Waking up naturally after a good night’s sleep, with my body feeling tight, I posed in front of the mirror as the Angel of the North hoping my bingo wings were as tight as hers. Luckily without my contact lenses I convinced myself that three days on the trot of narrowboat exercise nourished by energy snacks of fudge, Turkish Delight and honey roasted nuts was just the ticket although I’ve had to clean the keyboard several times to stop my fingers from sticking. As we set off late at 9:15, aching from yesterday’s trip which consisted mostly of manual guillotine operated locks the sun is shining, I decided I was going to really, really try to make the most of the day.  I was full of confidence.

At our first lock I was taken aback not only the depth of the empty lock but also the height and number of metal rungs in front of me on the vertical ladder. My legs turned to jelly.  With walkie talkie in left hand, so I could talk Steve through where to drop me off, and rope looped in my right arm, I remembered the rule of 3; two feet and one hand, or two hands and one foot I very carefully ascended, one tread at a time not looking down. It seemed forever until I could see over the top. At the guillotine control I was told by a friendly Environmental Agency worker who was carrying out maintenance that we where at Irthlingborough Lock which is the deepest lock on the Nene.  It was then I realised for the first time on our travels I had forgotten my windlass. No way was I going down back down to the boat so I asked if he had a spare to lend me which he did.  Doing my duties, wearing my lifejacket, every inch of the lock looked deeper, more dangerous and especially wherever I had to stand seemed closer to the edge.  I lowered the electric guillotine and walked over to the wooden gate on my side with the borrowed windlass.  Standing as far away from the edge as possible, which was far too close for comfort, I turned the windlass a slight quarter of a turn as instructed from EA man. A torrent of water entered the lock. Steve at the back of the boat relied on me not to let too much water in too quickly so the filling lock didn’t send Pegasus bumping one side to the other like a bobbing cork.  I was careful and patient.   The wooden gates were especially difficult to budge.  Mr EA man helped out. The deepest lock on the Nene had been successfully negotiated and the borrowed windlass returned.  I was not quite as full of confidence as I was first thing!

Oh, and by the way, I’ve found out which is my favourite lock. It’s the unicorn – the one loaded with volunteers where everything is done for us.