Annual ‘Punt, Picnic ‘n’ Plunge’
Every year the NSC goes punting in Oxford on or near to St George’s Day. This practice, which goes back to before the Club even officially existed, is riddled with tradition—we gather at the Turf Tavern for a sharpener from 11am, before going the Magdalen Bridge Boatyard at midday. Although you can’t actually book, the boathouse has always been able to accommodate our sizeable group, which this year filled four punts. We traditionally punt upriver, haul the punts up the metal rollers that give access to a higher section of river, before decamping for a picnic by the High Bridge. Having said that, the forces of nature/global warming have been stymieing this for a number of years now, as the river always seems to be in flood and the rollers are submerged and inaccessible, so we usually tie up at a spot just before them. Last year we couldn’t even make it that far, as there were too many fallen trees blocking the river. This time the Mitchells, who live not far away in Reading, reconnoitred the route, confirming that going beyond the rollers was impossible. We did consider punting downriver instead, but in the end tradition won out. In fact, although there were a few sections where we had to steer between arboreal obstacles, it was not impassable and we made it to our recent usual lunch spot.
Another tradition is the sweepstake: everyone puts a quid into a kitty and draws a number that corresponds to another person. Every year someone falls into the river, and the lucky person who holds the number of the soggy victim wins all the cash.
Punting upriver against the strong current which we nowadays always seem to encounter is not easy, especially for novice punters, who can easily find themselves veering sideways, at which point the current can grab your bow and spin you round. I can’t speak for other boats (though I noticed that even in the immortal Robert Beckwith was using both hands this time), but on our vessel the stress levels were quite high and the air was regularly blue with curses—not quite the relaxing gentle recreation that messing about in boats is supposed to be. At one point you have to pass a weir that disgorges white water into the river from the side, spinning your punt around like a matchstick; at this juncture we particularly reflected that we should really have got lifejackets for the children…
Nevertheless all four boats made it to the Field of Elysium. Actually, Stuart Mitchell had devised codenames for the various potential landing spots—I can’t remember if this was Sword or Omaha, but either way an agreeable time was had over lunch. The weather forecast had been overcast at best and wet at worst, but in the end it was both warm and dry: I even found myself regretting not bringing sunglasses. The children ran around after each other and clambered over a handsome willow tree.
The return journey is usually less hair-raising, as the current is with you so you can focus more on steering rather than propulsion. The only hiccup is right at the end, when you have to steer across the current to get the punt into the boatyard. One year at this point I came a cropper: I’d actually successfully parked the boat when a spotty teenager working there told me I had to go out again and re-park a few boats down. Trying to reverse out into the current was beyond me and the river pulled the boat backwards into a bridge pier, an impact that flung me into a watery grave. (OK, I didn’t die, I just walked out of the water grumbling.) Fortunately, this time it all went according to plan.
You will have noticed that there was no mention of anyone falling in: it did not happen. I think it’s the second year this has been the case. Are we getting better at punting, or perhaps just more risk-averse? Who knows, as the real question is what happened to all the money? Scarheart insists it’s just “resting in his account”…
After the boats were returned (definitely not holed below the waterline, whatever anyone tells you), it only remained for us to go back the Turf for a few more jars. I myself was only up the for day, but some folk had arrived the previous day and dined at the Cherwell Boathouse restaurant (another tradition), while others stayed over on Saturday and disported themselves around Oxford on Sunday. All things considered, given that the very fabric of existence was against us, a good time was had by all.
You can see more photos from the event at www.flickr.com/photos/sheridanclub/albums/72177720307724250.
