Ely waterfront might have been quiet in the morning, but on return from the “free” coffee it all became chaotic, with three boats appearing out of nowhere to use the pump-out and waste disposal facilities just up from where we were moored, and wanting us to move up so they could squeeze in and so on because others had moored antisocially leaving too small gaps.

We’d more or less decided to brave the Denver Sluice to Salter’s Lode River Great Ouse tidal transit scheduled for 12:30 on Wednesday, and it was about four hours cruising from Ely to Denver, so we needed to be away from the fleshpots. Hence, after lunch and availing ourselves of what is probably the only free pump-out left on the waterways – it would be rude not to – off we set.

Looking back, it was quite clear why Ely Cathedral is known as The Ship of the Fens; the rather fine and new looking Piper Dutch Barge Hereward is also aptly named if she’s based around here.

About halfway from Ely to Denver Sluice is another ship: The Ship Inn – this one with fine overnight moorings. The cruiser, incidentally, is named Scand-L-Us, which just kind of fails to hit the spot on several counts.

Being by now a pleasantly warm late afternoon, the Captain declared that the sun was firmly over the yard arm and followed us to the pub, where he agreed with the first mate that Adnam’s substitute for proper Guinness really didn’t hit the spot either, and settled for supping some of the dog’s Adam’s Ale instead.

We were sharing the moorings with a chap from Northampton who was camping with canoe and pup-tent. Unemployed and seemingly unemployable for some years, he spent the summers canoeing round the country waterways on his own, and enjoying every minute.

We’d met someone doing exactly that last year on the Kennet & Avon. It could have been the same chap, but he couldn’t remember whether he’d been down there last year or the year before. Anyway, after some time putting the world to rights we returned to cook some dinner, although Biggles seemed curiously reluctant to do the same – perhaps he wanted to eat at the pub.

Monday morning dawned bright, but the afternoon forecast was rubbish, so the outline plan was to get going from Elton straight away, stop in Wansford-in-England for elevenses and shopping, and hopefully a make a recommended overnight stop on Overton Lake near Peterborough before the deluge. Well some of that worked…

The river guide shows Environment Agency and pub customer moorings in Wansford-in-England. Wrong. No sign of the former, and although the pub was glimpsed across the high bank and field, there was nowhere to even get a nose in. Onwards…

A couple of  miles out of W-in-England we came to the Nene Valley Railway Bridge at Wansford Station, their HQ. There was a perfectly situated floating pontoon right by their cafe, so it seemed rude not to stop for an early lunch. The sky was already lowering and dark, so no photos, and it started raining a bit, so our plan was rapidly going down the tubes. We could have stayed there for the afternoon/night but mistakenly believed the forecast, and set off again in light rain.

At Water Newton lock the skies opened for 15 minutes. Like standing under Niagara Falls. In full wet weather gear we set off again, and at Alwalton Lock (no relation) the same thing happened just after we’d passed some decent looking moorings. Another Niagara Falls job, but at least the waterproofs were waterproof.

And it continued to pour until we limped into Overton Lake where we eventually located some excellent moorings. Well, the crew liked them: the Captain wasn’t so impressed as the pontoon open-weave mesh flooring was not very suited to small pawed pussies. Mind you, the crew would have liked pretty much any mooring while the deluge continued.

Tuesday dawned fair again, so Peterborough here we come.

Friday, and Oundle Marina is an odd place: loads of – err – not so new small cruisers and a few narrowboats in a large chunk of water pretty much surrounded by an industrial estate, but it’s a river marina seemingly without rising and falling pontoons and moorings, and clearly without much money being spent on facilities. Never seen such a scruffy, narrow and difficult entrance into a marina either. Yet amongst other things, it’s still the place where Fairline Boats – serious yacht manufacturers for millionaires – started out, and they still have a large presence. Their HQ is still in Oundle too.

But needing a pump-out, diesel, and some Calor gas, we needed to brave the (well documented as difficult) entrance in gusty winds: oh the crew does love a challenge. The service/visitor mooring was occupied as we approached, so we aimed at another mooring pontoon temporarily, at which point the Captain decided to inspect the facilities in a hurry, jumped ship, ran down the pontoon, then dived into a large overgrown area of shrubs, clearly unhappy with the nearby gardener’s strimmer. At this point we discovered that the rather dodgy pontoon had no mooring rings or cleats… so one of us had to hold the boat on a centre line in strong gusty winds while the other persuaded the gardener to stop strimming for a bit and help in the search for a cat. After some cursing and encouraging noises, Biggles eventually emerged from the undergrowth, and looking rather embarrassed quickly ran back down the pontoon, dived aboard with alacrity and rapidly took up his normal cruising snoozing position as though nothing had happened. Clearly this bit of the marina was less to his liking than the Boat Club moorings the other side. By the time we’d completed the various chores it was lunch time.

Oundle Marina is a mile or so SSE of the town. Buoyed by the information that at the NNE end of town there were useable if unofficial field moorings by the North Bridge that were within a few hundred yards of a new Waitrose store – the cook’s favourite hobby – we headed off. But in getting from one end of Oundle to the other the river makes a huge loop through a couple of locks and several miles, so given the time spent in getting there, mooring up and traipsing around the supermarket we’d decided that we’d stay there the night as it would be late afternoon before we’d finished. Man plans…

Halfway round the loop we passed through Ashton Lock, which lies between Oundle and Ashton, and is one of those guillotine locks that one has to wind by hand. And jolly hard work it is too. We’d spotted some really nice, quiet (and empty) moorings just above the lock in the weir stream, but with the scent of Waitrose in her nostrils there was no stopping the chief cook.

The moorings near Oundle North Bridge proved reasonably accessible and suitable, with Waitrose a 200 yard walk across the fields. But the regular gaps in the overgrown undergrowth each had a piece of paper nailed into the ground saying something like “B6 – no mooring please” from which we deduced that there was an angling match that had either just past or was due to happen. Ah well – shopping first.

200 yards across the fields was indeed the object of affection. Another 400 yards across some more fields and cows to gain access to the road without climbing barbed wire or security fences, and another 400 yards along the road we should have taken in the first place, and we were there…

On the way back, we saw an angling club notice (in about 10 languages including Polish, Russian, French, Greek and several completely unrecognisable ones). The match was tomorrow, and moored boats were expected to be off by 07:30. One member of the crew doesn’t do 07:30 starts, so rather than head off downstream into the unknown at 5 o’clock in the afternoon, we decided to head back upstream around the Oundle loop again to the moorings above Ashton Lock we’d spotted earlier.

Even harder work the second time that day, but despite being latish on a sunny Friday afternoon, there was only one other boat, although another one called Van Diemen soon joined us.

Saturday, and the forecast was for a absolutely sweltering sunny morning with thunderstorms later in the afternoon, so rather than cruise in the sunshine, the Captain decided that we’d stay put and catch up on the cleaning and housework. Good decision to be stuck in the boat on the hottest day this month, sir… We’d also heard that at 10:00 the angling match had still not started. Nice moorings and a sunny Saturday and the moorings soon started filling up. Ah well. It had been quiet!

Late afternoon, we decided to walk into Ashton for a drink: it was too late (and much further) to go wandering round the much vaunted shops in Oundle. Ashton’s an odd little place. The pub and green (including resident peacocks) are very pleasant, but all the cottage terraces are the same, doors and windows painted in the same colour as the footpath gates, and built in the early 1900s by some worthy. Kind of a thatched council estate – all a bit strange and vaguely unnatural.

The forecast isolated thunderstorm arrived just as we’d finished our drinks but narrowly missed us, so we merely got a bit damp walking back to the boat.

Thursday morning, and Sir made it clear he was ready to get going again: no more hanging around hoping for an otter or three.

We seemed to cruise along in an almost meditative state, the river scenery all very pretty and winding and remote, without anything specifically grabbing the attention. Not for nothing is Northamptonshire renowned for its church spires, and there were always several in sight. Trying to work out which is which as the river keeps changing direction is a real challenge.

Somehow we managed to cruise for 6 hours, covering over 12 miles and 7 locks: a long day for us. As usual on the Nene, we’d not found too much in the way of useable moorings, but had noticed that the pub/restaurant/hotel Oundle Mill had limited moorings for customers. And if that didn’t work, Oundle Cruising Club just under the bridge was rumoured to be friendly towards itinerants with their bankside moorings just outside Oundle Marina.

Well, Oundle Mill was closed (somewhat suddenly, it would seem – a shame as it had looked like a good spot for a dinner out); their limited moorings were empty but too shallow for Song & Dance so under the bridge it was… a club member graciously moved his boat up to make room for us, and as the club was shut there were no formalities. Not only that, Sir really took to the site and went off exploring before we’d got the kettle on. Stayed out most of the evening too. No exploring for us… as unofficial visitors we  could get out of the marina site, but the gates were locked at 17:15 and we had no way of getting back in, so dinner in Oundle was out.

After a comprehensive pre-cruise inspection, and with the patched cratch cover now in place, the Captain signalled his impatience to get under way, and off we set, wondering what the River Nene would have to offer.

Quickly leaving Northampton behind, the going rapidly becomes rural and river-like, and with all the fine descriptions of how pretty and remote everything seemed to be fine. And – despite being a pleasant Sunday in August – there was little sign of other boaters.

However, although the locks are pretty well maintained by the Environment Agency compared to the CaRT system, they are broad locks, mostly with a small-ish drop, and occur – at least initially – about every mile (i.e. about every 15-20 minutes). This is not only hard work, but makes achieving a leisurely coffee break while cruising somewhat challenging. We suspect the whole setup is more about controlling water flows and avoiding floods in Northampton and Peterborough than it is about making a user-friendly navigation.

Most of the locks are of a design not seen on the canal system: instead of two downstream gates with paddles set in them at the bottom which are raised and lowered to let the water flow (or not), here the gate itself is a giant paddle like a guillotine, raised completely out of the water on chains that one earnestly hopes don’t break!

Most of these guillotine gates are electrically operated. When you push the button to raise the gate, it just goes up a tiny bit and stops, while the water in the lock rushes out underneath impressively quickly. The boat goes down in the lock like a fast elevator. You then have to wait for two minutes before holding the button down to raise the gate again – oh so grindingly slowly. The other downside, having raised the gate, is that it then proceeds to drip water all over you as you move under it, although the river water is crystal clear compared to the average canal.

Rumour has it that further down some of these locks are still manually operated by a big hand-wheel that means exercising quite a heave to break the seal, great caution to avoid raising it too far too quickly, and a great deal of puff and time to raise it all the way. We shall see.

Meanwhile, there were other challenges…

Before long we came to a section so weedy, it was more like the Sargasso Sea than a British River. And the lock where the enclosed access bridge was occupied by four adult horses and two foals – one lying down – made crossing the canal to get to the control box an interesting exercise for non horsy people. The thin steel guillotine only just above the lock water level creates an interesting infinity pool effect that distracts you from realising how little is stopping your boat from a plunge over the top…

The Captain, who was so excited to be back on the water again that he jumped ship every time we stopped at a lock was doing his best to slow us down, too. We think he might have been looking for somewhere quiet to do his business rather than use the on-board facilities, but never quite found anywhere suitable before we needed to get going again.

The magazines suggest that perhaps the reason for the River Nene’s apparent unpopularity – despite its remote rural beauty and all the pretty villages you pass en-route – is the number of locks (about 36 in the 60 odd miles between Northampton and Peterborough). There were some hints that “proper” moorings were a little hard to come by, and that one might have to just moor up against the bank somewhere – not a problem for us in principle.

But by late afternoon we’d a different view: mooring somewhere other than at one of the very  few visitor or marina moorings, was absolutely impossible. Since passing Billings Aquadrome with its hoards, fun fair, the remains of the hot-air balloon festival, poor visitor moorings and naff pub, we hadn’t seen a single place we could even realistically tie up for lunch, let alone a suitable spot for an overnight stay.

Lunch was eventually taken on the hoof, as it were, about 14:30, and with all this, a decidedly Sunday Morning Coming Down mood seemed to settle on proceedings. It was quite clear that our normal canal habit of just cruising until we’d had enough then look for somewhere amenable for the Captain and crew wasn’t going to work here! Meanwhile, as we continued downstream, the river banks were unremittingly overgrown – even if the water was deep enough you couldn’t get anywhere near enough to leap ashore and tie up. So even if you fancied visiting one of the much vaunted nice villages described in the book, you were stuck.

Beginning to get somewhat concerned and  tired, and wondering if we’d have to keep going until dark then tie up on a lock landing until the morning (bad manners, apart from being strictly verboten) , we finally noticed on the map a place near Doddington Lock labelled “Unofficial Mooring”. We’d passed one of these before: a nice enough field, and the water might have been deep enough, but the high bank, 6 foot high man-eating reeds, nettles and Himalayan Balsam were a challenge too far. And if this  one was useable, we were probably too late…

As it happened, it was empty and perfect, even if we did have to get the gang plank out (and by now felt like making Biggles walk the plank the other side).

We are obviously going to have to do some more research about suitable mooring places for a 58ft narrowboat before setting off again: don’t want days like that very often, thanks!

Even the Captain seemed to be regretting his decision not to sign off the crew’s earlier purchase request for a scythe, a strimmer, a pair of shears and flamethrower…