I have a problem when I go travelling; wherever I pause, I imagine putting down roots. Of course, it doesn’t last long but, for a short while, I think ‘I want to live here.’

The first time I went to Cornwall’s beaches, I thought I’d gone to heaven. The first time I went to the Highlands of Scotland and Skye, I wanted to live there forever. Whenever I go back to Liverpool or London, I think, this place is buzzing – I could just stay here.  And every time I go to France, I leave a little bit of me behind, waiting for next time.

I went to Mexico and thought, what a blast. In India, I felt like I belonged. In China, someone offered me a job and I really had to think twice.

I was born in Oxfordshire and whenever I go back, I feel something invisible tug at my heartstrings. Of course, the truth is, we can never go back. Too much has changed. We’d be starting again.

Which might work, or it might not.

But recently I made an unusual journey: I hired a barge on the Oxford canal and it really appealed. The idea of cruising up and down the water, listening to music, reading a book in the sunshine all day. Ducks and swans floating past, breathing in the succulent scent of the meadowsweet on the banks, the barge dipping beneath overhanging willow branches amid bees and butterflies and the watching herons.

Beautiful.

Of course, my boredom threshold would kick in after a few days, but I breathed in the atmosphere of the canal and thought, if only I could stay…

I had such a great time. Four of us on board, three locks, several miles of canal, one great pub lunch. Sunshine. A tiller you push one way to go the other. Canal traffic, beautiful barges passing in the water,  camaraderie, banter. Beer. The gentle cruising of a twenty ton boat.

Getting stuck on mudbanks. Giggles. Champagne. Slow days and dreamy evenings.

I could get used to it.

So now I’m keen to take all my friends on a barge, to huddle in the little kitchen listening to blues music while we rustle up a one pot dish and eat it on deck in the twilight with cans of beer. To moor at passing hostelries, making new friends, sitting in beer gardens, watching the sunset before we retire to our boat and drink brandy beneath the stars.

It all sounds very romantic. And very boozy. I’m not sure I’d last more than five days.

But a canal is a special, historic place steeped in nature, steeped in beauty. The unique moment of a fleet footed deer, the colour flash of a kingfisher, flitting damselflies. It’s an extraordinary place to be, tiller in hand, bridges and locks ahead.

I can’t wait to go again. And a narrowboat takes up to six. Just saying…

Anyone up for it?