Wigan - the Family Way

And so our final stretch of the Bridgewater Canals through a former mining landscape now restored into parkland and wetlands and two attractive locks before Wigan. 

What a northerly ring that name has and how familiar we were with it as one of those roads signs on the M6 that for some reason we have always noted as we trek up and down that motorway. We were looking forward to seeing the famous "Wigan Pier" that incongruously is many miles from the sea, the most usual place for a pier in our experience.

We had arranged to meet our eldest son and daughter in law here for a weekend visit and Wigan was the most suitable place on the spreadsheet itinerary - lucky them! It was also a good place to receive visitors as it had a nice challenging flight of 21 locks to climb and help with locks is now always appreciated. 

Do you detect a slight lessening of enthusiasm for locks dear reader? Certainly that may well be true for my part - especially when there's a whole flight of them AND  its pouring with rain AND every paddle is incredibly hard work AND every gate has an anti-vandal key to unlock AND the gates are achingly heavy to open/close. Stretches my definition of fun to its limits. And you know what, even my narrow-boat-groupie wife sometimes (and I must be accurate here or I'll be in trouble for it is only sometimes) admits locks can be "tiring" and we need to "pace ourselves". 

Now that's bordering on sacrilege for the enthusiast.

We chugged into Wigan early in the morning to await our visitors' arrival and had to moor opposite the local rubbish dump to be near an access point for them. Such a convenient and attractive landmark. Ugh. Whilst waiting we took our chance to explore on foot and discovered the famous Wigan Pier two locks down the canal towards Liverpool and now consisting of a series of restored workshops and warehouses, attractive stone bridges and the inevitable Orwell pub. To be fair, it has been a CAMRA pub of the year and so boasts an excellent range of real ales not that I had a chance to sample them as 10.00 was a little early in the day.

Nick and Jen arrived fresh from their boutique hotel and hearty breakfast in nearby Chorley at 10.45 armed with wet weather gear and a most welcome bottle of Taittinger champagne to celebrate our anniversary. What style I smiled to myself - I wonder who he takes after? 

Oh, and to add to our delights a box a Krispie Kreme doughnuts - no calories there then. 

Giggles over after their tour of the boat and introduction to the flexible dinette sleeping berth where they would cosy up for the night, we began our day in overcast skies hoping the rain would hold off. Vain hope. We had only done about 5 locks when the drizzle started and this soon developed into lovely wet Lancashire rain. But properly attired (loved the pink spotted wellies Jen) we cheerfully attacked the locks and were rewarded with clearing skies by the time we reached to the top. 

Having read about Giles' natural ability at the helm and his silky entrances into the locks, I'm sure that wasn't far from Nick's mind as he took his turn to show the parents that it was obviously genetic and in the blood that a Scott son should navigate perfectly into the locks with not a whisper of a bash or scrape. Satisfied grins all round. 

That evening we took a taxi to a recommended restaurant wonderfully named the "Summit ta Eat" where we all enjoyed steaks cooked on your own personal  hot stone. The stones really were piping hot, so flushed faces all round. And the taxi back was quite an experience too. New to the business, we learned that the driver had previously been a dustman and so claimed an intimate knowledge of the back roads and shortcuts. We were a bit worried when we headed off down a potholed dirt track into the middle of nowhere but he got us back very quickly and it cost half the outward journey! The joys of the naive new boy not yet milking the punter!

After bacon butties for breakfast and a yoga lesson from Jen on the roof of the boat (I could never be that flexible... but it sure loosened her muscles after a night in the dinette) we pootled through pleasant countryside to Adlington where Nick and I attempted to mend Ros' phantom puncture only to discover it hadn't been pumped up properly! Wonder who had managed that? I also discovered that my lovely wife had never mended a puncture before - "I thought you just bought a new inner tube" she said. As a child schooled by his father in the importance of frugality in all things biking, I bit my tongue.

Borrowing my bike to cycle back to his car parked near the landmark rubbish dump in Wigan, Nick soon returned to collect his lovely wife and head back to Edinburgh. Fond farewells and happy memories of a lovely weekend together. 

I'm not sure narrow boating is high on their agenda for future must-do's, but they were very polite to their mum. Wasn't my blog that corrupted them - honest.

Mr Clumsy

The next day we crossed Manchester, firstly alongside the renowned and aptly named Canal Street with its myriad gay bars and nightclubs where we provided  entertainment for the perfectly groomed early risers, and then down the nine lock flight where we picked up a hire boat to share the work. And tough work is was too as the canal was overfull making it extremely difficult to firstly open the top gates and then empty the locks due water rushing over the gates at one hell of a rate. 

The people we were sharing with were two couples of a certain age and clearly first timers. The poor helm (who got to know Ros very well as they waited patiently in the locks alongside each other) was constantly being nagged and shouted at by his wayward crew, none of whom were prepared to try their luck at the helm but were nonetheless more than happy to criticise and offer advice to the poor chap. Never, ever again he sighed dejectedly to Ros as we parted company at the foot of the flight. 

Ros and I radiate positive lock-operation harmony in comparison! 

The bottom of the flight opened into Castle Quay basin which was by far the most attractive section of the canal in Manchester. The basin sits in the shadow of the city's latest and most contentious building the Beetham Tower, whose claim to fame is that its the tallest residential building in the UK (not in Europe as much of the hype falsely claimed - that building is in Malmo I have on good authority). It's also home to a Hilton hotel and footballers' million pound apartments.  Here the canal basin had broad open cobbled terraces overlooked by beautifully restored warehouses and unusually for an urban canal lots of mature trees. With the sun kindly shining we enjoyed a welcome cappuccino in a canal side cafe before heading off on our next conquest, this time the Bridgewater and Rochdale Canal.

 

Once out of the nether reaches of Manchester (Ros was singularly unimpressed with the Manchester United ground at Old Trafford which towered over us as we passed by), the canal was surprisingly interesting. We crossed the Manchester Ship Canal on the impressive Barton Swing Aqueduct but unfortunately no ships were passing to allow us to see it in operation. Curving through the leafy suburbs of Salford we reached the attractive village of Worsley where thanks to the dissolved iron ore in the canal we floated through rather alarmingly bright ochre water.

 

We stopped off at Astley in the hope of seeing the colliery museum but it was closed. We did however meet one of its volunteers who was waiting to meet a man about a marquee. Great excitement for in a few weeks there was to be a narrow boat rally at the site attracting over a hundred boats. I have to say I was rather relieved we missed that one as I know I could not have coped with several hundred enthusiasts comparing notes and exposing my ignorance with their probing questions about Fandango!

Another pump out at the Bridgewater Marina (I know you all love to hear we've had one of those) that required some pretty nifty boat handling on my part reversing us in between two other boats and alongside a third - and all in strong side winds too. A gentle kiss of the hulls as we came to rest and I was awarded with a compliment from the captain - blush....

Deciding to overnight on the towpath opposite the marina as there was a recommended hostelry right there we began the mooring up exercise. With no rings or capstans, spikes were required to be hammered into the ground for the warps (ropes to you lot) and being very democratic we took one each.  I went first and in my enthusiasm to get the job done and relocate to the pub, I tried to speed matters up and threw the hammer to Ros along the bank.  

Now, you would expect a weighty object like a hammer to land with a reassuring kerthunk but no, the wretched thing decided it was made of rubber and bounced gracefully down the grassy bank and into the canal under the exasperated gaze of the captain. A telling glare and some mutterings of words such as clumsy and idiot were clearly audible under her breath and with a sharp command I was dispatched with all due haste to the marina before it shut to purchase a replacement. 

With tail between my legs I followed orders and sheepishly went to said marina that was fortunately still open. What lovely people, "You don't need to buy a new one. Use a magnet to fish out the old one". Gosh, I said, that actually works? "Do it all the time me lad" he said. And magically a large magnet on a rope appeared.  Sneaking back quietly to the boat (captain was below dressing for dinner) I began the task of locating the hammer. Much to my amazement, for I had convinced myself this would never work for me the sceptic, the magic magnet engaged with the hammer and I gently pulled it from the (four foot) depths of the canal.  

Reprieve! Captain was duly impressed, I was relieved, and drinks were on her.

 

Descending into the City

Technology. Why is it that I can be such a Luddite? And why am I having to write about the frustrations of computers in two consecutive blogs?

 I had felt the creative juices flow after my 'Welcome Detour' blog and had written 'Northward Bound' the following day. Well that was actually 6 days ago and in the meantime I have been failing to connect my iPad to the wifi I was so proud I had established through the magic of tethering to my smartphone. I have been sitting watching that wretched circle whirl pointlessly every day since in the vain hope it was just a poor signal. Even a visit to a coffee shop with free wifi had met with the same result. Despite trying everything I could think of in the settings of iPad and phone - nothing, rien, nada.

And then a city with an Apple shop and bingo. Embarrassment reigns as the bright young thing said "have you tried shutting the browser and starting  again?". Of course I hadn't - far too advanced it would appear for this technophobe as that simple, and in technicolour hindsight obvious action instantly reconnected me.

Back to the blog.  

Now began the long hard slog into Manchester. People we had spoken to had talked of the rough areas by the canal where yoofs were not averse to lobbing the odd brick or reject supermarket trolley at you or even nipping into your boat and pinching any handy valuable. Not what your average narrow-boater wants to hear,  so the captain planned our journey with military precision with the objective of a safe marina at Droylsden the night before we began the final 18 lock  decent into central (safe) Manchester.

But that was yet to come and before that enticing challenge we enjoyed the beauty of the Marple flight of 16 locks which contributed 214 feet of our long descent into Manchester. These locks have an unrivalled setting in an excellent combination of built-up area, parkland, giant beech and chestnut trees and steep hillsides with some wonderful restored small mills now used for posh offices or canal side apartments. At its foot the canal crosses the River Goyt gorge in a dizzyingly high aqueduct but with an even bigger railway viaduct alongside. 

You have to be in awe of some of the engineering feats our forefathers undertook with none of the computer aided simulation we have today. And they made so much of  it all pretty too!

Even more exciting, we passed through the Hyde Bank tunnel, atop of which sat the former home of MN, Fandango's proud owner and Ros was able to text MN a photo to remind him of the beginnings of his love affair with all things narrow boaty. Aaah.

We made the safe haven of Droylsden marina just before 6pm after a very long day and Ros negotiated an admirable reverse into our designated slot. The marina manager clearly loved to chat and so the captain and he swapped canal stories whilst I did emails. Being in the city again we were suddenly aware of all its noises - sirens, motorbikes, general traffic - but it also had a large Tesco just across the road so it wasn't all bad.

I awoke to a decorated boat interior wishing me a happy anniversary. Horror! In my total narrow-boat-induced somnolence I had forgotten our 31st wedding anniversary. Captain was very forgiving and her disappointed a little sated by my quick and surreptitious trip to Tesco's for their finest bouquet. Phew....

The early start down the dreaded locks saw us squeak ahead of two other boats who like us had heard you needed to be away to miss the potential vandals who were at their best in the afternoons. And what hard work those wretched locks were. It was pouring with rain, the worst Manchester kind, persistent and unrelenting, and every paddle and gate had an anti-vandal lock adding to the time and difficulty of getting through. But hey, no vandals in sight, in fact no-one in sight, hardly surprising given the wintry conditions. 

It took a gruelling five hours to do the 3 miles but as we approached our destination of Piccadilly Basin the rain eased and the sun came out. A bit earlier would have been nice. We found a suitable mooring but soon discovered this part of Manchester was not like Birmingham with its canal side pubs, restaurants and coffee shops. All very clean and nice but sterile. 

Ros was quickly on the phone and before you could say Happy Anniversary, she'd booked herself a hair appointment at her favourite hairdressers, Vidal Sassoon, who "fortunately" had a branch in the city and even more "fortunately" had an appointment in 20 minutes. Guess that made up for the absence of a present. Phoebe and I accompanied her to their smart premises across town and then went exploring taking in the beautiful Victorian merchant houses and banks. Looking so much better with a bit of sunshine it brought back many memories of my regular visits to the city for board meetings as they prepared for the 2002 Commonwealth Games.  

What a transformation that event had made to the city. The whole area around what had been the athletics stadium and now home to Manchester City FC had finally got its tram connection (sore point, not delivered for the Games) and new shops, apartments and additional sports facilities were in place. It looked and felt a real success story.

Unable to find a suitable restaurant within striking distance of the boat we made do with a Marks and Spencer ready meal by way of celebration - deluxe of course and accompanied by some fizz. 

A memorable and happy day. Cheers.

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.