Northward bound

Panic. 

Somehow I have managed to delete all my notes and blogs to date from my iPad. No idea how I did this but no amount of searching retrieved the data and despite looking on line for some trick the techie nerds had discovered to right this failure of Apple design (wake up Apple) because I hadn't "linked to the cloud" there was no chance of a reprieve. No idea about this cloud business but having got the vaguest of ideas what it is it's not something easily achieved when you have such intermittent wifi connectivity. After a lull in enthusiasm for writing I've decided to battle on and use my memory for the next instalments - that's a challenge now I'm so relaxed with this pace of life....

An early start was required to get into line for the Harecastle Tunnel, another of those "must do's" for the narrow boat enthusiast. 

Now a bit of history for you all as this really is quite a triumph of man's ambition to overcome an obstacle. The first tunnel was opened in 1777 and represented engineering on a scale quite unknown to the world at that time and it duly impressed. Being narrow and low the boats had to be "legged" through (ie lying on the boat's roof and walking along the tunnel roof) slowing the journey significantly and making Harecastle a major bottle-neck for canal boats. Thus in 1822 Thomas Telford was called in to construct a second tunnel alongside the first one. Completed I827 it had a towpath (now removed) and both tunnels operated until the early 20th century when the original had sunk so much due to mining subsidence that it had to be abandoned.  

Today the tunnel is controlled by keepers who manage the convoys and inspect boats to ensure all will be safe. We had to take down our chimneys and close off the stove outlet  - and of course MN had supplied exactly the required part! After a short wait we were given the all clear and as second boat of our convoy of five we began our journey into the dark deep depths for the 2926 yards we had to endure. They use old money in the Nicholson Guide - that's 2675 metres to you metric dudes. 

Trying not to be alarmed when we heard the gates close - yes, gates - at the entrance to the tunnel behind us we entered a ghostly fog and kept our cool as boaters in front made wailing sounds and the boat behind crashed into the tunnel walls. At  last the whirring fans started up to force air into the tunnel for us to breath and I could see again to concentrate hard on the light of the boat in front. It took a real effort to maintain the right speed and not make contact with the tunnel sides so I was relieved when we emerged after some 30 minutes below ground. 

And having completed this hated task guess what Ros announced - "you've done SO well and I'm SO bad at tunnels, can you do the rest please darling...?"

Almost as soon as we emerged from the tunnel we turned left over an aqueduct crossing the Trent and Mersey Canal  into the Macclesfield Canal, a surprisingly pretty waterway running along the side of a tall ridge of hills west of the Pennines. Being a Thomas Telford designed canal it bears all the hallmarks of his engineering. It's a "cut and fill" canal following as straight a line as possible and featuring many great cuttings and embankments. Thus you have that at times surreal sensation of floating gently above the ground and enjoy wonderful views over the passing countryside. Forming part of the canal lovers Cheshire Ring we expected to begin to meet many more boats but yet again we had much of the waterway to ourselves. We are getting very spoilt and will be very grumpy when we have to start sharing our canals. 

Household chores intervened at the top of the Bosley Flight of locks (12 locks rising 118 feet for the anoraks following this) as the Canal and River Trust had provided a rather splendid facility complete with a working washing machine and dryer. So we lingered a few hours and refreshed our bed linen and clothes. 

Trust workers appeared and being chatty types we learnt that despite the wet spring we had been having this particular canal was suffering a shortage of water so it was rather good news that so few boats were on the move.  

And then on into Macclesfield where we saw the original vast Hovis flour mill beautifully restored into upmarket apartments for, dear readers, this is the town that gave birth to that renowned British brand in 1820. And for your further education, the word Hovis is derived from the Latin "hominisunvis" meaning "power to the man".  We were pleasantly surprised at how nice the town was with its cobbled streets and picturesque medieval Market Place. We lingered here for a much needed coffee but found the 40 minute session of bell ringing from the adjacent local church a trifle OTT. 

The following day we travelled to just before Higher Poynton where we unloaded the bikes for our next National Trust visit. The weather was perfect with puffs of white cloud scudding across a blue sky as we peddled through the magnificent  park surrounding this Italiante palace called Lyme House. It was a fairly hilly ride so Ros was in her element leaving me puffing behind but I rallied and got to the top of the ravine to enjoy a magnificent view over moorland to Manchester in the distance. I was told I had arrived "grump free". Now there's a compliment. 

The house was chosen to represent Pemberley in the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice and hence provided a pilgrimage for all those Colin Firth fans (and we saw plenty I can assure you)  who no doubt were hoping to see Darcy emerge soaking wet from the lake beside the house.  Sorry to disappoint but this wasn't the lake they used and nor did they use the house interiors or courtyard - just the external shots which are truly memorable thanks to its wonderful setting in the rolling Cheshire countryside and its beautiful gardens. Full of countless works of art and an impressive collection of English clocks, my favourite was the four Chippendale chairs covered with material from the cloak worn by King Charles at his execution. 

Ghoulish or what?

 

A Welcome Detour

The Caldon Canal was opened in 1779 as a single branch to the limestone quarries at Froghall and climbs to a dizzy 485 feet above sea level. Unnavigable by the 1960s it was thanks to the efforts of the canal society and eventually the local authorities that its potential as a recreational asset was recognised and it was reopened in 1974. Still a quiet backwater we only passed two boats as we headed up this beautiful part of the Staffordshire countryside and into the steep valley and deeply wooded slopes of the Churnet Valley.

Leaving the suburbs of Stoke we had our first experience of an electric lifting bridge with all the bells and whistles of traffic lights, alarm sirens and manual barriers. It took us a little while to work out exactly how all this worked and in what order making us a bit unpopular with the waiting cars and pedestrians, but hey, we weren't in a rush, so chill.   Excitement at Hazlehurst too where the canal branched with one line going to Froghall the other to Barnfield the one passing over the other in a soaring aqueduct as they snaked their separate ways. 

Having said we only met two boats, as luck would it have one of them was confronted as we turned to go under this  impressive aqueduct.  Now we had been diligent narrowboaters and had sounded our pretty impressive horn before proceeding and having heard nothing in reply assumed we were clear to continue. Not so, the boat-with-no-horn coming the other way was travelling much too fast and forced us into a full throttle reverse to avoid an unnecessary collision. Amateurs......

The landscape was truly beautiful and we were so pleased we had taken the advice not to miss this 17 mile stretch of waterway seeming to be almost untouched and unspoilt by man's incursions. Yet it had been in the past , when boats and trains laden with limestone competed for trade. When we got to Cheddleton we began to run alongside the Churnet Valley Steam Railway and anticipation grew that we might see one of their steam engines at work. 

Having heard that the final two and a half miles into Froghall were very narrow and difficult to pass another boat we decided to stop for the night at Consall Forge where there was room to turn around just before the weir - sounds more exciting than it was as it was a very gentle weir.... A very remote spot, it still had a canal side pub called the Black Lion which succeeded it attracting customers from who knows where to make the journey and enjoy its beautiful setting nestling against the steep river valley. It overlooked the perfectly preserved Consall railway station where the waiting room stands alone cantilevered over the canal.

To complete our exploration of this particular canal we unloaded the bikes and cycled the last few miles into Froghall giving Phoebe some high speed exercise. Don't worry dog lovers, we were very conscious of not going too fast! Not much there apart from the terminus of the railway and a low, narrow tunnel I'm very pleased we managed to avoid.

Heading back the way we had come (something the spreadsheet had been determined to avoid)  I was delighted to hear the unmistakable whistle of an approaching steam train and we were in a perfect spot to witness the splendour of a passing engine billowing its white smoke as it pulled four 1950s carriages packed with excited young faces. Giving the driver a blast on our horn we were acknowledged in return with a full throated whistle from the engine. Even Ros was bit impressed although she tried to hide it.

Our final stop on the Caldon was the Cheddleston Flint Mill which luckily was open to visitors as the volunteers had decided to do an extra day. What lovely people and so dedicated to the struggle to keep the mill preserved. A fully restored mill with two working water wheels that used to drive the flint grinding pans,  the adjoining cottage was still home to the 93 year old daughter of the last mill master. Living history. 

And so back to the Trent and Mersey Canal at Stoke and our original itinerary. An overnight stop at the Etruria basin, a visit to the nearby Tesco and we were ready for the Harecastle Tunnel, so scary they send you through in convoy.

And guess who'd drawn the short straw to drive this time?

The Groupies Assemble

The morning in Rugeley began overcast with heavy showers. There was I, just before nine clearing up after breakfast in the adaptable dinette when I was startled by a tapping on the window and was confronted by the grinning face of my sister in law peering down into the boat.   Now I'm all for a bit of enthusiasm (with a wife like mine you certainly acquire that attribute even if its not genetic) but clearly Al had been up at the crack of dawn to make the pilgrimage to Fandango and satisfy her keenness to do all things narrow boaty with her fellow groupie.

A welcome visitor, she arrived with home made cakes (vital for Ros' never-to-be-missed afternoon tea) and wine (essential for my evening sanity) and once the ooohing and aaahing at the excitement to come was over, she happily joined us in a quick shopping expedition to stock up on vital supplies and bonded with Phoebe who she looked after outside the supermarket.

It was a short journey to our first objective and thankfully the weather was clearing and as we moored alongside Shugborough Park we enjoyed glorious sunshine. Shugborough Hall was the ancestral home of the Earl of Lichfield, a nephew of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and best known for his photography including the official wedding photographs of Charles and Diana. Handed over to the National Trust in the 1960's in lieu of death duties but leased to Staffordshire County Council, our memberships allowed entry to the house but not to the museum and some other attractions. But with a timetable to follow that was plenty for us narrowboaters.

A little aside. We are proud members of the Scottish National Trust but have found it rather amusing how our membership cards are viewed rather sniffily or even suspiciously by the, I am quite sure, hard working staff at English properties. In many cases we have to be separately "scanned in" feeling a little like second class citizens or maybe economy class passengers made to step aside for those lucky business class passengers with priority boarding. 

The house was fascinating not least because following the death of Patrick Lichfield in 2005, his private apartments were opened to the public in 2011 and complement the grand state rooms that had been accessible since the 1960's. Now I call a suite of 38 rooms one hell of an "apartment" but that's what he had skilfully negotiated with the Trust and it was intriguing to see how a country aristocrat lived. Loved the extensive drinks cabinet under the stairs! There was a wonderful exhibition of some of his photographs chronicling his time snapping society lovelies and the hippest beautiful people of the 70's, 80's and 90's. Oh, and they did great coffee too and homemade soup too.

A little later than planned we set off again with the spreadsheet-determined destination of Stone in our sights.  Good job we had three helms available as it was fair trek and we didn't moor until just before the unprecedentedly late hour of eight at the bottom of the Stone Flight of locks. We took Al for dinner at the Star Inn pub on the towpath beside the bottom lock. Dating from the 14th century it is reputedly one of the oldest pubs on the waterways and inside is a maze of rooms none of which are on the same level.

Having brought the dog with us we were asked to eat in the public bar, an experience that seemed to cause some alarm to sister in law (more a cocktail lounge sort of gal I fear) but it turned out to be very entertaining as we shared the room with a boisterous family group celebrating one of the daughters' nineteenth birthday. This fact prompted our addled memories and we remembered it was also Phoebe's second birthday. Well, what excitement that caused for Naomi (for it was she who was the birthday girl) who turned out to be a real dog person and worked in a grooming parlour. Eyeing Phoebe she informed us a wash and groom would cost £35 in her salon - in her dreams I thought. 

Next morning we looked around Stone, a very attractive town and home to the Joules brewery. Onward then through the Stone locks (where I discovered Al was not so keen to steer the boat but far keener to operate the lock gates) to bridge 104 and more educational delights. This time the Wedgwood museum. A prize winner for the quality of its exhibits and story telling we dived into the fascinating story of Josiah and his innovations in transforming British taste in china ware. Al and I loved it but poor dyslexic Ros found it all "too much reading" so consoled herself in the factory shop where she acquired a set of rather beautiful cut glass champagne glasses - perfect for narrow boat living Scott-style!

I got into a conversation with who I assumed to be a curator but turned out to be the director of the museum (I discovered this when describing the woman to Al who knew her from her archivist world) who was lamenting the American venture capitalist buy out of the whole group of companies that had saddled the museum with the company's historic pension fund debt putting a question mark over its future. Indeed the whole future of this group of iconic brands was in doubt - how sad that so much creativity and history is threatened.

We had met some experienced boaters who had recommended a detour from our planned route onto the Caldon Canal. After some huffing and puffing over Nick's canal planner thanks to a very poor and slow internet connection (oh the trials of technology for the traveller!) magically the spreadsheet was revised and the detour was approved. 

So our final day with Al saw us enter Stoke-on-Trent and turn sharp right up what we hoped would be a beautiful return trip through what we had been told was some of the most attractive countryside on the system.  Al reluctantly left us here happy and sated having gated us through one of the keenies highlights and badges of honour  - a staircase lock, the only one in Staffordshire and a process requiring careful thought or you get the water in the wrong place and flood or beach the boat!

Now that would be an experience.....

Playtime

The warm clear weather was a bonus as we headed to our next excitement - a visit to Drayton Manor theme park and a chance to relive earlier days when young children relished the terror offered by the extreme rides on offer. Being located adjacent to the canal it was an easy visit to manage and unlike 99.9% of the visitors we could arrive on foot.

We moored opposite the park entrance just past one of the most bizarre footbridges we had yet seen.  A gothic style structure with twin battlement style towers containing stone spiral staircases,  it would have looked commanding but for its Lilliputian size. We could find no explanation for this eccentricity in any of our canal books which only increased its attraction and oddity.

 

Built on the site of the since demolished Drayton Manor house, the former home of Sir Robert Peel, the theme park was familiar to Ros. In a previous life when earning a crust as a teacher she had taken a challenging group of kids from one of her schools who were studying for one of those pretend GCSE' s - Tourism and Leisure. An experience not to be repeated I gather......

 

What fun we had, especially me. There were very few people about it being mid week and outside school holidays so we never had to queue and more often than not were the only people on the rides. Being of a certain age, the more extreme rides held little appeal as I for one have no great desire to have my stomach thrust into my mouth as I hurl upside down at great speed on some gyrating roller coaster.  We did however go for Storm Force One, a flume ride with a lifeboat theme and the kind made famous by that photo of Princess Diana at Thorpe Park getting soaked with her kids as they roared into the water from a great height.

Surviving one go without getting particularly damp, I was keen to go again as we neared the end of the day. Ros was more reluctant but after some gentle persuasion came anyway. Sitting in the same second row place as the first time as this seemed to have kept us reasonably dry we set off up the ride for the first high speed descent into the raging waters. As luck would have it this time a mini tsunami struck from Ros' side and engulfed her miraculously missing me but leaving her, as she so delicately put it, soaked to her knickers.  All my fault of course.

Back at the boat and in dry clothes we settled down for a noisy night as we may have been nice and close to the theme park, but we were also close to a busy A road. We awoke  glad to be heading off this time up the Coventry Canal at Fazeley Junction.  Shows how experienced we are now becoming with steering our weighty beast that we negotiated the 90 degree turn perfectly which was fortunate as there were spectators on the Watling Street bridge no doubt hoping to see some bumps and bangs or at least a few tense exchanges between helm (me) and look out. Harmony reigned. 

After a lock-free meander of 12 miles we arrived at another junction, this time named Fradley where after opening the swing bridge by way of announcement we turned into the Trent and Mersey canal. At the junction was a canal side pub called the Swan or the Mucky Duck to locals, which is reputedly one of the most photographed pubs in the country and rightly so as the 200 year old listed stone building graces the towpath half way up a five lock flight. It was the  first place we had visited where there was a scarcity of moorings demonstrating its popularity but we lucked in and found a spot just before the lock and well within walking distance of the pub.

 

No guessing where we went that night. Again, good hearty pub grub and two lavishly mascara'd barmaids of a certain age with plenty to say for themselves, a good knowledge of the local beers and tattoos to shame a stevedore.

The following morning after a relaxed start with much needed cappuccino at the nearby cafe we began our journey up our latest canal conquest, the Trent and Mersey, where the two locks were manned by volunteers making our progress easy. Keen to chat while leaning on the gates as the lock filled we discovered that the final lock of the five in this flight was the toughest with those stiff, heavy paddles we were learning to hate and the one volunteers desperately tried to avoid. Our poor helper had arrived late and so drew the short straw and was already looking jaded after only a couple of hours on the job. Early tea break called I suspect.

The spreadsheet had determined we had a short journey that day with only 8 miles to cover before our destination of Rugeley whose principal attraction was that it was home to an accessible launderette meaning clean clothes were on the cards. It was also the chosen spot to await the arrival of the other narrow boat groupie who was returning for a further visit, this time a moving one over a long weekend. 

Thus I was really looking forward to three days of the Turton sisters enthusiastically embracing everything narrow boaty and no doubt competing for the privilege of doing the locks.

Time to settle down below decks with that charity shop book I'd bought - Ian Rankin - nice bit of murder, just what the doctor ordered.

Venice of the North?

We approached the outskirts of Birmingham in grey overcast weather adding to the rather uninteresting and slightly depressing outlook this stretch of the Worcester and Birmingham canal portrays to the visiting narrow boater. Our Nicholson guide had recommended we reach the centre of the city rather than linger in the university district as here we would find good and safe moorings. This meant we didn't have time to visit Cadbury World at Bournville whose dedicated station and visitor entrance we passed on our port side with Ros staring wistfully at the chocolate factory and reminiscing about the joys of the cheap mis-shapes purchased from the factory shop in her youth and a missed opportunity for a quick stock up.

Birmingham city marketing has made much play of the  city having more canals than Venice and in the centre the city has embraced these watery arteries far better than any other visited so far. Not able to compete with the glory that is the Grand Canal and in the absence of the beauties of its classical architecture captured in those wonderful Canaletto paintings, redevelopment has focused on regenerating the Georgian and Victorian industrial warehouses, canal stations and bridges and redeveloping the area around the main canal basin with grand modern public buildings and up-market office developments at Brindley Place.

Finding the canals still very empty for this time of year we moored easily if a little trickily (thanks to the howling winds funnelled between the tall buildings) just before the much photographed Gas Basin in front of the smart Mailbox centre, new home to chic clothing brand stores and Harvey Nichols. A short walk away down the now very trendy towpath littered with bar and restaurant chain outlets and we were alongside the International Conference Centre and the National Indoor Arena. St Mark's Square it wasn't but a modern demonstration of civic ambition by the city fathers determined to put Birmingham on the map and attract world class events and tourists. Here the canals were very much the main feature with open vistas and the busyness of the junction of the Birmingham Main Line and Birmingham and Fazeley Canals. The presence of numerous tourist and restaurant boats plying their trade confirmed the success of the regeneration of these stretches of water.

We had done our homework and although there were no theatre productions or Birmingham Symphony concerts on either of our two nights we discovered we could enjoy a free concert at the  Birmingham Conservatoire located a short ten minute walk from our mooring. And so we joined a full house of music lovers for performances by extremely talented students who soloed in the tuba (a first for me and very enjoyable once I'd dispatched my childhood memories of Tubby the Tuba conjured up by the rather rotund Lancastrian wielding his instrument), a Romanian alto and a remarkable 22 year old Chinese woman who quite stole the show with her magical playing. 

Having explored much of the city on foot which is so easy when you are moored at its very heart we left bright and early in sunshine to head out down the 13 locks of the Farmers Bridge flight.  Joggers, dog walkers and foot bound commuters were much in evidence all offering a friendly greeting as we descended the locks now often beneath overhanging modern buildings and past the foot of the Post Office Tower. As we moved through from the regenerated city centre and water facing apartments and offices we entered that parallel world that is the forgotten canal where the water is full of disgusting debris and litter, every surface is covered with mundane graffiti, and the towpaths seem populated with dubious characters lurking under bridges or at locks failing to respond to a cheery hello or smile or worse, with a scowl or grimace. As we navigated through Aston and beneath the mayhem that is spaghetti junction we turned right on the Birmingham and Fazeley desperate to quickly pass Erdington and Tyburn.  

Relief. We were again in open countryside and headed to Bodymoor Heath where an overnight stop beside the Dog and Doublet pub beckoned. Mooring was witnessed by a friendly young brownie in the garden of the farmhouse the towpath backed onto who proudly introduced us to her chickens assuring us we would not be woken at the crack of dawn by the cockerel. 

And indeed we weren't. He was a late riser and didn't start crowing till gone 8 o'clock. Clearly a chilled narrow boat bird.

It's a Dog's Life

Many of you have been enquiring after our dog Phoebe and how she has adapted to life aboard.  Some of you even seem more concerned about her well being than my own but I'll not belabour the point. 

Well, all I can say is she seems to be in heaven. Being the confined space that is a narrow boat means she is never far away from either of us thus satisfying her driving ambition to spend as much time as possible in our company pretending to be a person. This proximity extends as well to bed time when unlike at home in Scotland where she is shut in the utility room to sleep in her basket here she starts off being settled on her blanket in front of the fire only to migrate in the night to lie either alongside Ros or me in the dreaded shuffle corridor. She clearly thinks this is a major treat as it enables her to wake us in the morning with a lick or three to hands or face. 

A fairly quiet dog we do occasionally hear the rumbling sound of her snores and her nighttime visits to her water bowl for some early hour refreshment but otherwise its a painless presence unless of course you try an unlit visit to the toilet and trip spectacularly on the reclining hound blocking the shuffle corridor. 

How she's going to settle back to the solitude of her dog basket I don't know. "Maybe she doesn't have to" says Ros dreamily. What, I cry. Is that a suggestion we carry on this narrow boat business beyond our 14 weeks? Or is it a suggestion she be allowed upstairs and into our bedroom at home?

To both, thats a resounding I don't think so. 

So the next stretch of the Stratford on Avon canal we undertook is a good illustration of Phoebe's life. 

Mornings start with that lick to the arm or face and then a run along the towpath with Ros while I prepare both their breakfasts.  When we do locks like the 16 we confronted on leaving Stratford, she's put in her life jacket (no objection just a very resigned even baleful look from her) and spends her time ashore running between the locks to check that we are both ok. As our system demands advance opening of the upcoming lock by the winch handler it does mean she has to cover the same ground a ridiculous number of times just to reassure herself we are all accounted for. 

She remains nervous of the locks thank heavens and won't cross those gates that have the footpath plank attached to them. Rather narrow and requiring a final small leap to shore, they remain a barrier limiting our fears of her tumbling into the swirling waters. Locks are a great place to meet other dogs but many are clearly disturbed by the bounding approach of our day-glow orange glad beast often barking territorially but really only looking for some fun. 

And back to our journey. Worry not, Phoebe features again later....

Fun and games at lock 39 at Bearley where we couldn't open the top lock gates. Ros was on winch duty trying desperately to get the gate beyond 30 degrees of opening so I could maybe nudge it with the boat but it just struck something and wouldn't budge. After 20 minutes of prodding the base of the gate with boat hook and pole we phoned the Trust for assistance. Whilst waiting I continued to scrape and prod and when two well built walkers happened by we asked them for some help in pushing the gate again and lo and behold it opened. Apologetic call to the Trust who after my several calls about the pump out fiasco in Worcester were becoming familiar with the name of Scott.

We overnighted in the beautifully named Wootton Wawen just before the cast iron aqueduct opened in 1813 that crosses the A34. A fine village with its superb parkland, classic duck pond and 17th century timber framed houses, we enjoyed a splendid meal in the Bulls Head pub where there was great excitement when the power went temporarily and we all feared going without our supper.

We passed the Anglo Welsh rental basin where 30 years ago I had been introduced to narrow boating by Ros and her family. That was merely a two week jaunt but all I remember of this and indeed another holiday is the extraordinary sight of the Pontcysyllte aqueduct and my embarrassing fall into the canal captured for posterity on film and oft remembered with great amusement by my late parents in law.

Having been advised to avoid entering Birmingham by the Grand Union Canal by regular travellers we literally met at the lock before we were due to make the commitment, Ros discarded the spreadsheet and made the unprecedented last second decision to remain on the Stratford canal and rejoin the Worcester and Birmingham canal for our assault on the great city. 

Was this equivalent of a handbrake turn for a narrowboater? 

Our revised itinerary meant revisiting the Lapworth locks we had enjoyed doing with Giles and it also meant we could see our old friend Annie, a Birmingham resident, who was able to join us for the day. 

She also witnessed the madness that is sometimes wrought by my wife who had decided in Stratford upon Avon that Phoebe (told you she would feature again) needed her nails clipped. Once decided, it is imperative to my wonderful wife that the act be accomplished asap and so Ros had spent an industrious morning locating a mobile dog groomer who was prepared to travel to a vague location on a stretch of water near Kingswood Junction.  The poor woman struggled to locate us but after a few texts and calls she duly arrived armed with nail clippers and other doggy essentials. 

Linda was her name and what a wonderful character she turned out to be. Full of conversation in her broad Brummie accent, she clearly had a way with dogs calming Phoebe easily while she clipped away, even tastefully grooming the hair around her face so she could see better. With plentiful advice on herbal remedies for a lustrous coat I was embarrassed at the small amount of money she asked for her services. Ros took her number and email keen to revisit on our return for a pedicure of her own....

Annie took us to the beautiful moated NT property at Baddesley Clinton and then after some fun and games on the locks (Annie got a bit confused with the opening and closing of the gates - a classic for those of you who know her of old) we bid her farewell and began a long days trek into Birmingham.

Some On-Shore Culture Refreshes

What an attractive town Evesham turned out to be. Embracing the river with generous moorings we spent the night at the foot of the beautifully floodlit church and Benedictine abbey ruins enjoying our uninterrupted view of the well maintained gardens just beginning to bloom.  After a quick escape in the morning for a welcome Costa coffee we set off towards Stratford upon Avon. 

The river continued to be a delight. The navigation flows through pleasant meadowlands and orchards that give the name to the Vale of Evesham and its  reputation for rich fruit and vegetable growing. We moored for the night at Bidford on Avon and enjoyed a local ale in this attractive village where in the morning we bought freshly baked bread from its traditional bakery and delicatessen.  

And so into Stratford in beautiful sunshine that for once was actually warm. It was very busy with people everywhere and we were much photographed at the final Colin P Witter lock by tourists many of whom were polite enough to ask if we minded being in their photos. A very picturesque lock reinforced with rectangular steel girder frames to overcome the high ground pressure and overlooked by the Holy Trinity Church with its gigantic weeping willows and resting place of Shakespeare, it was here we also had our first encounter with a real "gongoozler".

What the hell is that I hear you cry. 

Wonderfully descriptive word you have to admit and one we came across whilst studying the Liveaboard Guide by Tony Jones in preparation for our life afloat. It transpires a gongoozler is someone who enjoys watching boats and boating activity. Most are passive observers and essentially harmless but others like to interact with boaters and some want to "help",  most dangerously when uninvited. Our gongoozler immediately struck up conversation telling us of his job on a restaurant boat he claimed he was awaiting at the lock (I say claimed as we saw the restaurant boat later and it was tied up in the basin going nowhere!). Keen to tell us all about this particular lock, where best to moor and his personal expertise after a year of working on said restaurant boat he wanted to open and shut the lock gates for us.  Not too bad it turned out but done with just a bit too much flourish and intense conversation for our liking. 

We had been told to expect to find Stratford crowded and that moorings would be at a premium but as we approached the recreation ground opposite the Shakespeare theatre there was but one other boat. Indicative I fear of the hard times the rental business is having and the reduction in travel many of the liveaboarders we met had spoken of due to the increased cost of diesel fuel.  But we weren't complaining as we got a beautiful spot directly opposite the theatre.  Settling down for tea we watched the noisy and extremely aggressive territorial wars of the overfed swans as the males vied for supremacy and presumably the favour of the pens.

Being the organised folk we are we had booked tickets for the RSC production of As You Like It. Excited to see the renovations of the original 1932 theatre completed in late 2010 we were impressed with the improvements including a thrust stage bringing actors and audience closer together with the furthest seat now being only 15 metres from the stage. Much more akin to the intimacy of the Globe theatre we had great seats in the circle. This was their new production and we were seeing it ahead of the press night so had no idea what to expect. 

Putting on our glad rags (or what best passes for that for a narrow boater i.e. clean trousers and a somewhat creased shirt) we walked across the 14 arched old Tramway Bridge to the theatre now resplendent with its viewing tower and rooftop restaurant. The hubbub of so many people mingling in the foyers seemed alien to us after so much time spent in lazy perambulation along the river and canals but it was also exciting to feel the buzz of expectation from the audience. 

The central character, Rosalind, was of course the source of my wife's name.  How aptly her parents named her too being a gutsy, independent woman with energy to spare and the need to organise others! And how good was Pippa Nixon in the role playing a fabulously androgynous Rosalind - you couldn't take your eyes off her. A talent to watch I feel.  

Our only gripe was the poor chap two rows in front of us who had a hearing aid malfunction and proceeded to emit a high pitched whine for a good three or four minutes in the first half. The poor female usher couldn't get his attention and he and his wife seemed blissfully unaware of the discomfort they were causing to others. How British that those seated beside him carried on concentrating on the production regardless, too embarrassed to bring this intrusion to his notice. Or perhaps they thought it was part of the production? A rare whining bird of the Forest of Arden perhaps?

We were enjoying Stratford so much we lingered a further day exploring the town again it being over 10 years since we were last there, shopping and enjoying watching the endless stream of charabancs disgorging their camera and smart phone wielding tourists.  

It was a relief that the dreaded spreadsheet would allow this unscheduled indulgence as the time spent here at the heart of English literature enjoying the spring sunshine recharged our batteries and equipped us for the assault on the Stratfrod-on-Avon canal and its 16 locks in the space of only 2 miles. 

And so we bid farewell to Stratford and headed north and into depths of rural Warwickshire heading towards the urban sprawl of Birmingham. 

The Silence is Broken

Anybody there? 

If so dear readers, apologies for the long silence. Not sure why either for as I look back over the past week and try to recall what has kept me so busy that I was unable to find the time to write a small blog I find myself at a foggy loss. So complete is my amnesia that I was forced to try and write down a retrospective diary of exactly where we've been and what we've been doing. And boy has that been hard. 

Is this some symptom of prolonged exposure to narrow boat life where your brain kicks into neutral as you idle gently along those meandering waterways and where the only active stimulation is the infrequent lock? 

Or is it that my tolerance of sardine life has reached such a level that I am becoming impervious to those early challenges and frustrations of a physically constrained life that provided such fertile ground for my musings? 

Whichever, I am back having felt the need to update you all on our progress around the Avon Ring which is the part of the canal system we have been exploring.

I left you at Worcester, a fine city I discovered, home to a magnificent cathedral with a history full of intrigue and national influence that I for one had been totally ignorant of. So travel really does broaden the mind you see. It was also within striking distance of my sister in law in Monmouth who decided to pay us a visit one evening and join us for dinner. Anticipating a welcome diversion from a land lubber I had quite forgotten that I would find myself in the company of another narrow boat groupie. 

My vicar father-in-law really had done a great job on both his daughters inculcating such an enthusiasm for this form of transport and I know he would have been proud to see them both sharing such squeals of delight as Ros showed her sister round our boat and pointed out its fine features. I had no idea I had such an experienced and "well canaled" relative who had so regularly holidayed aboard these narrow beasts with family and friends. Booked in for a return over the bank holiday I knew I'd be able to disappear into my newspaper or book as the pair of them excitedly navigated whatever part of the system we happened to be on.

And so we left Worcester and joined the river Severn. Great excitement, as this was a sizeable piece of water and we were headed downstream and so could race with the flow at a magnificent 6 or 7 miles an hour. Such fun!  River travel feels so different; the helm is more responsive there being much more water beneath the boat and the water itself so much more alive. But we also saw the effects of the recent floods with enormous gashes of erosion to the river bank and the odd boating casualty including a 70 foot narrow boat casually discarded vertically up a twenty foot bank.  

A similar sight awaited us as we arrived at Tewkesbury where a forlorn narrow boat lay on the yard of the mill some 15 foot above the water. We discovered from the lock keeper that its owner was a well known licence avoider who also had no insurance so had simply abandoned his boat for others to sort but it provided a vivid reminder of the power of rivers in flood to destroy. Perhaps those gentle 3 foot deep canals do have something going for them after all?

We paid our additional licence fee to navigate the River Avon (this section of the the Avon is a separate charity) and were joined by two more house guests for the weekend.  Old sailing friends from Newton Abbott who parked their car, climbed aboard and gamely launched themselves into a weekend of narrow boat fun and games. 

Games began almost immediately we left when trying to head upstream under the ancient King John's Bridge with its nasty blindspot. Here we met a couple of boats coming downstream and waited patiently for them to pass. We then saw no ships, heard no ships and having sounded our horn began to proceed. Well, of course we met another boat approaching the bridge from upstream who clearly hadn't sounded his horn (protocol you know) and being a swanky gin palace had no intention of giving way. Being already under the bridge I as helm decided to proceed anyway only to receive glares from my captain (those proceeding downstream have priority you know) and some rather unpleasant expletives from the heavily tattooed driver of said gin palace. Me, prejudiced?

I still think it was questionable that I was in the wrong as it was a damn sight easier for him to use his gas gussling V8 engine and bow thrusters than it would have been for me to try and stop and then reverse the hulk that is a 57 foot narrow boat. But I took my dressing down from the captain with equanimity and handed the helm to our guests. Grrrrrr.

 And what a lovely section of river we travelled. The river meanders in gentle curves through beautiful countryside with attractive villages and some magnificent waterfront homes.  It's locks are bigger and able to take two boats but we saw no one. Painstakingly restored and maintained we met volunteers who had adopted a lock and lovingly cultivated its gardens for 35 years! Still enthusiastic they were less than impressed with the Trust that had made great play of awarding them a 25 years service medal. 

So after an overnight stop at Pershore where we imbibed of delicious micro brewery beer and hearty pub grub we arrived at Evesham where we bid farewell to our guests as they taxied back to Tewkesbury and thence home to a proper double bed.....