Page 3 of Barging In
C lem welcomed the builders onto the site the next morning, and Billy, the project manager, quickly reassured her that he had everything under control.
She fired off a message with photographs to her mum, then steered Florence down the canal, flanked by hawthorn and blackthorn heavy with white blossom.
With no locks along the one-mile stretch to slow her down, she predicted the journey would take about twenty minutes — though she definitely wasn’t counting it as a commute.
At a speed of three miles per hour, it had the hallmarks of one, but with the light breeze on her face, coffee in one hand and tiller in the other, the resemblance ended there.
The slow pace gave her enough time to gather her thoughts and prepare for the day, all while the morning sun warmed her.
The canals had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, so much so that they were woven into her sense of belonging.
Their steady flow brought her a deep sense of calm, and nothing felt better than gliding along quiet waters.
She had come into the world on the water and called it home until she was five.
Then her parents had sold Florence and moved onto dry land, determined to give her access to a good school and a garden to run around in.
Even then their annual holiday was spent frolicking on the canals, exploring a different network each year on a rented narrowboat.
She’d always sensed her parents regretted their move off the canal, even if her dad continued to repair boats on it.
It was quietly confirmed when they sold up to buy The Kingfisher’s Rest as soon as she left to study marketing at university.
Now, even that chapter was at an end. They had come full circle once again.
Over the years, Gram’s house had become a kind of sanctuary for the family.
Clem spent most of her school holidays there and later her breaks from university since her parents had no home on land by then.
During those long, hot summers, she would be in the garden, sunbathing while studying or devouring a good feminist book.
One ear was always tuned for the sound of The Kingfisher’s Rest drifting down the cut.
Her parents would take a two-week break from their busiest season to coincide with Clem’s summer holiday.
By the time they arrived at Gram’s mooring, they had about a week together before they would sail back to the marina to welcome their next guests.
In the years after Clem left university, they would meet out of season, her parents mooring up for weeks at a time with Gram and Gruncle.
Clem wasn’t sure how her parents would adjust to retired life.
Her dad would likely put his feet up with a newspaper, but her mum was unlikely to settle into a quieter pace.
She was the type of woman who needed something to keep her busy.
Clem worried that she herself might inadvertently become that something whilst living at the bottom of their garden .
Open fields stretched out on both sides of the cut.
Lambs of all sizes frolicked in the grass, playfully butting their heads against their mother’s bellies to nurse.
As Clem neared a small town, the fields gave way to an imposing stone building with a sign on the side reading Otterford Wharf . She had arrived.
A line of narrowboats hugged the towpath opposite the building, so Clem reduced her speed to minimise the wash and not unsettle the other craft. A stone bridge stood ahead, connecting the wharf with the town on the right.
As she approached, an empty mooring right next to the bridge came into sight.
It would make the ideal place to attract passing foot traffic visiting the wharf.
She gripped the tiller and eased back on the throttle, hoping this would be hers.
Then, she saw it — a bold, painted number seven on the bollard, the same number from her commercial mooring agreement.
Her lips tightened into a grin — what a result!
With Florence moored, Clem took a moment to survey her surroundings.
The building was beautiful, idyllic even.
Perfectly proportioned and well maintained for its age.
According to her mum, the wharf — once an old corset factory — had been converted into apartments in the last few years.
It also housed some sort of heritage centre on the ground floor.
History had been one of Clem’s favourite subjects at school, but a growing interest in marketing had steered her university studies. It hadn’t dampened her love of history, though. She decided she’d wander over for a look sometime and see what the old building had to offer.
It was still early, and with only the occasional dog walker passing by, Clem figured she’d have enough time to film herself baking before opening. She also needed footage of Florence once everything was set up; with a quick edit, she’d have a video ready to post on her socials.
Whilst she hoped passing trade would bring in customers, building a loyal fanbase on social media was essential for growing her business. Beautiful photographs of her cakes would not only attract people but would hopefully help to spread the word that she was in Otterford.
She believed wholeheartedly in using fresh produce and aimed to bake as much as possible before opening. She’d thought about starting before leaving her parents’ place but realised it made more sense to moor up as early as possible. Even if she wasn’t open, passive marketing was always useful.
Thankfully, traybakes like brownies, rocky road, and chocolate flapjack had been easy enough to rustle up the night before, easing her first morning’s workload.
Blueberry muffins, a coffee and walnut cake, and a lemon drizzle were all she needed now.
Judging the right balance of stock would be tricky.
Baking too much increased her expenses while baking too little risked reducing income.
Even if she ended up eating the leftovers herself, there was only so much cake one person could manage — and polishing off unsold stock wasn’t exactly a sustainable business plan.
Heading to the stern, she grabbed her A-board and placed it on the grass beside the towpath.
Taking out a chalk pen and her price list from her pocket, she attempted to scrawl Clem’s Coffee you haven’t tasted my bakes.” To soften the boast, she added, “But you must, in payment for your skills. Coffee and a flapjack?”
“That would be amazing. Thanks.”
She disappeared inside, eager to impress with her new Fracino espresso machine and premium bean blend.
Although she’d completed a weekend barista course, the machine they taught on wasn’t the same as hers, and she hadn’t had much practice since picking up Florence.
The machine also consumed a lot of energy when switched on, so she had been using the hob or the kettle for her own hot drinks when the stove in her bedroom wasn’t on for heating.
“That is delicious,” Max said, finishing the last bite of chocolate flapjack a few minutes later. “I can already tell you’re going to be a popular addition to our little community. Business has been slow for us over the winter.”
“I thought vinyl was all the rage again.”
“It is, but physical media only appeals to a certain crowd. Hopefully, you’ll attract people my way. With that colour, your boat certainly garners attention.”
Clem smiled. “She does. ”