It was not so long ago really. One lifetime, perhaps even two and there we were. The barge we went on was still active down the east coast of England in the 1970s. I remember seeing them sailing serenely past my own seaside home town when I was a child. There was something majestic about them then and there still is.

The brilliance of the barges in their heydays was that it took just two people to run them: a skipper and a mate. Our barge was originally crewed by one man and his two sons but one of them jumped ship at Ipswich and joined the local fire station. It was a hard life. Our own trip was just 12 hours and, by the end of the third hour (9am in the morning), I could understand why he’d had enough.

It didn’t take me long to realise that, what initially seemed like a fun day out might involve quite a bit of work. I’d had a disturbed night’s sleep after being interrupted by what sounded like an all-night party in what must have been one of Essex’s sleepiest village. Everyone local denied knowledge of it the next day. Strange that.

As a result, we arrived bleary-eyed when it was still not yet dawn. There were 12 of us on board in total and it was pretty clear straight away this was not going to be quite the fun day out I’d thought. Three guests volunteered with good grace to take an active part in crewing from the beginning. The enthusiastic sailor who’d suggested the trip to me was in a state of pique about the local party and looked like he was going to sulk for the full 12 hours. He effectively did. One down, several others to go.

The crew consisted of our skipper, a first – and only – mate and a cook. We weren’t greeted or welcomed aboard (our names apparently were ticked off but I missed that bit) but we somehow gravitated towards fellow travellers and managed to connect in that combination of hesitancy and hail-fellow-well-met-style some English people seem to have mastered so that, by the end of the trip, we felt almost like life-long friends. Even my friend the sulker had thawed enough to start chatting.

The skipper, a man of few words was a bit dour, but clearly competent. The first mate was efficient and sociable,  just the person you’d want near you in a crisis. Unfortunately, his charm seemed to fail against the skipper who regularly shouted curt one-word instructions that made him jump and us question his capability.

Eventually the mate felt the need to tell us he and the skipper had never worked together before. “I’ve worked with four others and they all have their own style,” he said in an apologetic whisper as he obeyed the latest order and jumped over us to prepare for yet more tacking as we changed direction to catch the wind. As the crew tacked, we “observers” ducked our heads to avoid coming into contact with the huge sails. As a non-sailor, I quickly discovered I had a natural aptitude for self-preservation.

Our cook, who did a great job and gave us the occasional flash of a brilliant smile, was mainly in a world of her own with her eyes glued on the mobi whenever she escaped from the galley. I got the sense that I/we might have been superfluous to her needs. I know it was just a job but I don’t really like to feel I’m intruding, particularly when I’m paying to join the gang.

Talking of gangs, I was impressed at how we, the travellers had managed to bind ourselves into a cohesive group that worked good-naturedly in a confined space for the whole 12 hours. There was one person who bucked the trend and kept himself to himself. One brave female guest sidled up to him and asked if everything was all right. She’d wondered if he was feeling seasick. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “I prefer to be alone.” We all felt a little uncomfortable.

Why I wondered, had he come on such a trip in that case? It occurred to me that the boat, in a way, was a microcosm of society. It worked well when we all contributed in some way, encouragement to crew members, physical work, interest in what was happening or just gasps of amazement when we saw the odd porpoise sailing alongside. Each of us felt the benefit of the other when we played our part. If someone resisted, and just plain didn’t, it left us with a slight sense of edginess that was both disturbing and unsettling. That was disturbing.

A few days later, I was on a train bound for Gatwick Airport. A young man with his wife, mother-in-law and two small children climbed on, loaded with buggies, toys, suitcases and all those other bits and pieces you need to take on holiday with children. Within minutes of the train’s departure, the young mum remembered she’d left her new trainers in the cab taking the family to the station. Her dress was with the trainers, so were the nappies (in that order). She was clearly annoyed.

If that scenario had happened to many people I know, there’d have been some element of blame or aggression over whose fault it was. Not in this case. The man retrieved his phone, called the cab company, told them the problem and said he’d be getting off at the next stop and coming back to retrieve the items from the taxi rank. No fuss, no bad temper, just direct action that left his beloved blowing kisses at him and the children not even noticing he’d gone.

If there were a prize for skills in social graces, he’d have to win it.