The Captain's Response

Just when you thought it was all over the captain demands a right of reply. So here you go, its the captain's response.

 

Now so close to journey’s end,

Mute, I can no longer be.

Party to blogger’s preview,
Amendments refused – though courteously.
Who would think a sardine,
Would have so much to write,
An educated comment
Upon his three month plight.
 

It seems our journey’s highlights,

Don’t exactly overlay.
Let’s say a different emphasis,
Would my action replay.
Encouragement from boaters,
To buy and live aboard.
Plans for future travel,
On canals not yet explored.

I detect a relaxation -

Now, in this little fish.
Dependent on the weather,
Propeller smooth with no rubbish.
A shot of art or culture,
A visit from some mates,
A successful boat manoeuvre,
Enjoyment does inflate.
 

But when the waters darken,

Urban sharks their trails weave.
Would  key and windlass be preferential,
Or driving my fish please?
Excursions to the weed hatch,
When more than once a day,
Are inclined to make small ‘Nemo’,
Want to swim away.

Reluctance – well it still prevails,

But hope for me is bright.
The waterways of France,
May both of us delight.
I wonder if reluctance,
Feeds on oil or brine.
For this sardine the cure must be,
A slug of good French wine.
 

And finally a thank you,

Is certainly deserved.
To leave me and Fandango,
Would have been quite absurd.
And did I hear you saying,
After a gin or two,
That three months of fond memories,
Would always be with you!!!!!

 

Signing Off

So its the last blog from the Reluctant Sardine.

You'll probably be relieved that those short, sharp emails instructing you to read the latest missive of life aboard Fandango are finally ceasing.  But before I reveal whether the Reluctant Sardine remains reluctant I must complete our tale with news of our final few days. 

We left Fenny Compton to get back to Priors Hardwick where that evening Ros had arranged to meet with friends from near Oxford. She had been in touch with Hilary and had suggested meeting for dinner at the nice looking pub we had seen on our walk round the village.  Know it well, Hilary had said so we happily booked a table. Being another lovely day we decided on a 6 mile walk through to Wormleighton. We met the local farmer who kindly directed us across his fields (he had to as he'd ploughed up the footpaths!). A really nice chap it transpired and we had an interesting chat about the pressures on the land around here.

He owned some 600 acres was a tenant on a further 1000 or so which he leased from Earl Spencer. We had remarked how beautiful this part of Warwickshire was and he told us it was one of the largest unspoilt tracts in England with no motorways, railways or A roads crossing it. Yet the canny Earl wanted to erect ten 120 metre high wind turbines, HS2 was planned to cut right through it, applications were in for clay extraction to be followed by rubbish infill, and a new giant marina on the canal was under consideration. You really got a sense of a chap under siege as he saw his beloved countryside up for grabs. 

The walk to Wormleighton was well worth it as it was an old manorial village retaining a sense of privacy with chocolate box houses clustered around the remaining one wing of the old manor house. Originally home to the Spencers, the manor was once bigger than Althorp but was abandoned by the family when partially destroyed by the Royalists in the civil war - bit of a mistake too, as the Spencers were on the Kings side! 

That evening Hilary and Paul arrived promptly at the scheduled meeting time of 6.30 which was pretty amazing as they had to locate the boat and had marched across the wrong field but they were clearly very keen to meet Fandango. Bringing champagne to toast the imminent end of our adventure we settled down after a guided tour of the vessel to a welcome glass of bubbly.

Not a good start however when the captain managed to tip a full glass all over Hilary's smart top and then Paul asked if we knew the Butchers Arms where we were headed for dinner. Sounding ominous, we replied that all we knew was that it was the closest pub to this section of the canal. Well, its a actually a well known restaurant and the last time we ate there it was over three hundred quid for four of us he noted wryly. It even has its own helipad he added knowingly.

Panic. Not quite what we had been anticipating and clearly explained why dogs weren't welcome but the champagne gave us Dutch courage and we went anyway. Well, it was extremely smart (I'm not wearing the right clothes bemoaned the captain) and we were greeted by an extremely gushing maitre de who was obviuosly Hilary's long lost best friend. After an innocent comment on the House of Commons pin he sported on his jacket lapel he proceeded to tell us all about his A list celebrity patrons - well, perhaps not A list, most of them were politicians like Heseltine, Brittain, Linda Chalker - a veritable who's who of Maggie Thatcher's last cabinet.  He can't have been wearing his glasses either as he asked what my daughter wanted to eat. Not quite the pub dining experience we had been anticipating. 

The good news was that they had an affordable set menu and excellent house wine so we didn't need to sell our kidneys. A thoroughly enjoyable evening it was. 

And so back to where it all began. Wigrams Turn Marina at Napton.  We found our allocated mooring spot and began the mammoth task of packing up. A final pub dinner at the Old Kings Head (which did welcome dogs) and we went to bed for our final night's sleep in Fandango in conditions so different from our first - no central heating needed this time.

Next morning the boat was left spick and span and one of the WHs arrived to collect us and our mountain of kit. MN appeared on time to complete the handover (and I discovered he was not the Nick who had sent me messages with information and advice about canalling - who is it please?) and so our three and half months of life in a sardine can came to a sunny close.

And what a three and half months. We have covered 691.5 miles passing through 668 locks which means one hell of a lot of paddles and grinding. I calculate at least 2500 paddles to be wound a minimum of 10 turns each.  That's a lot of effort I can assure you and may help explain my reduced waist size. We've crossed 189 aqueducts, manhandled 79 swing/moveable bridges of various sizes and types and have travelled through 7.53 miles of tunnel. That's a long time to be underground. 

We started with snow and ice on the ground, have seen downpours and drizzle, hail and sleet, gales and gusts strong enough to blow you over but we've also had sunshine and balmy summer evenings that so quickly make you forget the misery of locking down a flight of the stiffest locks imaginable in grey overcast skies in torrential rain. In other words a typical British spring and summer.

This has been a journey of adventure exploring parts of this country of ours we would never have seen had it not been for those who built the canals and the enthusiasts who fought to save them for future generations to use for pleasure and recreation. We've been joined by friends and family who have all thrown themselves into the experience and helped us realise how privileged we are to be able spend so much time on this adventure. We were fortunate to have a lovely boat that provided the necessary creature comforts and kept us warm and dry and never failed to start or to turn heads. 

Your reluctant sardine has learnt to respect and indeed admire the wide and varied types of people who love this activity called narrow boating (NOT barging). At times it can be the most relaxing and enviable way to travel and view the countryside. Would I recommend it, yes. Am I a convert, not quite. But seeing the joy my wife got out of her 97 days afloat I now understand better what the attraction of this activity is and whilst not keen to repeat it I will never forget it and will cherish some very special and happy memories.

So thanks to Ros for her drive to make this happen and to plan it so carefully and imaginatively; thanks to Nick for risking his pride and joy with us for three and a half months; and thanks to Fandango, our home away from home and without whom we would never have achieved so much.

 

The Final Wind Down

Well, that was lucky.  

 

Despite entering one of the most rural and thinly populated parts of the country we managed to find a good signal for the ladies final (sad for Lizicki, loved the eccentric Bartolli) but were getting desperate on men's finals day.  We struggled to find a spot with any signal at all and when we did it seemed every passing aircraft (and being a weekend there seemed to be an inordinate number of recreational flyers) whether a jumbo at 35000 feet or a micro light at 1500 feet would disturb it and the first hour or so was very tense as I leapt about attempting to adjust the aerial. It finally settled and we saw history being made - at long last. But as the Guardian pointed out (thank you Alison B for bringing this to my attention) we haven't waited 77 years for a British champion. We've had several British women winners since the much quoted Fred Perry as late as Virginia Wade in 1977.  So to be absolutely accurate members of the press, we've waited 77 years for a British MEN'S champion.  Ok sisters?

 

We really are entering the final phase of our great adventure and having achieved the spreadsheet's objectives of going as far south as Tewksbury and as far north as Skipton, we have done remarkably well.  It's not been a daily slog either as we've regularly stopped and enjoyed the sights and have rarely been underway for more than 3 to 4 hours a day. But passing our home base of Napton Junction where it all began on the 8th of April it felt to me a bit like job done and really like the start of a holiday so we just cruised very gently down the Oxford Canal enjoying the magnificent weather (finally, typical eh?) and rediscovering how fine the landscape is in the forgotten county of Warwickshire and in north Oxfordshire. 

 

Braunston was very busy as was the Grand Union canal so we saw many more boats, especially rental boats who were suddenly out in force, than we had so far and I was reflecting on some of our fellow narrow boaters. Is there a "typical" narrow boater? Is there a uniform? Are there any unwritten rules for the activity?
 

A few things have struck me. There is an obvious difference between owners and hirers. In the main, those who own a boat understandably have a better skill level and can manoeuvre their vessels at little risk to others.  Hirers tend to drive too fast especially round corners (and suffer the consequences, crashing into the bank as they discover these beasts can't be turned at the last minute) and have less respect in the locks bashing the gates with their boats and letting paddles drop rather than be wound down.  Owners are more respectful of going slowly past moored craft. 

 

But there are also two types of owner. The live aboard who has chosen to make the narrow boat his permanent home and the owner who holidays or spends extended periods afloat. The permanent live aboards have to be pretty hardy. I can't think its much fun in the winter living in a tin can floating in freezing water with all that cold dampness permeating your living space. Especially if your mooring does not have electricity you can hook up to meaning you have to run your engine to generate any heat. I was quite surprised just how many permanent moorings there are on the canal side without any services at all although a few more of these do at least have a water connection. 
 

There seems to be greater pride in the look and maintenance of the "casual" owner boat as well. These are often bedecked with flowers; rooftop mini vegetable gardens; shining brass additions of every kind; pristine paintwork protected by fixed fenders; and since the sun has come out you see the garden furniture and umbrellas appear as they colonise their own piece of the towpath (shears and  clippers are on hand to clear a space). Permanents boats however often need a coat of paint; are some of the more obscure, ie peculiar, designs; have the weirdest paint jobs and bizarrest names; have piles of wood and coal on the roof; tend to have more animals especially dogs; and where they've got a canal side private mooring have either created a mini suburban garden or have accumulated piles of rotting 'stuff' with no apparent relationship to boating.
 

And as for a "uniform", well I observe a certain style emerging most often defined through headgear. The favourite is the fedora type hat, often made of leather and frequently accompanied by a matching leather waistcoat. Now summer is finally here, straw versions are appearing but rarely a baseball cap. Check shirts seem preferred especially in the cooler weather and as I've noted before shorts seem to be adopted May 1st and worn whatever the conditions presumably till summer is officially over. Many of the women have that latter day hippie look with long greying hair and floral tops again with sensible shorts. We have seen a large number of men with dreadlocks which might have something to do with the challenges of bathing. 

But enough musing, final travelogue required before I sign off with one last blog. You must all be as relieved as I am!

 

 

Being in holiday mode now we lay picnic rugs and lingered and lounged in the sunshine beside open fields and strolled around the few villages accessible to the canal. Priory Hardwick was a delightful place with its warm stone houses and magnificent mature deciduous trees. No shops though and only a smart bistro pub we will return to for a final hook up with friends. We went as far as the bottom of the Claydon locks (Ros was getting withdrawal symptoms without a bit of grinding) where we turned round and then had a scare about water shortages on our way back up the locks (all happily sorted after we went up a couple and brought some water down). 

 

 

And can you believe it? Finally relaxing about the need for a pump out with so few days to go what should happen but an overflowing toilet. Well, not overflowing into the boat thank god but absolutely full. I blame those reluctant visitors who preferred to make use of our facilities rather than their loo tent!  Mercifully we were near a boatyard with the necessary machinery. Phew.
 

Now with only 3 days to go, you find me finally caught up and sitting in a pleasant pub with wifi uploading penultimate blogs and enjoying the shade.  Ros is doing a final launderette (didn't pack enough T shirts or shorts and it is hot here) and Phoebe is recovering from her first fall into the canal. Yes, after nearly fourteen weeks she finally slipped at the entrance to one of the locks and had to be hauled out.
 

Oh, and of course she wasn't wearing her life jacket. 

Friends Reunited

We were now on familiar ground and the mere fact of repeating a section of canal already traveled after so many new stretches generated a sense of winding down and moving into the home straight. Well, it did for me, not so sure the feeling was shared by the captain who happily pointed out that at Fazeley Junction we had an unexplored section of the Coventry Canal to travel. 

 

How could I have forgotten.
 

With warm sunshine now more common (surely not some summer at last?), we wandered along for an alfresco coffee at the old British Waterways works at Fradley Junction, now so much quieter after a busy weekend.  Refreshed we set off down the Coventry Canal to Whittington where in the blink of an eye it morphs into the Birmingham and Fazeley Canal - I could try to explain but I got quite lost in the Nicholson guide and lost the will to live. 

 

Having not done any decent lock flights for quite a while now (to quote Kathryn Tate - was I bovvered?) a good walk was required to maintain our exercise levels so we stopped just south of Coton and headed in the direction of Tamwoth where its castle was our objective. And what a delightful walk it was. We crossed huge water meadows full of waist high grasses and wild flowers wafting in the gentle breeze and creating that lovely whispering sound so redolent of long, lazy childhood summers. We followed the river Tame into the town centre and walked around the beautiful gardens of the Norman motte and bailey castle. Having enjoyed the meadows so much we decided to go back the same way rather than do a loop to bring us back to the boat along the towpath. And this time we were entertained by dozens of swooping swifts as they fed along the river bank and over the meadows. Nothing quite like a proper English summer.
 

Leaving Tamworth through its two locks we passed a pristine boat whose helm commented on Fandango, "Hudson isn't it?". Having been educated in a lock outside Skipton on the pedigree that our dear Fandango enjoys I confidently answered "yes, it is". "Dropping in to see her maker are you?" he replied. And so I learnt that at the top of the Glascote Locks is the Hudson boatyard whose location I mistakenly shared with the captain who insisted we stop and pay a visit.  

They certainly saw us (Ros) coming. Letting them know how much she was loving our rented Fandango, we were instantly seen as prospective customers and given a comprehensive, but I must admit gentle and amusing, guide of boats under construction. The groupie-in-chief was in heaven. Learning the history of Fandango including how my nemesis, the four poster bed obstruction, was conceived she began designing her own boat with our charming boat builder.  Custom made, we saw how personal foibles could be accommodated and all for a mere £95,000 basic or £115,000 deluxe version. I smiled sweetly and guided my salivating wife out of their clutches. 

 

At Fazeley Junction we stopped for a quick shot of Tesco which was packed with the staff from the nearby Drayton Manor Park (ah, happy memories) dressed in the uniform for the area of the park they were working in - lots of Thomas the Tank Engine types for some reason - and all purchasing their lunches. Suddenly on the Coventry Canal again (no, I don't get it either), we  passed south of Tamworth towards Atherstone, our location for the night.
 

Atherstone was the home of one of Ros' oldest college friends and she had vague memories of a visit some thirty years earlier where a photo opportunity featured a lock. This stimulated a desire for a reunion with two of the three college flat mates who were within striking distance, one of whom had so far steadfastly resisted a visit - mentioning no names..... After much texting, emailing and message-leaving it was sorted and we could look forward to said reunion just beyond Atherston at Harsthill. 

 

As we climbed the ten locks into Atherston I asked a passing boat what it was like. He wasn't too complimentary seeing it as some kind of indictment that he'd been unable to find a Tesco, Sainsburys or Asda in the vicinity on his iPhone so we were pleasantly surprised when we discovered an old fashioned high street complete with butchers, bakers and a real iron mongers shop topped off with an attractive market square that backed onto the parish church. But it's real claim to fame was probably the best launderette so far encountered. Not only were its machines very good, it offered free tea and coffee and very fast wifi providing something to satisfy both of us!

 

Before leaving Atherston we took Phoebe for a long walk on one of the town trails. This took us up the hills through beautiful beech woods to the Mancetter quarries where the diorite they mine here is used in tarmac to make it far quieter. You suddenly come on this moonscape with its turquoise blue pools and pyramid piles of stone. Poor Phoebe had a bit of a shock when she brushed against an electric cattle fence and not quite understanding what had happened did it again with an enormous yelp.
 

It was a quick hop to the attractive Hartshill Yard where the canal had once passed right under the toll keeper's house to guarantee collection and now home to a violin maker. Ros' former room mate, Annie picked us up here and we set off for dinner with the Bairstos (the reluctant visitors, oops I gave it away) who had pitched their camper van at a nearby site.  Now, I may have complained about the size of Fandango but believe me she is a mansion in comparison to a camper van. It was a very impressive piece of kit though and the addition of an awning and a tent enabled Al to host a splendid supper in great comfort. But you do forget you're only inside a bit of fabric where your (loud) conversations carry all over the campsite. And as for the adjoining loo tent...... nuff said.

 

Due to join us the following day for a "cruise", plans had to be rapidly rearranged when Nigel had to depart last minute for his son's dining in night in Hereford. All that packing up, another reality of camper vans. We can just weigh anchor and head off - careful there, you're sounding like a narrowboat enthusiast. But at least we extracted a promise to join us the following day. What some people will do to avoid a narrowboat experience!

Another ten lock-less miles saw us pass Nuneaton and Bedworth to reach Hawkesbury Junction where we had to do a tricky 180 degree manoeuvre under a fine sweeping cast iron bridge to pass through a stop lock and join the Oxford Canal. Also known as Sutton's Stop after the name of the toll clerks who worked here, its a busy spot with plenty of permanently moored boats and a canal side pub perfect for patrons to watch out for near and not-so-near misses as the many boats pass.  Sadly the engine house once used to pump water into the canal from a well  is now boarded up, its atmospheric steam engine called Lady Godiva, having been relocated to Dartmouth Museum.

 

We decided our reluctant visitors needed the full narrowboat experience so awaited them at the foot of the only three locks in the twenty three miles we would cover till we rejoined the Grand Union at Braunston. In scorching sun they walked along the towpath to join us at the Hillmorton locks with their two black labs in tow and proceeded to earn their bronze badge operating the interesting two parallel single locks - albeit with the help of the volunteers. And then it was just a matter of taking turns at the helm as we gently cruised through the open countryside peppered with ancient ridge and furrow fields to Braunston, a highly popular and well-known canal centre. 

 

We were fortunate to find a mooring and met Nigel who had gone ashore earlier to cycle back and collect the camper van in which our guests insisted on sleeping rather than experience the delights of Fandango's flexible dinette. Now why would that be - reading my blog perhaps?

Full English breakfast the next morning set them happily on their way as we began our mission to find somewhere on this very rural part of the Grand Union with a TV signal so we could watch the Wimbledon finals. 

 

Failure was not an option. 

Oh No, Not More Groupies

I was a bit dismissive of Market Drayton in my last blog and omitted to mention that we did do a walking tour of the town and saw the grammar school of its most famous resident -Clive of India- and the supposed birth place of gingerbread - apologies Market Drayton. At the top of the five locks we passed Tyrley Wharf where we saw a boat claiming Kimbolton as its home. As former residents of a village just outside Kimbolton we sought intelligence from the WHs who confirmed  it did indeed belong to the former owners of the Kimbolton pharmacy who had retired to these parts. Small world.
 

After this the canal plunged into the very deep rock cutting near Woodseaves and further on the even longer and overgrown Grub Street Cutting. You can't help but be impressed by the magnitude of work like this, cut as it was entirely by men without powered machines. The cutting featured the well known High Bridge with a masonry strut built across its high arch to carry a short telegraph pole.

 

 

Here, the Shropshire Union pays little regard to the topography and follows a remarkably straight line thanks in equal measure to deep cuttings and high embankments that give impressive views over the quiet, empty landscape.  In essence 7 miles of lockless cruising to Wheaton Aston. Clearly visible to the south west was the massive bulk of the Wrekin.

Overnighting at Norbury Junction, this was once the outlet for the Shrewsbury, Newport and Tench branches to the rest of the Shropshire Union system. A short walk and you could see the remains of the long lock flight that once ran down to Newport. Only the top lock remains now being used as a dock. The place was very busy and we got the last mooring, unfortunately next to a boat with two extremely noisy small dogs. How can owners ignore the constant yap yap yap of these animals? Phoebe was very disdainful.    

Next day we passed under the wonderfully short Cowley tunnel, a mere 81 yards, and into yet more unspoilt, quiet grazing land. The embankment here was rich in wildlife and we saw at least five grey herons each of whom seemed to be patrolling a section of the canal as their own territory. A fairly unsocial bird they tend to fly off before you get too close, but I did capture one on camera and if you look closely you can even see it in flight. Not a bad effort considering I was helming at the time.

 

And so over the Stretton Aqueduct, an elegant cast iron structure crossing the dead straight Wattling Street section of the A5, and on to Autherly Junction. Another pump out, this time an expensive one at the Napton Narrowboats yard where we learnt how slow business was and what good deals were available for late bookers - £500 a week reduction on a 70 foot rental boat. We also learnt it was a good job the captain had amended the spreadsheet so as to avoid Birmingham as the Wolverhampton and Darlaston canal was closed after a lock was pointlessly vandalised.

Passing through another of those stop locks we turned left into the Staffordshire and  Worcestershire Canal. A sharp contrast to the Shropshire Union, its considerable age is shown by its extremely twisting course making passing, especially near its many bridges great fun - code for hairy!

The weather was grim and it had gone cold again. We nearly relit the stove but made do with a quick burst from the central heating convinced it could only get better. Our confidence was well founded as we were about to welcome visitors who were seeking a second Fandango experience. Gluttons for punishment, I fear the WHs must have got the narrow boat bug or had been brainwashed by the captain.  We were up early to get to the agreed pick up spot of Baswich and also so we could get some decaffinated coffee for our guests. 

Seeking directions from a helpful towpath walker I was initially given comprehensive directions through an adjoining housing estate.  Deciding such a trek required the bike I offloaded and headed in the recommended direction only to pass my original guide.  Hang on he said, I think I've given you the wrong directions and he proceeded with another complicated set of contradictory instructions.  As a grey mist clouded my brain I decided just to head into the housing estate and find another guide. Within minutes I'd found another local who said, see that church spire just up the road, the supermarket is right beside it. My poor towpath guide would have given me enough exercise for a week using his directions. 

And did I need the decaf coffee? No, for the WHs arrived not only with the coffee but home baked bread, cake, wine and fizz. Oh, and of course the sun was shining brightly as it did throughout their visit. No wonder they have such a rosy picture of narrowboating. 

Comfortably aboard we headed off along the valley of the River Sow crossing it on an early James Brindley aqueduct before entering Tixall Wide, an amazing and delightful stretch of water. It was built to resemble a lake and so not compromise the views from the now demolished Tixall House. All that remains is the remarkable Tixall Gatehouse, grand enough on its own to appear as some country mansion. Said to be famous for its kingfishers, we lingered over a lazy lunch in warm sunshine but saw none.

 

At Haywood Juction we rejoined the Trent and Mersey Canal last seen in early May. After a quick reverse to get water and visit the farm shop for dinner supplies (wonderful fresh sausages) we went down the Haywood lock and stopped again at Shugborough Hall. There was only one mooring left and it was quite tight so we were a bit surprised when the adjoining boaters completely blanked us (you normally get a helping hand with lines from fellow boaties in such situations) and continued reading their books in a private little clearing they had made in the undergrowth - urbs in rure?

Walking across the beautiful private bridge into the estate we discovered a weekend food festival that unfortunately was just closing for the day but we heard the final live music before giving Phoebe a swim in the river and returning for an on board supper.  And those sausages were fantastic.

 

As the WHs were on board we were again blessed with a beautiful morning and all bar me sported shorts in celebration. I need a bit more heat before I expose my legs. Sian made a real fashion statement wearing her bright blue shorts with walking boots - very Glastonbury.  We continued past Rugeley where its huge power station took some time to recede and had a bit of emergency reversing to do at a narrow stone cutting to accommodate an oncoming boat. This had once been the Armitage Tunnel, removed in 1971 to combat the effects of subsidence from early coal mining - no evidence at all of that bygone industry now.

 

  Our final stop with the WHs was Fradley Junction where we lucked in with an excellent mooring thanks to late departer. Good job too as there were no more left down either canal. A really popular spot for narrow boats and gongoozlers alike, we squeezed into the White Swan pub for a meal. The portions were so huge we took an enormous carry out of meat that provided an ample meal for us the following day. Sitting beside us were a man and a woman who turned out to cousins. Probably in their early 70's, he had retired to Thailand ten years earlier but returned each year for two weeks to helm her narrow boat as she didn't like 'driving'. Now that's a holiday in reverse if I ever I heard of one.

 

With a taxi on its way we bid our new groupies farewell in the knowledge it would be raining the next day - typical.

Cruising in Middle England

 

We finished our journey on the Trent and Mersey canal at Middlewich where we turned into the Shropshire Union Canal Middlewich Branch - got to get the name right you know, these canals are complicated. It was a tricky manoeuvre as I had to wait for a boat coming out of the lock right at the start of our latest conquest. It was big hire boat and the poor chap helming it didn't have much of an idea how to execute a ninety degree turn and went too fast expecting the 70 odd feet of steel to turn on a sixpence. In narrowboat terms he careered into the bank and ran aground.  Fortunately I had decided to come past the turn rather than wait further back for him to come past me so I was able to avoid being caught up in his predicament. 

He should have taken the RYA course - remember you're listening to a qualified inland helm here - and I've got the certificate to prove it.

The first section of the Shropshire only had four locks in the first eleven miles making for very relaxing cruising. Passing through beautiful rolling open countryside it was perhaps the most rural of all the canals we had travelled so far passing through rich pasture land filled with dairy and beef cattle. This was after all prime Cheshire dairy country.

And how we smiled when we stopped at a canal side farm where the owners and set up reminded us so much of farmer friends from Bedfordshire thirty years ago when we first met them. A large dairy farm with a new house extension added to the old farmhouse to accommodate son and daughter-in-law, horses, dogs, and a young wife trying to run a business this time a craft and farmhouse food shop. As a purveyor of Yankee Candles, a brand of scented candles I learnt my wife loves, I was a little shocked when I saw the bill - what the hell was wrong with IKEA candles I wondered.

We joined the Shropshire Union Main Line at Bridge Junction and passed the turn into the Llangollen Canal where we saw our seven times narrowboating Americans heading up to see the famous Ponyscillit aqueduct (already done by us 25 years ago so not included in the spreadsheet) - and yes, they oohed again over Phoebe. I swear spending so much time outside is bleaching her coat as she is now several shades lighter than when we set out. But it can't be the Mediterranean weather we've been enjoying.....

 

 

We stopped at Nantwich for provisions and were pleasantly impressed with the town. Plenty of interesting housing stock from Elizabethan to Georgian and a pedestrianised, tree lined town square where we sat and enjoyed a delicious pork pie picnic listening to a first rate busker, no more than 16, riffing like Clapton.  He attracted quite a crowd and deserved the attention. 

 

 

South of Nantwich we stopped to visit the Hack Green Secret Nuclear Bunker.  Not your standard historical visit, this bunker would have become home to a select few from government in the event of a nuclear strike.  Even though it was still operational up to 1989 and had £38m spent on upgrades in 1986, it still felt very Heath Robinson and not at all like the hidden bunkers you see in Hollywood movies.  More Dads Army than Independence Day. Extraordinarily, when deigned as surplus to requirements, the government had just shut the doors and left just about everything in place equipping the Trust that subsequently purchased it with a treasure trove of paraphernalia that vividly brought the experience to life. But boy was it a sobering visit. It was quite sinister to see how depressing and basically futile it was to create a place supposed to survive a nuclear holocaust.  The documentary films were extremely depressing spelling out in no uncertain terms the scale and horror of an attack on the UK.  We left in sombre mood.

Needing cheering up it was fortuitous we were to collect our next visitor just a mile or so down the canal. Popping over the border from Wales, one of my oldest mates and best man at our wedding, Des, had walked down the towpath from Audlem and was waving a naked calf at Ros the helm to flag down a lift.  Perfect timing too as he could man the windlass as we climbed the four locks into Audlem where we were to moor for the night.

 

 

As Des is a vegetarian, we decided eat on board that night and not risk the limited options any British pub has to offer such strange folk and treat him to one of Ros' veggie creations. He was properly impressed. That didn't mean forgoing a trip to the pub for a drink however and we settled comfortably in the Shoppie Fly in front of a roaring wood fire - yes, it was that cold that a fire was necessary. Summer? What summer? 

Another happy camper enjoying the luxury of the dinette double bed to himself we struggled to awaken our guest - something to do with the amount of wine consumed the night before reminiscing perhaps - we set off in warm sunshine to complete the last eleven locks in the flight out of Audlem.  More and more boats were appearing , evidence perhaps of the summer holidays approaching but most were owner occupied and many were sparkling giving the captain pause for concern that our brass needed a further polish. We even passed a boat called Rest and Be Thankful owned by an ex-pat Fifeman with fond memories of our local highland pass. Our experienced assistant (he takes 11 business trainees on a narrow boat each year for adventure training - talk about mad...) made quick work of the locks and with regret Des took my bike back to Audlem to collect his car and returned in no time with said bike and bid us farewell. 

 

 

And so we gently cruised through beautiful countryside to Market Drayton (OK but nothing much of note) and on to Norbury Junction.

Await the next exciting update.

I See No Locks

 

Before leaving Manchester we visited the artisans market just up from the basin. We were among the first to visit so had our choice of the wonderful goodies the sellers had put out to sample. Pity I'd had breakfast as there was plenty to taste. Armed with tasty bacon, delicious sausages and very unusual cheese we returned to Fandango and set off down the Bridgewater Canal for the second time. But this time we would turn left at Waters Meeting to head south.

Opened in 1765 the Bridgewater was probably the first "modern" canal in the British Isles. Built by the Duke of the same name, he employed the soon to be famous James Brindley (he of Brindley Square in Birmingham) who engineered a lock-less contour canal. The coming of the railways did not initially affect this wide waterway and it was bought as a going concern by the Manchester Ship Canal Co in 1885. When we had turned right at Waters Meeting on the section leading to the Leeds and Liverpool Canal we had crossed a Ship Canal Co improvement, the Barton Swing Aqueduct, a steel trough closed by gates at each end that pivoted on an island in the ship canal. It carried commercial traffic until 1974.

How peaceful to navigate 23 miles with no locks. The weather was fine and we took it in turns to helm and relax. Well, I relaxed in the bow and Ros got busy polishing the abundant supply of brass on Fandango - this has become a real mission for the captain. It must be listening to the tales of our chammy tech son who had honed his polishing skills to perfection on his super yacht in the Mediterranean. And how impressed we were with the water quality for we could see the bottom of the canal quite clearly and there was an abundance of lilies and irises on the banks. 

 

Our first stop was Dunham so we could visit Dunham Massey Hall - yes, some of you may groan but yet another National Trust property! An 18th century house once the seat of the Earl of Stamford it had possessed the largest collection of Hugenot silver in Britain until an indebted gambler from the Earl of Warrington line who had inherited disposed of much of it. Still a sumptuous collection though filling a large room in the house, efforts are being made to reacquire long sold treasures. Amazingly, a number of people have donated items back to the Trust when they heard of their attempts to reassemble the collection. But it was the garden that was a treat. Considered one of the north west's finest plantsman's gardens we enjoyed a guided tour with one of the professional gardeners, a statuesque rather scary looking woman with cropped bright orange hair who of course turned out to be a sweetie.

 

Oh for a garden where the deer don't eat everything you try to grow! 

 

Feeling my bike must be lonely now it was the only one aboard I decided to cycle ahead to Lymm, a recommended stop for its attractiveness and good moorings.  Ros was coming into the town when she had her first verbal abuse to "slow down" from a moored boat. Now Ros does not speed and never goes more than at tickover pace past moored boats so this was a bit rich, especially as it was physically impossible to go any slower in gear. When she told me about the incident I went back to check the boat out and what irony, it was a boat I had passed on my cycle and had noted how much wash she was making as she passed a row of live-aboard boats. I resisted telling the woman of her hypocrisy. 

 

 

Lymm was indeed a very affluent, attractive town and although the pub we ate in was dog friendly and very comfortable the food was pretty dire. My risotto was so stiff it almost needed slicing. And being oh so British we didn't make a fuss. Stupid.

 

Passing the outer suburbs of Warrington at Stockton Heath we headed out of town in search of a quiet rural mooring to enjoy the sunny evening. We found one near Moore and were entertained by the horses and riders being schooled in a ring below us in the fields. How excited the other horses got as they whinnied and raced around the field much to Phoebe's consternation. 

 

Speaking of Phoebe, we met more Americans this time on their seventh, yes seventh narrowboat holiday, who came ooohing and aaahing in our direction at the sight of Phoebe. The main couple were on a five week holiday being joined for one week breaks by relatives and friends. Exhausting. 

 

Next day it was my turn to helm for, guess what, another tunnel. Yes, my favourite.  This time it was Preston Brook Tunnel a low, narrow black hole of 1239 yards.  You would have thought that as a seasoned narrow boater by now I would have taken this relative midget in my stride but for some reason I found it really intimidating and difficult to hold my line. I did manage not to hit the walls with precious Fandango but I emerged very stressed and relieved to pass the helm to Ros.  

 

Emerging from Preston Brook we were through a stop lock and into the Trent and Mersey Canal. Designed to stop rival companies stealing each others water it required no effort there being no difference in levels. 

 

Within a few miles it was the captain's turn to take us under. This time the timed entry Saltersford Tunnel, feared as it is crooked and you initially can't see the other end, and then the Barton Tunnel.  But hey, the first was a mere 420 yards and the second 572 yards - easy peasy.

And so to one of the waterways iconic feats of engineering - the Anderton Wheel. This amazing piece of machinery was built in 1875 to connect the Trent and Mersey to the flourishing Weaver Navigation 50 feet below. As built, it consisted of of two water filled tanks of 250 tons counterbalancing each other in a vertical slide resting on enormous hydraulic rams.  It suffered numerous problems not least because salt in the water clogged the rams so these were done away with in 1908 to be replaced by electrically driven counter weights. Closed in 1983 due to serious deterioration it was restored after a public appeal and reopened in 2002.

 

We could have used it to travel down to the river and bizarrely, its free if you just turn up but £5 if you book ahead. But such a diversion didn't feature in the spreadsheet so we made do with watching the tourist boat and a narrowboat swop places. Fascinating.

 

We really must visit the Falkirk Wheel.

Crime and Passion in Manchester

 

Being Manchester it was of course raining when we arose. I remember well when involved with the Manchester Commonwealth Games receiving a board report that said Manchester was a drier city than Bristol as some kind of reassurance that all would be well that summer - well it wasn't, and you may recall the closing ceremony being deluged by torrential rain that sorely tested the humour of all concerned.  I learnt later that whilst Manchester does indeed get less total rainfall than Bristol it  "enjoys" many more days of rain as its quite often that fine drizzly stuff that has a remarkable ability to soak you to the skin. 

And that's what we had.

 

Meeting our jolly Canal Trust guide at lock 65, he told us he'd keep going ahead to open the next lock and check there wasn't too much water. 

 

I wonder where all that extra water could have come from?

 

This approach made it a very easy and surprisingly quick descent of the 17 locks past a series of abandoned cotton mills and further on, regenerated mills housing offices and apartments.  Not the most attractive of landscapes but at least the bad weather kept any potential vandals indoors.  At lock 81 we bid farewell to our guide who then had to walk the three miles back to our starting point where his car was parked. 

 

I will own up here that I suffered a bit of a sense of humour failure on this drag down to Manchester and questioned this extended trip on the fabulous Fandango. Poor Ros, coping with another Cossack hat outburst (family joke), resorted to picking canal side marguerites (my favourite daisy) by way of peace offering. 

We had been told about a new marina just before Ancoats at New Islington so we turned sharply through its entrance and into a very attractive basin at the end of which was a live aboard area. It also had excellent laundry facilities and a smart shower that after the confines of dear Fandango felt positively enormous.  

Doing some research before heading into Manchester we had noticed that the Scottish Opera and the Doily Carte were performing the Pirates of Penzance at the opera house so wanting to support our local company we had got ourselves a couple of tickets. Brilliant seats in the centre of the stalls gave us a first class view of this tongue in cheek interpretation of the Gilbert and Sullivan classic. It had some hilarious moments especially those set at sea where the cast in perfect unison rolled from one side of the stage to the other. The cheers of appreciation from the audience were a just reward.

The following day, guess what? Yes, rain, again. 

We asked at the tourist office what we could do with a dog in tow and were initially told we could join the guided walking tour but unfortunately even that was rejected as the tour included entry to museums and libraries. So we took ourselves off to see the Michaels Flags and Angel Meadow area of town which has undergone a massive regeneration having in Victorian times been home to the most overcrowded and diseased area of Britain. It was now home to the new HQ of the Coop, and you do wonder if they hadn't spent so much money on this enormous egg-shaped building if their bank would have got into so much trouble.  

That evening we visited the Royal Exchange theatre where we enjoyed some wonderful blues music from a very talented 20 year old and an acapella choir of 16 to 20 year olds destined to perform at the Edinburgh Festival. Ros hadn't seen the theatre before and was impressed with idea of installing a complete pop up theatre within the old corn exchange without altering any of the exchange's Victorian grandeur.  Heading to Chinatown for dinner, we chose well, noting that our particular restaurant was occupied primarily by Chinese families and the food didn't disappoint. 

As we approached our boat back in the marina a chap from the boat alongside us leapt out and told us one of our bikes had been stolen. He had seen two yoofs of about 17 sitting on a bench around 7pm near our boat and was suspicious. When his back was turned it appears they managed to cut the lock attaching them to the front of the boat and started to offload both bikes. He heard the noise and was out as fast as he could to chase them but they ran off with Ros' bike shouting threats at him as they disappeared into the nearby high rise housing. He had phoned the police but I had to call to give details and register the theft formally. 

And all in a very public marina under a CCTV camera (which it subsequently transpired was facing the other way...)

This was a real disappointment reinforcing all the dire warnings about theft and vandalism to passing narrowboats and one of the reasons the Trust provides a guided descent into Manchester.  With that in mind we revised our plans to stay a further day in Islington Basin and agreed to join our public spirited neighbour down the nine locks to Castle Quay at the other side of the city centre and considered far safer.

Before leaving the following morning though we decided to try our luck again with the DIY pump out (some readers have complained at the absence of stories of effluent - hadn't realised it was such a hilarious topic) and much to my surprise it not only worked painlessly it cost a mere £4 in tokens, quite a difference to the £15 charged by boat yards who to be fair, do the business for you. 

In warm sunshine - hurrah, at last - we attacked the nine locks in tandem with our partners in crime. Very keen narrow boaters, we were given much advice and guidance about where to go and what to do next. Not sure the spreadsheet approved of this insistent but well meaning interference.....

 

 

Castle Quay was busy but we managed to squeeze into a lovely spot beside, nay inside, a weeping willow and settled for one more night in Manchester. Ros, missing her gardening was immediately out pruning said willow so it didn't scratch the boat of disturb our slumbers. 

 

Our plan that day was to visit the Royal Northern School of Music who were holding their gold medal competition for senior students. And what a piano concert we enjoyed. Syuzanna Kaszo was from the Ukraine and already an accomplished award winner and mesmerised the audience with a virtuoso performance including Prokofiev's Piano Sonata No 8, a piece I had never heard before but blew me away with its complexity, passion and speed. 

A walk through the city centre back to the basin we encountered the squealing audience of at least 95% females exiting excitedly from a performance of Dirty Dancing at the Palace Theatre.  

I was rather relieved I'd avoided that cultural delight.

Where Has All the Water Gone?

 

Another beautiful day heralded the arrival of our friends Helen and Alan from Cambridge. Before their arrival we wandered round the town and noticed how many of the "alternative" types we saw including a very tough looking lady vicar who climbed into her Land Rover Defender clearly equipped for serious off roading. You've gotta love the CofE.

As a regular reader of my blog (brownie points earned there then), Helen had noted the approval meted out to guests arriving with goodies and was determined not to be dissed in any subsequent blog. So depositing her M&S cool bag on the boat we were treated to lovely wine, biscuits, cake and some bottles of single hop beer from Brouwerij de Molen. Alan does a local radio food programme and has clearly been doing his research so the beer was delicious and unlike anything I'd tasted before.

We set off further up the narrow Pennine valley on this challenging canal with its oh so difficult locks (as our poor guests found out when struggling with the stiff paddles) and arrived at Todmorden where we moored for the night. In search of a pub for an evening meal we weren't having much luck when we passed a very nice restaurant called Hartleys. To our surprise the owner was quite happy to allow well behaved dogs (naturally that meant Phoebe who proceeded to behave impeccably) so we enjoyed one of the best meals out we have had on this trip.  And so reasonable. Todmorden got the thumbs up.

 

Although not as photogenic as gentrified Hebdon Bridge, the town had benefitted greatly from the philanthropy of the Fielden family and boasted some outstanding buildings. These provide a vivid illustration of the concentration of wealth that industrialists of the 19th century accumulated and chose to display in civic and domestic architecture. Most striking was the enormous and elaborate town hall. This Italian renaissance style building with its pedimented front originally sat astride the county boundary between Lancashire and  Yorkshire - sadly moved with local government reorganisation.

With 18 locks to go till we reached the summit it was time to get going. Our first lock had a guillotine electric gate and beyond this was a quarter mile stretch of canal sitting at the foot of the "Great Wall of Todmorden". This enormous brick was towered over the canal and was built to support the railway embankment. The locals claim that more than four million bricks were used in its construction.

Well, we had plenty of time to count them all for, dear reader, this was our first experience of a serious water shortage.  Slowly making our way out of the guillotine lock we gradually ground to a halt as we realised the canal was at least 18 inches below its proper level and Fandango became stuck fast in the muddy bottom . Ros was on the towpath as she had been walking ahead to the next lock so she carried on and tried letting a lock full of water down. It made no difference of course so the three us sat midstream unable to move or reach the bank unless we fancied wading in the muddy waters. Even the gangplank wouldn't reach.
 

And guess what we were sitting opposite? The local micro brewery offering free tasters to passers by - talk about torture.
 

An emergency call to the Canal Trust lead to a promise of assistance. About an hour later we got a call saying help was on its way. After another hour or so we noticed water beginning to flow past us and we were delighted to see the friendly faces of the lock keepers we had met at Sowerby Bridge who had been up to bring water down from four of five locks up the canal. Finally afloat we gingerly made our way to the next lock relieved to leave that towering brick wall behind - and I made it three million nine hundred thousand and eighty six bricks by the way.

 

After a further eight locks we stopped at Walsden to say farewell to Helen and Alan who took a train from the adjacent station back to Hebdon Bridge to collect their car. More happy guests who had survived the squeeze in their "double" bed.

The following morning we took a walk up the hills and onto the moors enjoying the far reaching views back down the valley. We walked the Salter Rake Gate, an ancient stone packhorse track that was once used to transport salt from Cheshire to the Pennines. We met a chap in his garden who was terribly chatty and very amusing about his neighbour who insisted on flying the Yorkshire rose flag even though he was convinced his neighbour's house was actually in Lancashire. Local government boundaries eh?

We set off again but had not gone far when entering lock 35 we were again confronted by an almost empty canal. This was becoming difficult and alarming. Before we had a chance to ring the good old emergency number we saw a Canal Trust worker who had arrived at our lock. He gave us the whole story. 

 

 It appears the guillotine lock at Todmorden was leaking badly and had been draining the system. There was a work party complete with barge en route and he was bringing water down with him meaning we could hopefully make it to the summit. And after a feel scrapes we duly did get to the summit where guess what, there was an abundance of water and the next fifteen locks were all overflowing.  

 

And they said the Rochdale was tough. Respect please.

The next 26 locks and 11 miles were not that inspiring and did not have the attractive open countryside of the eastern side. We passed Rochdale and its smart new canal channel built to accommodate the A627M to moor at a spot recommended as safe before we began the accompanied descent into Manchester the following morning.  The captain had been very efficient and had reserved our place for 9.30 meaning an early start if we were to cover the 3 miles to our meeting point.

We were hoping it would be a drier, more pleasant entry into Manchester than the last time.