spoil from a bit of damp.

I went below to do the dishes and have some soup. About 8pm my host returned to check that I was okay and to chat and hear my story. After that he wished me a good night's sleep and retired indoors. I did the same, stoking up the fire so that it was cosy and warm. Looking back on today such a lot seems to have happened, with the latter half being one of the strangest ever. Who would have thought that I'd spend the night moored at the end of a stranger's garden on the Thames, with my engine in bits, and yet I feel completely calm about it. I think it can only be the amazing kindness of my host and the thought of what he has lived through, that allows me to put my current predicament into perspective.