Living on a boat remains London’s best-kept secret
An ode to quiet nonconformism
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OCEAN, my new novel is out now. Billed by Louis de Bernieres as ‘Strange, wonderful and compelling’ it’s the story of a family sailing the Atlantic to heal their broken lives after a terrorist explosion in London.
Dear Reader
A Deck of One’s Own
This piece appeared in the Financial Times this weekend, with this beautiful illustration of the deck of my boat — the place I’ve come to call home, and where I wrote Ocean. The floating life isn’t for everyone, but it saved me. I’m sharing it here in case it speaks to you too.
I had wanted to live in London all my life. My childhood was a rural one, spent in Cumbria and the Scottish Borders, and I longed for the ambition and possibilities of the city. As a young writer I made it as far as Oxford before falling in love with a Scot and making a U-turn.
But my desire for the bright lights only increased as the likelihood seemed to diminish. At the age of 48, with a publishing deal for my debut novel Larchfield in my pocket, a water-dwelling writer whispered that living on a boat was London’s best-kept secret — a more affordable way to live in the heart of the city. I saw my chance.
Boats divide people. If you crave bricks and mortar, straight walls and pleasing your accountant with an appreciating asset, the floating life is not for you. You can’t get a traditional mortgage on a boat (though specialist lenders offer “marine mortgages”); banks have cottoned on to the ease with which, potentially, you could sail away from your debt. But if you long for peace, beauty, community — and to have the city at your fingertips — then you are eminently persuadable.
Back in 2016, I’d barely set foot on any boat save a cross-Channel ferry, but I knew I fell into the latter camp. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the feeling I experienced on that first visit to South Dock Marina, on a loop of the Thames opposite the Isle of Dogs. It was spring, the water glassy, the boats bobbing gently as if in conversation. When I stepped out of the taxi, I felt as if I’d stumbled through a portal.
I’d come to see a narrowboat — 6 feet wide and 6 feet high, with flowers blooming on the roof and a view of the Canary Wharf skyline. When I stepped from the pontoon on to her deck, she shifted beneath me like a shy horse. The young couple who lived on board had been there, full-time, for three and a half years — two impossibly tall people and an enormous Labrador in a space barely big enough for a kitchen table let alone mod cons, who seemed to be thriving.
A boat purchase such as this has two separate elements: the vessel and the mooring, which brings an address and access to facilities. I had the opportunity to buy both outright
I thought about it for precisely one hour. With a plan to shuttle between my family in Scotland and write on the boat, I made an offer that day. It was impulsive. Romantic. I was a complete novice
I thought about it for precisely one hour. With a plan to shuttle between my family in Scotland and write on the boat, I made an offer that day. It was impulsive. Romantic. I was a complete novice. But I have never regretted it for a second. For less than the price of a deposit on one of the surrounding apartments, I had my London life. A floating room of my own.
They say owning a boat is like standing in the shower shredding £50 notes. Costs flooded in immediately. I solved the leaks by adding an overhanging enclosure, like a little chalet, and installed simple internal double glazing. My mistakes also mounted: I blew my wiring (and risked my life) trimming an annoying protruding cable. Not long afterwards I dropped my phone and my keys into the marina.
High winds squirrelled down the chimney and blew out the tiny flames of my wood-burning stove. One year, the marina froze completely, leaving us with no running water on the pontoons, the coots spinning forlornly on the ice.
Living was basic; I couldn’t afford to have a boiler installed so hot water came from a kettle and heating from my tiny and temperamental stove. But I was happier than I’d been in years. Aboard my floating capsule I finished one novel and began a new one, Ocean, about a couple crossing the Atlantic.
The movement, the quiet, the sense of being held by the elements — these transform your thinking, your imagination, your capacity to concentrate [And also jolt you out of the ordinary, when this kind of thing happens…]
As part of my research, I signed up to crew a yacht across the Bay of Biscay. The nine-day experience — exhilarating and elemental — changed me. From a landlubber enduring life on water I had come to love the sense of space and freedom it gave.
I learnt from the sailors that a boat is much more than a place to live. “Look after your boat and she will look after you,” my crewmate told me. I understood what he meant: whether on the open ocean or in the marina, knowing and caring for your boat will stop you sinking, both physically and mentally.
The movement, the quiet, the sense of being held by the elements — these transform your thinking, your imagination, your capacity to concentrate. Life aboard demands patience, resilience and an ability to live in the present moment. Most of all, it teaches you to trust your own instincts.
So when the marina’s harbour master retired and his old fibreglass motor yacht was up for sale, with its beautiful bones and coveted mooring, I took the plunge and became “Polly Two-Boats”.
She was in need of complete refurbishment. I could have upgraded to a finished boat, but I’d fallen for my particular pontoon, with my resident coots and long-standing neighbours — artists, commuters, young families and retired people; young and old, rich and getting-by, who all share a tendency to quiet nonconformism.
This time I was prepared: I had experience and contacts to do out my new craft. I enclosed the decks with a steel frame and canvas, creating a beautiful, 7ft-high outdoor room with views across the Thames. I installed infrared heating, hot water and a washing machine. My books sit on shelves around me, just as they did on land. The only thing missing is a bath. My landlubber friends let me use theirs.
Now I can’t see myself returning to the confines of a house on land. Money can’t buy these open skies and the peace of my life on water.
OCEAN by Polly Clark is OUT NOW (Lightning, £14.99)
Signed copies available
If the deck in this piece speaks to you — the quiet, the light, the sense of possibility — you’re not alone.
For almost eighteen months now, I’ve been hosting Hour Club here every Monday evening at 7pm: one hour of silent, focused writing, shared over Zoom. It’s not a chatfest — just a gentle check-in at the beginning and end — but something quietly powerful happens when we show up together, week after week. Wherever we are located, and wherever we are in our work, we’re side by side for that hour.
Writers come at every stage and in every genre: fiction, poetry, memoir, plays, substacks. I don’t teach (though I’ll offer the odd piece of advice if it seems helpful), and we don’t interrogate each other’s projects. We are simply companions in the act of writing, with this lovely backdrop and atmosphere to steady us.
The boat has worked magic on me. I wrote Ocean here, and many of the poems that will appear in Afterlife, my retrospective New and Selected Poems coming out next year. I’m beginning a new novel now, and still, every Monday, the hour feels fresh. It’s become, for many of us, a weekly writing retreat: steady, sustaining and quietly productive. It could do the same for you.
If you’d like to join us, you’ll find more details here. And if you have any questions, you’re very welcome to reply to this email.