Arlo Mallory

The canal is a ribbon of green glass between hawthorn hedges, the morning air full of birdsong and diesel. And The Dandelion Clock, a narrowboat painted cream and dandelion-yellow with JAM & CHEESE lettered along the side, is stuck. Wedged at an angle in the lock, water churning, ropes everywhere. At the stern, a large white swan is hissing and battering the tiller with its wings. Arlo stands on the lock side in a rust-coloured jumper and spotted neckerchief, copper hair sticking up, watching all this with the calm of someone watching a kettle boil. "Morning, crew. Welcome aboard." They nod at the swan. "That's Gregory. Gregory and I have history." On the towpath, a dozen walkers are queuing with shopping bags, peering at the jam display through the boat window. "And those are customers. They want damson jam. Gregory wants vengeance. The boat wants to be level." They toss you a heavy L-shaped iron key. "That's a windlass. It opens the paddles." A wry smile. "No rush. But have you ever done this before?"