Limping back...

I didn't mention that when we broke down on Saturday, a group of women came along the towing-path and immediately showed great concern over our plight. I was just stealing myself to launch off the side of the boat, over tall stinging nettles and onto an invisible bank at the time. After my breathtaking jump and perfect landing, I looked up into the face of Jane. Jane and her husband Michael are old friends from when we lived in St Albans. Michael was our minister at the Baptist church there, but had left to go to Poland to teach in 2005, and returned four years later to take up the pastorate of Rugby Baptist Church, where we met up again in 2012. They live in Hillmorton, quite close to the place where we broke down.

Jane and her friends, having been assured that there really was nothing they could do to help, apart from telling us the nearest road bridge for the RCR man to drive to, went on their way. Later, I got a FB message from Michael offering us whatever help we might need; beds for the night, for example.

" I suspect this is not like calling out the AA?" he asked.

"RCR arrived quickly, the problem was sorted out, and we were on the move within a couple of hours." I replied. " It really is very much like calling out the AA - only wetter!!"

It had been a nice coincidence.

Talking of coincidences...

It was later that day, while we were moored and recovering, that Michelle and I had our "Hippocampus" moment. Do read about it if you haven't already! We're still amazed.

On Sunday morning, with Grace and Michelle still in a lot of pain, we carried on to Hillmorton Locks, which we ascended solo, though with a bit of help from a vollie at the bottom lock. We moored above the Admiral Nelson lock at Braunston. Another light day.

Sunday had been hot and sunny. Just the three Braunston locks had been a sweltering experience. Monday was cooler. We finished the locks in tandem with NB Mister E,

did the tunnel in style and a lot of drips, turned left at Norton Junction

and ran into a hold-up at Watford Locks.

The 45 minutes was enough time for us to have a bite to eat, after which Michelle got out to do the locking on this final flight. The rest of the journey was frustratingly slowed by a boat in front of us which was travelling so slowly that even our tick-over speed was too fast. He was well aware of us, but made no attempt to let us past for ages. Sorry, but, in the circumstances, we were a bit annoyed. Eventually, he stopped for us, and apologised as we overtook.

"I only go slow", he said.

Back at Yelvertoft, we had a very welcome dinner at The Wheatsheaf, and Michelle drove back home on Tuesday morning. We all agreed that, despite the injuries and break-down, we'd had a really good time together.

A week out at last!

It had been our intention to take Michelle along the Trent & Mersey from Fradley Junction to Nottingham on the Trent, and back. We'd planned to meet her at Fradley, where she would park her car for the duration. This called for us to spend five days travelling to Fradley, and five back, of course. We'd arranged for Caroline to come and see us there the day we arrived. Caroline is an old friend of Madeline's we'd been reacquainted with at Madeline's funeral.

The problem was, I'd messed up some dates in my calendar, and we couldn't actually afford the five days for the return journey at the end of the week. We changed plans, then.

Michelle arrived at around midday on Sunday, and we set out soon after. It was a lovely afternoon, and there were lots of boats about. Moving on after lunch just above Watford Locks, we had a short wait at the busy flight. Chatting with the husband-and-wife vollie team, we discovered that they both used to live in Boreham Wood, the town of our birth, and that the wife had been born there, too. Small world, huh?

We arrived at the place of the rusty butties - Norton Junction approach - at about 5:00, and were glad to find just one mooring space. It was here I had something of a painful surprise.

Monday morning was breezy. The dawn chorus was fabulous - they'd rehearsed well.

Braunston Tunnel would have been fine but for a very timid skipper in front of us who moved very slowly, and bounced off the wall several times. He even reversed at one point. We're generally patient, but slowing down means less control over the steering, so it made things a bit more challenging for Grace, let's say.

Boats were queuing at the top of Braunston Locks, as they were below and, no doubt at each successive lock. Most travelled in pairs, which made the whole matter that much speedier and more efficient. One of the boats was a party of Norwegians on NB Rock Thrush who were on their fourth annual two-week UK canal holiday. They considered themselves quite expert, but I didn't have the heart to disabuse them of that idea. We were to meet up with them several times over the rest of the week, since their itinerary was much the same as ours. They planned to stop and visit Braunston.

"How big is the city?" they asked.

One balance beam at Bottom Lock bore a CRT sign I'd not seen before.

"Warning! Bee activity in balance beam!"

It's amazing how often we come this way and find Roy and Lee of Days Afloat inside Roy's boat having morning coffee, lunch, afternoon tea... And still they manage to get their work done!

Just beyond Braunston, on the Oxford Canal North, we had a bite to eat. It's a lovely place to stop at.

On we went afterwards. Willoughby, Barby, then Hillmorton Locks. We'd hoped to moor above the locks, but there was no room, so we made our way down, and tied up just around the corner after Bottom Locks. It had been a longer day than we'd expected.

Almost back!

It was warm, cloudy and humid when we started out today. The moisture in the air held the smells of the countryside, and it was lovely - grass and leaves, hedgerow flowers, some wood-smoke from somewhere. Autumn's colours were beginning to take hold of the trees. It was a sensual morning.

We carried on down the Oxford Canal. The approach to Stretton Stop was lined on both sides by boats, the cutting beyond it bordered with ancient trees that formed a canopy over the water.

Beyond that, open fields, sheep and cows by the hundred, geese by the gang, a huge field of Christmas trees numbered in thousands.

We noted yet again today the huge increase in the number of women at the helm of their boats. Yet still we hear the old, sexist comments like the one to me; a man on a bridge, watching Grace drive Kantara into a lock below him who called out to me, "Bloody hell! Do you trust her to drive that?" To which I answered, "Why would I not?" His reply doesn't merit the space here.

Or the man at a lock telling me, "You shouldn't be doing that! You're the skipper."

"No," I said, "I should be doing this, and my wife's the skipper - as she should be!" He said nothing, but gave me a pitying look. The progeny of misogyny. 

Newbold next. The Quarry Pits, sadly hidden from view from the canal, then the 250-yard Tunnel, still without the coloured lights it had four years ago.

And on to Rugby, a 20-minute drive from the marina, but two days by boat on the winding canal.

After lunch at the bottom of Hillmorton Locks, I was greeted by vollie Maurice Farndon, "The Man with the Golden Windlass".

"Ahh," he cried, offering me his hand, "the man with his feet under water! Nice to see you again!"

I can imagine Marice is like that with all of his regulars. He sets the standard for volunteer lock-keeper service. That he liked my book makes him even more special!

Up we went, then, through the three locks - the busiest locks on the canal system, Marice tells me -  and on to Braunston, 7 miles further on.

Arriving there, we were surprised and dismayed to find the visitor moorings full, breasted two or three deep in places. There must have been a weekend event here. Roy and Lee were working on a boat moored next to Roy's' NB Wells Fargo, and Roy invited us to moor abreast it. We'd overshot by then, could have reversed, but carried on and nearly regretted having done so. All of the mooring spaces were occupied from the junction bridge to Butcher's Bridge, almost a mile. We passed Simon, fixing something on the Gongoozlers' Rest. Then we came to the very last boat length before Butcher's - and it was empty, and we took it gladly.

If we get up early tomorrow, we should be back at the marina by the end of the day.

Harecastle Tunnel

It was just a mile from Westport Park to Harecastle tunnel. There were three narrowboats waiting to go through, and another joined the queue behind us soon after we arrived. It was good timing. Traffic is one-way through the tunnel, so there's a timetable, scheduling craft times to enter in alternating directions.

The tunnel is 2926 yards long, the fourth longest on the UK canal system, and it has something of a reputation for being tricky because of stretches of low roof about half-way through. Sadly, there was a death last year, probably caused by the man hitting his head on the roof, and falling backwards off the end of his boat. There was no-one with him at the stern at the time. Needless to say, CRT are now very much more sensitive to safety issues here now. Before our entry, all waiting boaters were gathered together by the duty Keeper, and given a sheet of safety instructions, which he gave to us orally as well.

There are actually three parallel tunnels at Harecastle, needed to deal with the volume of traffic which once went this way. One was a railway tunnel. But two of these have been closed over the decades since, and only the one is in use now. Built by Thomas Telford in 1827.

After a convoy of five or six boats had emerged from the gloom of the tunnel into the sunlight, our keeper beckoned our group in, one by one. He urged us to maintain normal cruising speed. And to mind our heads! Unfortunately, however, the front boat went very slowly at times, and this is a problem in a narrow tunnel like that, because at very slow speeds it becomes more difficult to steer boats, and no-one wants to bang their shiny boats against the rough brick walls.

But all went well, and we duly drove out unscathed about forty minutes later. A striking phenomenon here is the striking change in the colour of the canal water. Where it had been normal greenish-brown at the eastern portal, it is now bright, rusty yellow. From iron ore in the ground.

Several boats were gathered here, waiting to take their turn in the other direction. I waved to working boat NB Halsall, a Twitter contact of mine I'd never seen before.

Almost immediately after the tunnel comes Harding's Wood Junction, where the Macclesfield Canal turns left off the Trent and Mersey, runs parallel for a hundred yards, then turns sharp right onto an aqueduct over the T & M, to head off north-east while we continue north-west.

The aqueduct carrying the Macclesfield Canal

Five more locks now, the Red Bull flight, nothing at all to do with the energy drink, followed by another six at the start of what is known by some as Heartbreak Hill. It's not that bad, really! Most of the locks from here on for several miles are twinned narrow locks, like those at Hillmorton.

The sign says "Lock Closed" - that's the one, on the left, with all the reeds growing in it!

At one of the locks, a vollie was training a man with no previous canal experience. It was his first day of training, and his instructor was giving him masses of detailed information. He looked over at Grace bringing Kantara into the lock.

“And this young couple”, he told the learner, “are quite clearly not without experience. The gentleman holds his windlass the right way up, and the lady brings the boat in without bashing into anything!”

The countryside has become gently hilly, and there are beautiful views from the canal.

Anyone know what make and model this fine old car is?

After the six locks, we were in Church Lawton, the village we'd designated as the place for our mooring at the end of the day. But we'd made faster progress than we'd anticipated, and it was only one o'clock, so we had a bite to eat and moved on another ten lock-miles to a beautiful countryside spot below Pierpoint Locks.

Cows and donkeys chewed grass contentedly in the field opposite, the weather was good, the scents of wild flowers filled the air, the coffee was superb. This couldn't be beaten!