The 1889 book Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog) has never been out of print.

In humorous, keenly observed prose, it recounts Jerome K. Jerome's languorous journey along the Thames with two friends (and dog). The writer found the ancient river "free from that fretful haste, that vehement striving, that is every day becoming more the bane of 19th-century life". Hoping to find similar escape from 21st-century life, my friends Richard, Toby and I undertook a week-long recreation of Jerome's journey.

First, we hired a flat-bottomed 19th-century rowing skiff. The clinker-built craft was around 20ft long, with four removable metal hoops supporting a canvas cover which folded down to create a floating tent. There were long central oars and a lighter pair in the bow, so two would row at a time, while the other steered with two ropes attached to a rudder.

Jerome began his cruise in Kingston, intending to row to Oxford and back. He said: "Among folk too constitutionally weak, or too constitutionally lazy, whichever it may be, to relish up-stream work, it is a common practice to get a boat at Oxford, and row down." Short of time, we decided to row downstream from Oxford to Richmond: 95 miles, in seven days.

After an hour's instruction, we were off. Health and Safety hasn't yet conquered the waterways, so lifejackets weren't compulsory. We took one though, thinking it might make a good pillow.

It was nearly handy for its proper function on our second morning, outside Abingdon. Out of nowhere, a squall struck. It became dark in an instant. A fierce gale of hot rain rammed down on us. Canvas cover burst from ineffective knots and ballooned into a wonderfully effective spinnaker. We sailed smartly along sideways, port gunwale inches from messy capsize. As we battled to curtail the canvas's capricious career as a sail, lightning flashed precisely as thunder roared. The storm was directly overhead. We were in the middle of a broad watercourse, in a soaking boat topped by four metal hoops.

We survived, the rain stopped, and pretty much every other mile was idyllic. We sculled quietly along avenues of weeping willows and mighty oaks, always with ducks, geese, coots, moorhens, herons, swans or stripy baby grebes nearby.

We passed hundreds of fine English houses, splendid in their riverside pomp, and stopped in villages unchanged, but for the sad invasion of the motorcar, since Jerome's day. Clifton Hampden was still "wonderfully pretty", and Sonning still "the most fairy-like little nook on the whole river. It is more like a stage village than one built of bricks and mortar." Dorchester, ancient capital of Wessex, was probably our favourite, perhaps because we detoured half a mile up a winding tributary then whacked through a hundred yards of head-high nettles to reach it.

Three Men is just one of the Thames's literary connections. We lunched in Pangborne, the home of Kenneth Grahame, who wrote Wind in the Willows, and stayed in Marlow where Mary Shelley completed Frankenstein.

Passers-by and other boaters were fittingly literary, regularly crying out: "Where's the dog?" We had considered one, but didn't want to risk losing an unruly hound. Jerome's dog, Montmorency, was in any case fictional.

The effort of rowing didn't detract from the fun of our trip. We took three-mile stints at each station: big oars, small oars and cox. As well as steering, the cox monitored map and guidebooks, languidly pointing out places of significance. Rowing wasn't that wearying, but, after a few miles, the oars did begin to display, as Jerome had led us to expect, "the natural obstinacy of all things in this world".

Jerome also observed that: "It takes a good deal of practice before a man feels comfortable, when rowing past girls", but, by the time the all-female rowing crews of Marlow sped by, we were comfortable enough.

We admired their sleek craft, along with characterful barges and shabby little caravan-boats hired by holidaying families. But the white plastic, high-sided, fume-spewing private cruisers, piloted by champagne-swilling captains, were the modern equivalent of Jerome's hated "mechanical monstrosities", the steam launches.

Tired after each day's exertions, we slept well, despite camping four nights out of six. The exception, for Toby and Richard, was the first night at Abingdon Lock, when it rained heavily. I'd won the toss, so was in the waterproof tent, while they slept adventurously on the (nearly) waterproof boat. From then on, we decided that just one person would sleep in the boat. The next night I had a perfect onboard kip under a weeping willow at lovely, historical Wallingford, only lulled awake after eight hours by the gentle quacking of mallards.

It seemed that our journey was hardly changed from Jerome's more than a century before. There has been little riverside development, and we dined in the same, largely unmodified pubs. Immersed in rural reverie, we barely noticed when road or plane interrupted our fluvial wonderland. Even near London, the river was delightful.

Floating along the lovely avenue of the Thames, intermittently happening upon charming villages with ancient churches and pubs, the journey was a vision of a more quaint and innocent England. As Jerome's friend Harris said: "We have had a pleasant trip, and my hearty thanks for it to old Father Thames."

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The detailsTo hire a three-person skiff for one week from Oxford to Richmond costs £550. Thames Skiff Hire, 07767 385056, www.skiffhire.com

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