Dare I say it, but the day following our exertions on the Tardebigge flight I awoke fresh and surprisingly rested and feeling rather positive about this experience of ours. I was sure my poor old body would be complaining loudly but much to my amazement all I had a was a little stiffness. So I began the day with a very rosey outlook and was pleased to see sunshine and blue skies. Ah, narrow boating....
After a short motor we moored alongside bridge 38 and prepared to head off across the fields to our next cultural experience, the National Trust property at Hanbury Hall. Settling Phoebe in her dog cage (she has accepted gracefully the necessity of snuggling down in this when we go on short trips sans chien) we followed the footpath across pastures and fields to the hall just under a mile from the canal. The weather was spring like, fresh and clear with larks singing and even a courteous farmer who had left a beaten track for the footpath through the middle of this ploughed field to the boundary of the Trust property. Take note farmers.
We caused some confusion to the poor volunteers arriving as we did from the canal as this meant we had bypassed the entrance which was down a drive at the opposite end of the grounds. I was not so sure my sense of well being that morning was as apparent to the driver of the electric golf cart as it had been to me when he offered to take us back to the main entrance to obtain our tickets. I felt it impolite not to accept so I rode in silent style while my younger wife walked. OAP she shouted - you too I replied!
We had booked a guided tour of the property before it opened and thoroughly enjoyed a rather tongue in cheek introduction to the house and its family, the Vernons, from a rather eccentric lanky gentleman of a certain aged dressed in slightly tired tweed. Some of these volunteers really are caricatures of an Evelyn Waugh novel and just fit the house so well. He managed to add some colour to the story of what was essentially a rather boring rich family - they'd been mostly barristers and lawyers so that says it all. But they had built a fine "small" country house in 1701 in the style of William and Mary and had fortunately not had the imagination or gumption to change much in the ensuing 300 years so it was quite special.
Quick cup of coffee - lovely, a cappuccino at last - and back to the boat and an excited Phoebe. She really does go ape whenever you return be it after ten minutes or two hours as she tears between Ros and I toy in mouth. And so onward to Worcester.
Our destination was the Diglis Basin just before you lock down to the River Severn. A "definite destination" this as the captain was absolutely convinced we needed a pump out (now there's a couple of words to conjure the joys of narrow boating) and the spreadsheet said this was a perfect spot just before the river and ideal for seeing Worcester. It was quite a trek to get there testing my enthusiasm for long days locking here and there but we made it around 4.30 and moored alongside the British Waterways (yet to be rebranded as the Canal and River Trust, its successor) pump out station.
A DIY version, we unlocked the unfamiliar room with our special key and studied the instructions. Forced to use our Sherlock Holmes skills we deduced where to purchase the necessary "service payment units" (no help in the instructions for us pump out virgins) and began the procedure. Unravel the long and weighty pipe, unscrew the correct cap on the gunnels, plug in heavy duty pipe socket and press button. Much rumbling and sucking noises followed but without that glorious addition, the inspection window, we had no idea whether it was working or not. Well, as you may have by now suspected, when we looked down the toilet in the boat not much had happened.
We returned to our "service payment units" vendor who rather glibly informed us that the machine was frequently not working so he wasn't surprised. Call the Trust he advised. So we phoned the help line and were somewhat surprised to be answered by a charming young woman who put us through to the local office where we encountered - yes, the inevitable an answer phone. So near yet so far we thought.
The captain was quickly into her guides and spreadsheets and noted that a private marina 2 miles back had pump out facilities. A quick call and yes, they would do a pump out but not till the morrow. As we ended the call the phone rang and it was the local rep of the Trust. An operative was on his way we were told and would be with us within 15 minutes. If he couldn't get it to work he'd do a manual pump out (??) we were informed.
Wow. What impressive service we thought, and so late in the day.
But as the time ticked by and 15 minutes became 45 we began to despair. Then the said operative arrived in his smart branded Canal Trust polo shirt, opened the rear of the malfunctioning pump out station, huffed a bit, switched everything off, and informed us he'd no idea why he'd been sent as there was nothing he could do. He then disappeared for another half hour and returned with a new "service payments" card so we could enjoy another attempt at a DIY pump out elsewhere on the system. I think not.
So after enduring a very bumpy, stormy night just down from the ill fated pump out station we did a 180 degree turn (great fun, more 23 point than 3 point turn) we returned to the Viking Boat Yard where two very nice young men did it all for us while we supped our coffee. So much better.
Only issue was the slight surprise on their faces when they politely enquired why we had felt the need for a pump out as it was only about half full.
Over to you captain. Any dawning going on there?
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