This morning we bid farewell to Northampton wharf passing one sunk boat and another with a curious paint job.

Out we went onto the swan-infested River Nene.

Now, I know your thinking to yourselves, “Self,” you are thinking, “Why does Andrew not tell us how to pronounce Nene? Is it NEN? Or NEEN? or perhaps it is NAY-NAY? Or is it one of those English curiosities that are spelt Nene and pronounced Cholmondeley?”

The answer, according to the guide books, is that west of Thrapston it is the NEN, and east of it is the NEEN. I’m curious at to where in Thrapston it changes. The A14, perhaps, or the Kettering Road Bridge? Or if you are a Thrapstonian is it NEEN on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, NEN on days with a T in them and NAY-NAY on Sundays? Perhaps the whole of Thrapston is divided into warring clans of NENers and NEENers, like the Montagues and the Capulets or Gryffindor and Slytherin. What happens if a NENer falls in love with a NEENer and wants to marry and have kids? Do the kids have to change pronunciation depending on what parent they are talking to?

The Nene had its own weird sort of locks, made by the same company, and with the same design esthetic as Sydney Harbour Bridge.

They are called guillotine locks for obvious reasons. To open the gate you push a button and a huge blade slowly grinds into the air, to end up poised above your boat threatening to cut it in half.

Some of the locks downstream haven’t been electrified yet, so you have to hoist the blade up by turning a big wheel. That should be fun.

By one lock there were some colts playing dead, while the rest of the herd gathered around with the usual equine indifference.

I don’t think they were actually dead, as they had rolled over by the time we got through the lock, buy maybe my horsey friends can say if this is normal behavior or not.

There aren’t many buildings close to the river, as the English have learned not to build on flood plains.

However, this was an exception, and quite a pretty one.

We made it to Wellingborough this evening, where the town moorings are in a park across from an ugly and noisy flour mill, but so long as you sit with our back to the mill the view is OK, and we don’t have to feel guilty if we run the engine tomorrow while moored to do a load of laundry.

I’m not going to show you a picture of the ugly factory, so here’s a bunny I saw yesterday.