And what a nice day it was, too.

In all honesty it was too cold to hurt too much and I figured optimism was the best policy – hope it’s just a bad bruise and it will be. A cold compress applied by our resident first aider kept things from getting too out of hand (I can’t believe I just wrote that – sorry) and the remainder of the journey to Gunthorpe was uneventful. Apart from the bloke in the posh cruiser that seemed concerned that we were mooring next to him (I think he though that our extra hard boat might injure his plastic one if it came loose) and after a brief tent pitch we retired hurt to the pub. This was my choice for the evening. Knackered all round we stayed sober too. I had to eat some humble pie with my burger when Mr Rescuer turned up but if he noticed the hand he ignored it. Back to the boat at closing time, a token beer for bed and that was the day.

Sunday meant the fairground at the Riverside Festival to meet the family, and prompted by a concerned wife and a procession of St John’s Ambulance people (I’d get it looked at – see the ambulance. I’d get it looked at – see Derek. I’d get it x-rayed -go to casualty) we all spent the evening in an A&E department more civilized than I remembered it with assorted football and alcohol related injuries.

The upshot of which is a broken left fourth phalange and severe bruising elsewhere. No treatment necessary, just care and a periodic amazed look at the outrageous bruising.

And it all started out so well. Pissing it down sadly, but with a party atmosphere. We managed to meet up at about lunchtime and started out at 12:15. A slight pause while we dropped off nipper Ethan F from his maiden voyage (he likes boats), and on to the Trent. A quick spin through the Riverside Festival (to be peered at by a very young life boat crew) and on to the main business of the day, an overnight booze cruise to Gunthorpe Lock. We proceeded through Holme & Stoke Locks without incident, even using the radio as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then the Ferryboat Inn came into sight. What could be better than mooring up outside a pub for a quick pint, given that we were soaking? We could make the mooring against the wall just up from the outlet pipe, partake of the facilities & be on our way. Except that the mooring wasn’t, if you see what I mean. It might have been once but within about eight feet of the wall a concrete shelf (part of an existing slipway, which might have been a clue) stopped us getting close enough to land. Or indeed back out to the river. We didn’t seem to be aground – the boat rocked, we could use the bargepole to push out the bows to deeper water (which resulted in the stern heading for the shallows), or push out the stern (and vice versa). Two bargepoles would have sorted it for us, as would the bastard in the huge cruiser that waved while he left us to it, and after about forty five minutes of struggling we were reduced to scratching our heads, spitting out foul tasting water that had found its way into our mouths from the outlet (I have no desire to know what that contained) and wondering whether to cut our losses and wade to the pub to debate our options.

At which point the NB Ugrund came into view, and while not exactly enamoured at the prospect of helping us he did so anyway. His first attempt at passing us a rope failing miserably and following the second successful attempt he neglected to stop while I tied on. For a few seconds I tried to pull his boat back to give myself enough rope but just in time engaged brain and let go – as the rope span free (trapping left pinkie in the process), and whipping my hand on its way past. Obviously I couldn’t lose cool and admit to injury so ignored it for the moment and during the third attempt tied on, got dragged free and thanked our rescuers.

Leaving me with this comedy hand …

To be continued …