The Other Treasure of Basingstoke Canal
by Rebecca Lyon
Author’s note: This text does not refer to the well-known lost treasure of Basing House or the lost treasure of King John’s Castle.
I’d just lost twenty quid on the slot machines and was sitting at the bar staring into a pint at a certain Basingstoke pub (you’ll know the one) when this guy tapped me on the shoulder. To be honest, me and my girlfriend had just split up and I wasn’t in the mood. I shrugged to let him know I wasn’t interested but he kept tap tap tapping so I rolled my eyes and turned in my seat.
‘It’s a mugs’ game you know,’ he said, his ratty face darting to the slot machines and back.
‘Yeah yeah I know, it’s fine, I don’t usually- ’
‘You know where the real money is don’t you?’ he said, pulling up a stool next to me.
‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me mate.’
I signalled to Steve for another pint.
He leaned over.
‘Treasure,’ he whispered. He widened his eyes and nodded vigorously as if to back up what he said.
‘Right.’ I finished up my drink, stood up and was just about to cancel my order when he waved me back down.
‘Truly,’ he said, ‘Upon my mother’s life, God rest her soul. There’s treasure round here and I’m going to find it.’
‘Are you ok mate? Do you have someone’s number we can call to come and pick you up?’
As a Healthcare Assistant I’m pretty used to helping folks out who are a bit confused, but come on, this is my day off, I’ve got a broken heart, I’m insufficiently drunk and I’ve got 82p left in my bank account. I really didn’t appreciate having to be the grown up right now.
‘No, no, all my marbles are intact.’ he insisted. ‘This is the problem you see. This is why I need a business partner. People do seem to have that kind of reaction. Whereas you-’
I shook my head firmly, with authority. Not going there.
‘I can’t be your business partner mate I have a perfectly good job and a life that’s very nice quite as it is thank you.’ The words felt a bit hollow as they came out – yes my job was fulfilling, but the rest of my life… ‘Although-’
He jumped on my hesitation and brought his head closer to mine.
‘The treasure’s in the canal. The Basingstoke canal.’
Now, as a kid, mum and dad used to take me and my sister kayaking on that canal every weekend in summer. Haven’t done it for years, but, well he’d piqued my interest and I didn’t fancy the empty flat right now. Steve handed me another drink and I bought one for my new friend too.
He reached into his (leather) backpack and pulled out two copper pipes. I started back, but then realised they were probably plumbers’ parts rather than weapons. He put them into my hands.
‘Do you know what these are?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Those are copper plumbers’ pipes.’
‘A-ha!’ he said that’s where you’re wrong!’
‘I thought I might be. Do tell me then,’ I said, indulging him.
‘These are water diving rods. They sense the holy water courses that our Stone Age ancestors wandered. And yes, the Basingstoke canal as we know it was constructed in the late Eighteenth Century, but the canal, contrary to popular belief and unbeknown to the architects and engineers who built it, actually runs along one of these sacred water courses that flows from Stonehenge, past Wagamamas along to a lost pagan site located underneath Mercedes-Benz world at Weybridge.’
‘I’m here for the treasure my friend. Tell me about the treasure.’
‘Er, yes, sorry. The bed of the Basingstoke canal, dug by navvies from all over the country, was lined with clay then weighted down with flints from the sacred water course.’
I reminded him that flints weren’t exactly treasure unless you’re a collector of prehistoric arrow head and fakes have flooded the market for centuries. You can get them on Ebay for less than a fiver.
‘A-ha’ he said, and his eyebrows danced, interpretatively. 'They are special flints. They glow a magical pink when water flows over them at exactly 11 degrees, the temperature of the canal. It’s all because of… algae. A very special, rare algae called Hildenbrandia. It makes the rocks magical and colour changing and romantic and spiritual and… valuable.’
My new friend was a master of the pregnant pause – it really is hard to do him justice.
‘So, you intend to mine this treasure and sell it? I’m not sure about the legality of that mate.’
‘No!’ he replied. ‘Well, not initially anyway. I’ve got a camper van and I could go around the country talking about the treasure and doing speeches and that and get a Youtube channel and a website and inspire people with the magic of nature and the wonder of geology’
It was all quite a lot to take in. Steve’s got Sambuca behind the bar, but he only sells it when absolutely necessary. He poured one for me, one for treasure man and one for himself.
‘It’s a nice idea,’ I conceded. ‘But so was BitCoin.’
Sigh.
‘Right,’ Steve said, placing his elbow of decisiveness on the bar between us. ‘Here’s what you should do. He looked at me. ‘Go home. Buy a kayak and do a bit of canal boating at the weekends. Kayaks are very therapeutic. You’re bloody good at your job, and don’t worry about Emma – if it’s meant to be it’s meant to be.’
***
Reader, I bought a kayak – turns out Steve knew a guy. I’ve been enjoying it, the old canal – waving to King John at his castle in Odiham (could do with a bit of work done on it tbh), stopping for a pint at the Water Witch, the Fox & Hounds, the Exchequer, or any of the other fabulous establishments along the way. I haven’t yet dived in to take a look at these magic pink rocks at the bottom of the canal. Maybe I will one day.
Oh, and Steve and my new friend (turns out his name was Julian), went into business together selling wholesale potatoes. Steve’s got the contacts and the business sense, and old Julian knew a story about the spiritual and medicinal origins of that humble root vegetable. Apparently, the Saxons secretly grew potatoes in Basingstoke’s chalky soil and the dried powder of this particular regional variety was spirited all over their Kingdoms, as it was a proven aphrodisiac. I ordered 5kg; You never know.
by Rebecca Lyon
Author’s note: This text does not refer to the well-known lost treasure of Basing House or the lost treasure of King John’s Castle.
I’d just lost twenty quid on the slot machines and was sitting at the bar staring into a pint at a certain Basingstoke pub (you’ll know the one) when this guy tapped me on the shoulder. To be honest, me and my girlfriend had just split up and I wasn’t in the mood. I shrugged to let him know I wasn’t interested but he kept tap tap tapping so I rolled my eyes and turned in my seat.
‘It’s a mugs’ game you know,’ he said, his ratty face darting to the slot machines and back.
‘Yeah yeah I know, it’s fine, I don’t usually- ’
‘You know where the real money is don’t you?’ he said, pulling up a stool next to me.
‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me mate.’
I signalled to Steve for another pint.
He leaned over.
‘Treasure,’ he whispered. He widened his eyes and nodded vigorously as if to back up what he said.
‘Right.’ I finished up my drink, stood up and was just about to cancel my order when he waved me back down.
‘Truly,’ he said, ‘Upon my mother’s life, God rest her soul. There’s treasure round here and I’m going to find it.’
‘Are you ok mate? Do you have someone’s number we can call to come and pick you up?’
As a Healthcare Assistant I’m pretty used to helping folks out who are a bit confused, but come on, this is my day off, I’ve got a broken heart, I’m insufficiently drunk and I’ve got 82p left in my bank account. I really didn’t appreciate having to be the grown up right now.
‘No, no, all my marbles are intact.’ he insisted. ‘This is the problem you see. This is why I need a business partner. People do seem to have that kind of reaction. Whereas you-’
I shook my head firmly, with authority. Not going there.
‘I can’t be your business partner mate I have a perfectly good job and a life that’s very nice quite as it is thank you.’ The words felt a bit hollow as they came out – yes my job was fulfilling, but the rest of my life… ‘Although-’
He jumped on my hesitation and brought his head closer to mine.
‘The treasure’s in the canal. The Basingstoke canal.’
Now, as a kid, mum and dad used to take me and my sister kayaking on that canal every weekend in summer. Haven’t done it for years, but, well he’d piqued my interest and I didn’t fancy the empty flat right now. Steve handed me another drink and I bought one for my new friend too.
He reached into his (leather) backpack and pulled out two copper pipes. I started back, but then realised they were probably plumbers’ parts rather than weapons. He put them into my hands.
‘Do you know what these are?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Those are copper plumbers’ pipes.’
‘A-ha!’ he said that’s where you’re wrong!’
‘I thought I might be. Do tell me then,’ I said, indulging him.
‘These are water diving rods. They sense the holy water courses that our Stone Age ancestors wandered. And yes, the Basingstoke canal as we know it was constructed in the late Eighteenth Century, but the canal, contrary to popular belief and unbeknown to the architects and engineers who built it, actually runs along one of these sacred water courses that flows from Stonehenge, past Wagamamas along to a lost pagan site located underneath Mercedes-Benz world at Weybridge.’
‘I’m here for the treasure my friend. Tell me about the treasure.’
‘Er, yes, sorry. The bed of the Basingstoke canal, dug by navvies from all over the country, was lined with clay then weighted down with flints from the sacred water course.’
I reminded him that flints weren’t exactly treasure unless you’re a collector of prehistoric arrow head and fakes have flooded the market for centuries. You can get them on Ebay for less than a fiver.
‘A-ha’ he said, and his eyebrows danced, interpretatively. 'They are special flints. They glow a magical pink when water flows over them at exactly 11 degrees, the temperature of the canal. It’s all because of… algae. A very special, rare algae called Hildenbrandia. It makes the rocks magical and colour changing and romantic and spiritual and… valuable.’
My new friend was a master of the pregnant pause – it really is hard to do him justice.
‘So, you intend to mine this treasure and sell it? I’m not sure about the legality of that mate.’
‘No!’ he replied. ‘Well, not initially anyway. I’ve got a camper van and I could go around the country talking about the treasure and doing speeches and that and get a Youtube channel and a website and inspire people with the magic of nature and the wonder of geology’
It was all quite a lot to take in. Steve’s got Sambuca behind the bar, but he only sells it when absolutely necessary. He poured one for me, one for treasure man and one for himself.
‘It’s a nice idea,’ I conceded. ‘But so was BitCoin.’
Sigh.
‘Right,’ Steve said, placing his elbow of decisiveness on the bar between us. ‘Here’s what you should do. He looked at me. ‘Go home. Buy a kayak and do a bit of canal boating at the weekends. Kayaks are very therapeutic. You’re bloody good at your job, and don’t worry about Emma – if it’s meant to be it’s meant to be.’
***
Reader, I bought a kayak – turns out Steve knew a guy. I’ve been enjoying it, the old canal – waving to King John at his castle in Odiham (could do with a bit of work done on it tbh), stopping for a pint at the Water Witch, the Fox & Hounds, the Exchequer, or any of the other fabulous establishments along the way. I haven’t yet dived in to take a look at these magic pink rocks at the bottom of the canal. Maybe I will one day.
Oh, and Steve and my new friend (turns out his name was Julian), went into business together selling wholesale potatoes. Steve’s got the contacts and the business sense, and old Julian knew a story about the spiritual and medicinal origins of that humble root vegetable. Apparently, the Saxons secretly grew potatoes in Basingstoke’s chalky soil and the dried powder of this particular regional variety was spirited all over their Kingdoms, as it was a proven aphrodisiac. I ordered 5kg; You never know.
