Halcyon Days and Heatwaves: Notes from the Boat

July's postcard from our life on the water as we head into the height of summer

Hey Friends!

Welcome to our monthly catch-up from our little floating home. It’s been a full few weeks, and I’ve been looking forward to settling down and sharing it all with you.

The last month has simply galloped by, and while I try to savour these summer days as much as I can, I know that July and August will tumble along just the same. Still — it’s always a good sign. As the saying goes, time flies when you’re having fun, and these are the hazy, halcyon days we wait all year for — so enjoy them we should!

Grab a cuppa, or pour yourself a glass of something chilled, and let’s get into this little postcard from life on the water — a look back at the last month, and a peek ahead at the gentle joys of July.

✷ On the Water

For the last couple of weeks, we’ve been on a short trip in our narrowboat home, drifting gently along the canal. When I say short, I mean it: by car, it would take around 20 minutes. But by boat? Three days. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Oxford Canal is famously wiggly and winding, tracing the gentle curves of the River Cherwell through green and golden countryside. We made the trip to get some routine work done on the hull, but now that it’s complete, we’re making our way home slowly, with no great hurry. We plan to spend the rest of the summer pootling along at walking pace, mooring in quiet places, letting the days stretch long and loose.

The beauty of boat life lies in moving with the world rather than rushing through it. It’s slow—but that’s precisely its magic. You notice those quiet details that make everyday life simply beautiful. Right now, the canal banks are frothing with meadowsweet, and the hedgerows along the towpath are heavy with young apples. It’s a time of year that feels so vividly alive, and there’s something wonderfully immersive about travelling by narrowboat, gently weaving us into the landscape.

There’s a moment on this route where you pass beneath the M40. It always makes me smile — up there, a blur of tarmac and urgency. Down here, we glide beneath it all, unnoticed, unbothered, barely faster than a stroll.

We’ve moored in some stunning places lately. If you’re not familiar with narrowboat life, your licence allows you to stop almost anywhere along the towpath for up to two weeks. Our favourite spots are the ones with no one around, just fields and birdsong and space to breathe.

This is home for the next few weeks

Our most recent mooring has been quietly spectacular. On one side, a wheat field — tall and golden — watched over by a great oak that’s likely stood there for a hundred summers. Each evening, the sun slips through its branches and sets the sky aglow. The colours shift from amber to rose to soft blue-grey. It’s the kind of light that makes you pause and melt at the beauty of the world.

Our current neighbours

On the towpath side, we have a little gap in the hedge giving us a peep into the next field where a herd of cows mill about, being our curious audience. Joe is smitten. He’s learned to moo — enthusiastically and often — and starts most mornings with a determined "COWWWWW," followed by urgent requests to go and say hello. Tilly, on the other hand, is keeping a safe and slightly suspicious distance.

While the views have been staggeringly beautiful… we have been melting. I hate to become the stereotypical Brit who moans in the winter about the lack of sun, only to complain again when it finally arrives. But crikey. It has been hot. Hotter than hot.

Whilst a narrowboat is full of charm in the winter, with its woodburner gently chiding away… in the heat of summer, it’s pretty much a floating greenhouse. Even with every hatch flung open, the air barely moves. By late afternoon, the boat becomes a slow-cooker, and we feel like we might simply melt into the floorboards.

We’ve been capturing this gentle journey for our next YouTube video — a slow cruise through the height of the English summer. I’m hoping we’ll have it ready for Thursday (10th July). It’s a quiet one. Perfect to watch with a glass of something cold, or a cuppa on these gorgeous summer evenings.

✷ In the Kitchen

The heat has steered us toward simplicity. Cold plates, little prep, nothing too fussy. Salads have become a daily rhythm — and I’ve become quietly obsessed with feta. There’s something about its salty, briny tang that feels almost restorative after a hot day.

Lately, I’ve been marinating it. Break a block into bite-sized pieces, tuck it into a jar with woody herbs (rosemary, thyme), a few bashed cloves of garlic, and drown the lot in good olive oil. Leave it for a day or two. The result is magical — soft, fragrant, slightly sharp cubes that make a pile of lettuce feel like something special. And the oil? Golden and gorgeous, ready to drizzle over everything.

Courgettes from the lotty with marinated feta. Plenty of herbs thrown into the salad picked from the potted garden on our boat’s stern

✷ July’s Table

July is a month of abundance. If you love cooking seasonally, this is what you can expect:

• Courgettes & Summer Squash — We’ve just had our first picking from the lotty, and what a joy they are! They almost seem to grow in front of your eyes. My favourite way to eat them? Sliced thinly, fried in good olive oil until golden, then topped with crispy slivers of garlic.

• Fennel — If you sowed in early spring, your bulbs should be ready now. I love it braised with tomatoes and served on polenta, with grilled sardines if I’m feeling fancy.

• Runner Beans — These take me right back to childhood. I was always tasked with filling a colander, then feeding the beans through the old plastic destringer. There’s always one you miss that ends up growing to the size of a cricket bat.

• Tomatoes — Finally! The first blushes are appearing. Our local farm shop is bursting with polytunnel-grown beauties. A slice of sourdough, a rub of garlic, some chopped tomato and olive oil... pan con tomate forever.

• Cherries — Bright, sweet, deeply satisfying. I’m a big fan of flicking the stones into a tin can for a bit of post-snack target practice.

• Gooseberries — Our tiny bush on the back of the boat has finally fruited for the first time. Hinnonmaki Reds. I was watching them ripen with anticipation, but Joe got there first and ate the whole lot in one go while we were cruising. It kept him quiet — and gave a new meaning to gooseberry fool.

There are a few bargains to be had too — the very last of the asparagus is going cheap at local farm shops. This tray for £8.99 was too good to ignore. If you’ve got preserving suggestions, I’m all ears. I think the Romans used to bury it in snow. I’m leaning more toward pickling.

✷ In the Wild

The hedgerows are quietly shifting. July marks the start of that slow slide toward late summer, but there’s still plenty to gather if you look:

• Bilberries — Our wild, native blueberries. Tiny, intense, perfect for snacking on the trail.

• Wild Cherries — Blink and you’ll miss them. The birds usually get there first.

• Green Walnuts — Harvested now before the shell hardens, and perfect for pickling. People always think I’m joking when I mention pickled walnuts — but they’re a bit of an old-world gem. Soft and tangy, with a depth of flavour that works beautifully on a winter cheese board. Recipe here

✷ Allotment Notes

The lotty has been a mixed bag. With no mains water and barely a drop of rain since February, our poor rain butts gave up by May. The mature plants have just about held on, but anything we’ve tried to sow since has really struggled.

We’ve had a good crop of broad beans and peas, and the chard has carried on gamely, but there’s a definite gap. The next succession simply hasn’t survived.

It’s a gentle reminder of how fragile growing can be. How vulnerable even the most cared-for plants are to a shift in the weather. And how much resilience it takes to grow food in an increasingly unpredictable world.

✷ From the Hive

A new episode of Notes from the Apiary is nearly ready, and I can’t wait to share it. The bees have had an excellent start to the season — the hives are strong, the nectar flow is steady, and the supers are filling with golden promise.

I’ve been trying to leave them to it, but on a recent inspection I was amazed by how much had changed in just a few weeks. They’ve been busy. It’s heartening to see.

There’s a small incident to report, too — but I’ll save that story for the next instalment. If you missed the last update, you can find it here:

✷ Book Club: Pathways by Leyla Kazim

If you’ve been following us for a while, you’ll know I’m a fan of

Leyla Kazim

. Her Substack, A Day Well Spent, is a quietly powerful exploration of what it means to live deliberately, always thoughtful and gently radical.

She’s just published her debut book, Pathways. Leyla and her husband are leaving behind their life in London to build a smallholding from scratch in Portugal. They plan to grow their own food, choosing to live slowly and deliberately with the land — answering a deeper call to become producers rather than consumers. The book is split into two pamphlets: ‘Pathways to the Land’ and ‘Pathways to Purposeful Living’. Both offer a reflective look at the modern world and ask how we might find lives that feel more grounded and fulfilling.

It echoes a lot of what led us to life afloat — that pull toward something simpler. We’ve always said this way of life feels more ‘real,’ though we’ve often struggled to put that feeling into words. It's a life that makes you feel more self-sufficient, more self-determined. Perhaps it’s the inconvenience of it that makes it feel so real.

It’s an inspiring read, and if you missed the first run, there’s a reprint coming in December. I’d start with her Substack — and this piece is a lovely place to begin:

The rural life of self-sufficiency: why I want it

That’s all for now. Thank you, as always, for reading. We’ll see you again on Thursday when our next video goes live.

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