Slow Boat goes to Coventry

Day Nine: 11 July. Fradley Junction to Polesworth.
A gentle day with very few locks to try us, although the ones we encountered were deep and slow to fill; looks like this will be the way of it from here on. Tomorrow we tackle the Atherstone Eleven, so an easy day was a good idea. It was breezy, which did cause a few problems with crosswinds on the bends, and a rather closer-than-we'd-have-liked encounter with a couple of British Waterways working boats, who were fortunately very understanding!
Through open countryside again, and the horsiculture belt; many of the horses had fly masks which led to comments of 'who was that masked horse?'
The railway line runs alongside the canal for much of the way, and electrification means that the overhead gantries are very intrusive and ugly. There are also several (Roman) roads, all carrying a lot of traffic. Quite a lot of boats, but very few obviously hired ones, and it was all very busy - Fazeley Junction wasn't quite as bad a turn as Fradley, but equally packed.
Through the suburbs of Tamworth, up Glascote Locks and past Alvecote, stopping for lunch and a bit of canalside retail therapy with a bloke doing nice leather goods. Drew got himself a proper belt and holder for his lock key, and now feels very professional.

Moored for the night at Polesworth, which is nice; deeply wooded with a cutting on one side and an embankment on the other which overlooks the river Anker. Drew went for a recce, and I encountered a swan which seemed determined to peck my trouser bottoms. There's a very good Indian takeaway in Polesworth, with generous portions!
12.5 miles/2 locks/0 tunnels/Coventry Canal

Day Ten: 12 July. Polesworth to Atherstone.
And of course, our first wet day... not merely damp.
Not 'a bit rainy'.
WET.
Stair rods. All the way through the Atherstone Flight (which is more a series of short pounds and locks than a staircase). Slow going - althought there were some boats coming down, we sometimes had to empty a lock down to get in (which makes you feel quite guilty). Mostly we were followed by a family in the first 'Viking' fleet hire boat we've seen; they were entertaining, with a small terrier that seemed to be enjoying itself hugely, and a gaggle of kids who vanished below at the first sign of rain, leaving their parents to brave the weather. General chat to folks as we went along, and plenty of lovely dogs, including one very stubborn black labrador that utterly refused to walk across the top of the gate of Atherstone Top Lock, no matter what his person did to encourage him.
Drew got quite adept at hopping across between the lower gates, which saved no end of foot-miles going round. It all adds up. We moored up for shopping, and decided we may as well stay put overnight rather than go on a couple more miles.

We were amongst various working boats, carrying smokeless fuel and gravel - some had been as far as London, and I wondered if they'd been taking materials to the Olympics site - I somewhere remember reading they were using canal haulage.
Last night's curry stretched to leftovers!
4 miles/11 locks/0 tunnels/Coventry Canal

Day Eleven: 13 July. Atherstone to Shackerstone.
Another day of rain and wind. Headed down through Nuneaton to Marston Junction and the Ashby Canal, watering up at the 'Valley Boats' marina, where Mum got postcards and a plaque of the Foxton Flight. Drew went looking for chandlery bits with no luck, but did manage (finally) to get the Lockmaster map for this holiday.
Leaving, we were chased desperately by a bevy of confused ducklings (surely their mum wasn't big and green?)
Ashby Canal starts with the remnants of what turned out to be a stoplock - very narrow - and went on to be serpentine, blowy, and extremely shallow for much of its length; Drew remarked it was like driving through thick gravy at times. There were lots of moored boats too, and we discovered that 'tickover' varies from boat to boat - trying not to overhaul the boat ahead, we ended up having to overtake... it was like the world's slowest boat chase...
Water vole near Bridge 4, buzzards over Bosworth Field (yes, THAT Bosworth!).

Mostly small and pretty villages (apart from Hinkley) and cornfields. The idea was to get to Snarestone tonight, but conditions were against us, and after a couple of hours of almost-arguement, we compromised on a mooring at Shackerstone. Some of the scenery lovely, but mostly in a 'rural-neutral' way, without so much as a derelict shed to break the flow of fields and weeds.
0 locks/25 miles/0 tunnels/Coventry Canal, Ashby Canal

Day Twelve: 14 July. Shackerstone to Coventry Basin via Snarestone.
An early start, and a spell of fine-ish weather saw us up to the end of the canal - the scenery up here is much more interesting, with another SSSI through Gopsall Wood - wish I could remember all the plant names!
Snarestone Tunnel (228m) was quite fun - it has a bend in the middle, and gets lower towards the top end so you do have to duck a bit! Turned round just after the tunnel - little else to do, although the canal association are trying to extend to the old terminus at Moira; it's a work in progress.
So now began the long run back down to the basin at Coventry, and a day of frustration for me; I tried to help share the steering but got constantly caught by the wind, ending up getting us stuck again and again, and having to hand over to Drew (with his boat-handling experience etc from diving, he's so much more clued-up) to sort out a problem I'd created. Better stick to what I'm good at, which is going in and out of locks, and dropping-off and picking-up.
Weather was better than yesterday, but still wet in patches, so on and off with coats etc. We eventually left the waterproofs on, which seemed to deter the rain until around Hawkesbury Junction.
A thunderstorm (with lightning) hit at this point, as we were passing all the moorings, so I retreated into the boat and stayed there until we'd nearly reached Coventry.
It's another odd place; the old slapjowl with the new, big with small. Some interesting features - Electric Wharfe, Cash's Hundreds - but less 'proper' canalside warehouses etc, mostly things that have been cleared by demolition, like the old Ordnance Works, or rebuilt-on-the-site-of, like Electric Wharfe. Lots of pieces of 'public art' (mostly covered with graffiti) and although there was some good graffiti, much of that had been defaced. Sad, like the amount of crud floating in the canal, although the mooringhens and mallards don't seem to care.

Some really lovely buddleia bushes overhanging the canal, odd orange lights making spooky shadows under Bridge 5a, new flats, amiable drunks, and a lot of late evening fishermen...we eventually made it to Coventry Basin just after 9 pm, and got the last mooring (there is room for more boats, just marked 'no mooring'. Frustrating!) Drew went hunter-gathering, and returned with Nandos, which Mum and I had never heard of!
32 miles/0 locks/2 tunnels (return trip)/Ashby Canal, Oxford Canal, Coventry Canal

Slow Boat back on track.

Day Six: 8 July. Pilling's Lock to Shardlow.
And we're back on the water and on our way; at least, after a shower that made me feel a little less like Pinkie McStinkie, the Slut of the Cut....
We cover the same ground - er, water - back to Loughborough, but turn right up the river instead of into the city. It's back into the countryside, with wide reaches, loads of metallic blue and green damselflies, dragonflies like helicopters, ducks and moorhens herding their broods of young out of our way.
We travel in part-convoy with a couple of other boats, which means less banging about in locks and more hands to work them. One guy coming the other way says that the Trent & Mersey is getting short of water, and some folks have bottomed. We push on, with cross-winds.
The confluence of the Trent and Soar, near the cooling towers of Ratcliffe Power Station, is a vast expanse of water, more like one of the Norfolk Broads, with at least 3 canals leading off, and there is a huge weir to avoid.

Splatters of rain start as we head up the new canal - quite refreshing, really! - and face the confusion that is the Sawley Mechanised Locks. These are supposedly manned, but all we see is one officious beard that told us to wait while another boat came out, and then promptly vanished, leaving us to hover off the 'island' between the parallel locks, tall stone walls to either side. We finally get into the lock, and see the notice saying 'ropes must be used', so there is a bit of a scramble. Drew figures out the mysteries of the automated system, which button does what... we escape with little trouble, save for the shortness of the pick-up point on the island and, with a bit of deft manoeuvring, get onto the water point.
An encounter with another boat at this point draws my attention to how many boats have huge dogs aboard - this one had two German Shepherds, and one last night had an enormous black Newfoundland (and a one-eyed cat!). Maybe they act like supplementary heaters in the winter...

Drew helps another guy throught the lock - the controls on this side are totally different to the ones on the side we came up - and we water-up. Naturally, it overflows, but fortunately the whole system is geared to dealing with excess water.
Derwent Mouth Lock is badly damaged, one paddle is as loose as a catflap, and the whole RH gate is stuck fast. Awkward, but it's wide enough to sneak through (and gives us an idea for dealing with wide locks!) Looks like it won't be the last damaged lock on this stretch, either.

Tied up in the middle of Shardlow - a very pretty place - across the road from the Malt Shovel (classy but expensive) and the New Inn (plain pub food but good, and plenty of it) - guess where we went! Sat outside in the sun, admiring the motor show that developed in the car park, and chatting to the owners of a rather nice Ducati bike.
18 miles/10 locks/0 tunnels/River Soar, Trent & Mersey Canal

Day Seven: 9 July. Shardlow to Branston Lock.
Made our way through the picturesque and historical waterside of Shardlow; heading west now, and some quite deep locks. Pretty open land all around, with no significant settlements apart from one or two pubs and a remote, but prosperous-looking Indian restaurant. Got a phone message from Matt, checking that we were okay (nice of him), and called ahead to check the best time to call at Barton marina for fuel and a pumpout. Not that we'll get there today. Still several widebeam locks to deal with until we got to Burton-on-Trent; Dallow Lane came as a pleasant relief as the first 'smaller' one encountered.
We're still roasting in the sun, getting quite brown (and pink), although upper arms and shins remain resolutely peelie-wallie.
Burton-on-Trent is odd. It's a biggish town ('Largest in the National Forest' according to a sign we saw in a very small copse) but, although the canalside is quite nice, there is little industrial (and we like industrial) - you can see Marston's Brewery and the Coors maltings - and the rest remains stubbornly suburban.

Moored initially by the (clean, antiseptic, modern) industrial estate, but couldn't figure out how to get through it to the shops, so moved up to the moorings (and the mooringhens) by Bridge 54, after Branston Lock. Pearson's Guide said that Morrisons was about half a mile, but Drew vanished for nearly two hours, returning sweaty and disgruntled, having walked 'miles'. Filthy MacNasty was quickly sent to the shower and despatched.
18 miles/7 locks/0 tunnels/Trent & Mersey Canal

Day Eight: 10 July. Branston Lock to Fradley Junction.
Slow start, as we need to be at the marina after lunchtime. Two locks and a very tight entrance to Barton-under-Needwood marina, which is vast, and very posh. We drifted, elegant and windblown, alongside another AW boat, 'Foxton'. and negotiated the fuel and pumpout. Grumpy chap became less grumpy when he found we were the 'propshaft boat', and said that 'Foxton' had picked up a tyre round her prop in Birmingham, and had to be hauled out to have it cut free. Exited the marina somewhat poorer but quite competently (until we hit the opposite bank... oops!)
Down to join the river again between Wychnor and Alrewas (love these names!), where it's wide with yet another huge weir.  Pretty countryside, loads of dragons and damsels and lots of flowers by the waterside. We'd planned to stop at Fradley Junction, to get a better look than the last time we were here some years back, but it was not to be - the whole place was jam-packed with boats and gongoozalers, so we went carefully round the junction on a rope, to find the swing bridge open; with a guy behind us, that meant we didn't need to stop and shut it, and we sailed through happily.

Boat after boat after boat lined the canalside, until finally we found a space on a rather overgrown bank opposite a housing estate and slotted in there, with only a few nettle stings. Mum battled the shower this time, and Nellie O'Smellie was no more.
8 miles/9 locks/0 tunnels/Trent & Mersey Canal, Coventry Canal/fuel & pumpout

Slow Boat High and Dry

Day Five; 7 July. Dayboat to Loughborough
...and guess what - with all the fuss I'd nearly forgotten it's my birthday!
So.. They turned up about 0915, with the AngloWelsh guy who has the spares, and we disembark to the (very nice, with free WiFi) cafe. The boat is hauled up onto the trolley and is out for inspection. They reckon 3-4 hours, but the AW guy is looking for a bigger welding kit; they're replacing the entire assembly, which means cutting a chunk out of the hull. I try not to think about it.
We have coffee, and then sort out the dayboat.
'Kittywake's a small fibreglass cruiser, rather elderly, and very twitchy on the steering compared to the stolidity of Jupiter. Drew's steering is tested several times on the way to Loughborough (that's Luffburra, not Lugaboruga) - as we exit the marina, an enthusuastic springer spaniel leaps off the bank in pursuit of a passing swan, landing practically under the bows! A little further up, we encounter a small narrowboat-style dayboat crewed by a gaggle of females (looks like a hen party!) who seem to be navigating by bank-braille....
We make it to the City wharfe unscathed, and the shoreparty head off in search of supplies, while I catch up on my diary.
'Kittywake' is due for some TLC. Not long after being repainted last winter, she was stolen, and recovered in rather a sad state. Now she has a shiny, and very efficient, new engine, and is due a lot of bodywork improvements, a new screen and a seat for the helmsman. Nice to know she's going to be cared for.
I make contact with Tracey (who now lives near Nottingham) and organise a meet-up with her and the clan for dinner at the marina tonight. The shoreparty returns, and we head back to the marina.
Jupiter is still up on the cradle, so we set up in the cafe for a beer or two. Eventually we're joined by the AW guys, who have finished 'one of the more major jobs we've had to do'... The boat is back on the water with a whole new propellor and shaft, and a welded section in her hull, and Paul from the marina gives us a very convenient-for-the-facilities (especially the bar) mooring.

Back on board to inspect the work (very impressive) and a short snooze before meeting Tracey and Co for dinner. The food was excellent and the company wonderful, so a lovely evening, apart from the whole bar singing 'Happy Birthday, Whoever You Are' as they brought the birthday cake in (thanks T!)
5 miles/0 locks/0 tunnels/River Soar

Slow Boat Up the Creek

Day Four: 6 July. Birstall to Pilling's Lock.
And this was the day things stopped going according to plan....
After breakfast and a quick shopping trip, it was business as usual, with added clunk. A grass snake swims across the river ahead of us as we leave; naturally the lens cap is on my switched-off camera.
The clunk gets worse. We don't like the sound of it, and there seemed to be trouble with the steering, so after Thurmaston Lock we stop to check the hatch again.
Plastic bag.
Extracted.
Still clunking, so we get to a reasonably accessible stopping place, and ring the boatyard, who send out helpful mechanics who arrived with about an hour.

Spirits plummet, and 

we halt. Going nowhere fast

we call the boatyard.

After poking about in the bowels of the boat, they deliver their verdict.
Not good news.
The bearing on the prop-shaft has popped out, so the shaft etc isn't properly supported going through the hull to the prop. And it's hitting the prop on occasion...so it needs taking out and refitting - which means finding a yard and taking the boat out of the water. I can feel the holiday falling apart around us.
So we wait, to see if there's a yard that can handle us...

Help is soon at hand.

with stilson wrench and grease:

Matt, our new Best Friend.

Well, Pilling's Lock Marina can take us, but it's quite a distance away, so Matt the Engineer is coming with us to make sure things don't get worse, and AngloWelsh have been real stars - they've offered to either pay for us to have a day out somewhere while the boat is fixed (on a reimbursement basis) or the boatyard will let us have a dayboat for the day. PLUS as we'll be losing 2 days of our holiday, and Jupiter isn't booked out next week, we can stay out until Monday morning instead of returning to base on Saturday. A couple of quick phone calls and it's all agreed - so as long as it gets fixed tomorrow, all is better than good!
So here we go, letting Matt and Drew do the locks and steering.
Cossington Nature Reserve slips past, with terns screeching overhead. Lots of sizeable weirs (mostly dry-ish), some very posh houses, long gardens, some boats, overhanging willows (of course you always meet the oncoming boat where the willows mask it!).  Not quite sure why one house appears to have cannon on the waterfront...

 
The river widens rapidly after Montsorrel, very rural and lovely. We get to Pillings Lock by 1700 and then there is all the messing about getting to our mooring, and finding someone who knows what's happening.
They say they'll start at 0700...
8 miles/7 locks/0 tunnels/River Soar

Slow Boat on the Leicester Ring, 2010

Well, it seems to be becoming a habit to write about last year's holiday not long before going on this year's, so here we go again!

Day One: 3 July 2010. North Kilworth to Foxton.
Left home after the usual 3D jigsaw of carpacking, Mum wedged in the backseat amongst the bags. All the way to North Kilworth, we kept remembering things we should have packed. Got to the wharf at about 1515, to be met by very helpful staff, unloaded all the gear and parked the car, and once everything was aboard, it was time for the regular walk-through and handover checks on NB Jupiter, all 62 foot of her. By 1600 we were casting off. Headed up towards Foxton, through greenery (the first tree-I-have-been-dragged-through of the holiday was hawthorn).
Husband's Bosworth Tunnel - nearly 1200 yards and, like all the tunnels on our planned route, wide enough to pass another boat - was a long way in the dark, being dripped on. There were some very long stalactites, and two boats coming the other way - 'breathe in' said one, taking up most of the tunnel.
Emerged into more greenery, through the broad bean fields of Leicestershire.

Passing the bean-fields
Cows, sheep and dozing horses,
Yellowhammer sings.

Finally moored up just by Bridge 59, on a clear and peaceful bank in the late sunshine, to sort out the gear and start making dinner.

6 miles/0 locks/1 tunnel/GUC Leicester Branch.

Day Two: 4 July. Foxton to Kilby Bridge
And up and at it with the Foxton Flight!
Which was an interesting experience - not so much for the actual locking (not too awful, despite there being 10 locks) but more from the point of view of being a tourist attraction!  I don't know how many times Drew did the 'this is how locks work' talk to the numerous gongoozalers... meanwhile we'd watered up, chatted to fellow boaters, breakfasted..not sure where we're aiming for, but there are a lot of locks on the way.
Thought about a side trip up to Market Harborough, but an inadvisably moored boat and an unexpected swing bridge meant a mid-corner change of plan and direction straight up the Leicester Canal.
Saddington Tunnel supposedly has bats, but there was no sign apart from a rather well-made bat box shaped to fit the wall at the NW end.
Very rural, with sheep, and hedgerows full of dogroses; most of today's trees-I-have-been-dragged-through have been ash. Mum and Drew work the locks and I do the driving through them, cill-avoidance a speciality, and also act as Drew's relief driver. Feels strange to have such big locks (all double width) with few boats around to share the water. Jupiter drifts like a graceful brick from side to side in the locks, seldom ending up where I expect her to be. The wind catches her too - it's a gusty day and we have a few encounters of the bank kind.

We finally moor up at Kilby Bridge; most of today has been on a stretch of canal designated as a Site of Special Scientific Interest, for water plants, though I have  no idea which ones!
10miles/22 locks/1 tunnel/GUC Leicester Branch

Day Three: 5 July. Kilby Bridge to Birstall.
Another day of locks, and what Wogan used to call the 'Lost City of Leicester'. Fairly rural to begin with - one field seemed to be planted with both wheat and barley - muesli-in-the-making? Quite a lot of bank traffic, cyclists and walkers, some of whom were helpful with locks. The locks before Leicester have a key-opened padlock system, to try to stop malcontents and ne'er-do-wells emptying the locks (hardly a point as most of the gates are so badly balanced that they swing open if left without water pressure). Naturally, this means that the malcontents et al now satisfy themselves by cutting off the padlocks or filling them with superglue.

An enticing smell of baking cookies welcomes us to South Wigston - perhaps the Jacobs biscuit factory? Polite back gardens lead down to the water, but not the number of boats I would have expected, At Glen Parva, the houses are bigger and the back gardens (and inevitable decking and gazebos) better off too.
Back into the country for the last descent to Leicester, and the beginnings of our river adventures at King's Lock, where the Soar joins the canal, or vice versa. There is a system of warning markers to say if travel is safe - the river is subkect to flooding, but no rain means we are well into the green zone (unless - uneasy thought - it's just the algae).
The water is immediately clearer, with lots of weed visible, and more people fishing. Didn't see any fish, though!

A whole herd. Horses

black-and-white, pied like magpies,

contentedly graze.

And then - the weirs!
These are highly impressive, and in the case of Freeman's Meadow, huge. The path of the canal isn't always clear, so it's 'take it steady' and figure it out as we go, wave at the kids and chat to folks at locks.

Oddly, in the city, there are no padlocks. There is, however, a lot of graffiti, and an awful lot of rubbish. A coot uses a floating black bin bag as the base for a nest.

There's no room at the Castle pontoon, so we chug on to Birstall, via locks full of floating chunks of wood which make getting through a bit of a trial. After the last lock of the day, there's a bit of a pother as we help recover a football stuck on the wrong side of the canal, an operation involving some very deft use of the bargepole.

We moor up and inspect the weed hatch for an odd clunking. Find a piece of wire wound round the prop, extract same, and then take advantage of the locality to send Drew out for fish and chips.
12 miles/16 locks/0 tunnels/River Soar

Home on the Range

We have ponies! Well, the RSPB has them really, but we all feel quite proprietorial about them. They are Konik horses, strictly speaking, brought in to help manage the rough grazing in the marshes and improve conditions for breeding waders. They are quite a long way from the Visitor Centre, and are rather elusive, seeming to like hiding amongst the gorse bushes, so when we got the opportunity to go to see them (after a very early start on the last goose count) we clambered into the reserve truck and bounced off over the fields.

There are eight, four fillies and four geldings, and they are quite young, and still in their fluffy winter coats. They were basking in the sun, and seemed less than impressed at the disturbance, but posed nicely before heading off into the marsh to continue the hard work of eating.

Go West!

A year or two ago, I made a trip to the far North, ending up at Ledmore Junction, where the fading light forced me to turn for home. I said at the time that I wanted to continue the trip down towards Ullapool, and in mid-April this year, while Mum was staying, we decided it was time to do just that. So, packing a few sandwiches and cereal bars, we headed west.

The weather along the Moray Firth was beautiful, until we got to Nairn, where an unexpected haar rolled in. Normally the fogbanks stay offshore (or sit over my house) but some twist of the weather meant that they followed course of the inner firth, and it wasn't until we had gone quite a way inland that the sun broke through again.

It took around four hours to reach Ledmore again, and the great lumps of Assynt rose before us. Last trip, I posted a picture of Suilven in the rear view mirror - this is the way it should look!

The road south runs through the Geopark - the whole area is fascinating from a geological point of  view - and we couldn't resist a diversion through the heart of it, past Stac Pollaidh towards Achiltibuie and the Summer Isles.

The road is one of the usual single-track-with-passing-places, and there are several small car parks for hill walkers, all full. Small lochs lie in the hollows between the hills, and we were delighted to get a great sighting of a black throated diver in full breeding plumage - not close enough for a decent photograph, unfortunately. Further on, we pause beside Loch Raa, where a flurry in the water turns out to be two otters! Again, they were not photographically obliging...

The sheep, on the other hand, were quite content to pose.

Not far from Achiltibuie, a small ferry takes visitors across to the Summer Isles. (and yes, they do exist outside of the 'Wicker Man' - in fact they have nothing to do with it at all.)

Turning back, we look again for the otters, but they have gone, as has the diver. We rejoin the main road and head for Ullapool, on the shore of Loch Broom.

It's an active fishing port, and full of tourists so we don't linger, heading instead for Gruinard Bay. Gruinard Island is more notorious for being the site of anthrax testing in the second world War, and was only decontaminated in 1990. On a previous trip, we saw a white-tailed sea eagle on the island; today the bay held more divers - red-throated and Great Northern - which are hard to follow as they do exactly as their name suggests - they dive, and usually surface a long way from where they vanish!

Time to go. Past the naval refuelling station at Loch Ewe, the gardens of Inverewe, to Poolewe at the end of Loch Maree.

We follow the lochside, towards Achnasheen, and come to a sudden halt in a convenient layby. 'There's a black grouse in that tree!' 'What - good heavens, so there is!'
And there was.

Next time, it's Torridon and Applecross, and the third highest (and most dramatic) road in Scotland...unless we go to Skye first! we shall see...

Up Country

April 3rd.  Amazed by the good weather, and in dire need of an escape from the computer, we decided to take a trip up Deeside; in the end we went much further than we expected. We followed the winding road along the southside away from the main tourist traffic and, with a minor diversion (well, round in a circle actually!) along a backroad, ended up in Braemar where we headed northwest to the end of the highway.

The Dee is a salmon river, and all along its length there are bothies and benches and parking places for anglers who have the money...the last, I think, being the critical element.

Mar Lodge lies beyond Braemar, up towards the headwaters of the river (the Dee rises in the Cairngorms, somewhere in the Lairig Ghru) - the valley is broad, flat-bottomed, the result of glaciation, and the river loops lazily across it in wide meanders. It's a lovely spot at any time of year, and there was a real feel of spring in the air at last.

Still plenty of time, and the weather staying fine, we decided to go back the long way, over the hills to Strathdon, the other river valley leading to Aberdeen.

The pattern of muirburn show that the land is managed for grouse shooting; it's a pity the grouse don't realise it. At this time of year they are more interested in displaying to each other, and we crested one hill to find this chap strutting his stuff in the middle of the road.

Finally he wandered off into the heather, and we headed for home.

Geese leaving Strathbeg

Turning Seasons

Getting up at an unearthly hour to count the geese every month can sometimes be a bit of a trial, but there are some things that make it worthwhile - the song of a skylark, giving it laldy somewhere overhead in the darkness before dawn; groups of roe deer grazing along the field margins, coming within twenty yards before catching sight or smell of the car, and bolting away into the sunrise, or leaping over the fences with astonishing grace; a flight of whooper swans skimming low over the wood and straight over the car, 'whoong-ing' to each other as they pass overhead. And of course, the geese, in their thousands, rising from the loch and the Low Ground where they have been roosting and feeding to head out into the dawn in search of more food, building strength for the new breeding season.

And the sunrise... each early morning this year, the sun rises a little bit further north. In mid-January, it rose in a scarlet and fuchsia glory behind the Rookery Wood. This morning, it was a full hands-width further round, beyond the airfield; pink filigree lighting the clouds before the gold-on-blue brilliance made using my binoculars a distinctly unsafe business. It marks the changing seasons as much as the snowdrops that flourish in the damp woodlands, or the sudden appearance of lambs, which pop up as if hatching from the turnips their mothers are feeding on. (Or are they helping them to hatch? My passing aliens might suspect so.) Spring is finally showing signs of returning.

And one day I'll figure out how to stick a video into a blog post without have to do it separately!

Random Thoughts from the Festive Season...

Afflicted with cabin fever over Xmas and New Year, I have spent an inordinate time in the companyof the haunted goldfish tank, aka the TV. And the inevitable hoardes of adverts.
Which set me to thinking...what would any passing alien make of Earth, if this was what they picked up (and given the tedious repetition of much of it, it's probably more likely that they'd pick up the uncomfortable mix of Can-can and Heavy metal that was Why Mums Go to Iceland than something more intellectual).

In the run up to Xmas, the TV was populated by an inordinate number of sulky girls and moody men, wearing pouts that left them a hair's breadth short of becoming goldfish, glowering at each other, getting it on in lifts (and did the one who broke her Diamond necklace on behalf of Armani have to wait in line until the Beckhams finished?) or spilling flammable liquid across the floor and rolling about in it.
Obviously all this heavy breathing wore them out, one way or another, as the post Xmas schedules centred around replacing beds and sofas. Our passing aliens might wonder why these primitive Earthlings spent so much money in December, when the prices of nearly everything were immediately cut afterwards; why, they might ask, do they not do the Xmas thing at the end of January, when the sales have happened?

Wandering aimlessly through the supermarket (oh, how we spend our days!) another thing caught my eye. Seasonally-scented air fresheners/candles/electronic gizmos. Apart from wondering idly why anyone would want these things in the first place (they make me sneeze, for a start. Open a window, for goodnesss sake!) the sheer variety of 'scents' was astonishing. And in such combinations! Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cranberry and holly. Cotton and mulberry. Soft cashmere and vanilla... hang on a minute. Cashmere? Doesn't cashmere come from goats?

Can anyone explain why I would want my festivities seasoned with goat scented ice-cream?

Snow Laughing Matter....

As usual, we are surprised by the British weather. This time, it's really caught us out, and there's not a thing we can do about it. However much grit we stocked up with, however much we polished up the snowploughs, traffic havoc was going to be the result when that much snow drops in that short a time. What bites now is how long it is taking to restore some semblance of order.



But it's pretty. It's like M*x F*ctor super-smooth foundation for the landscape - that fresh-as-a-daisy 24 hour slap advertised by some vapid bimbo. 'Get the Scotland Look'...
But I do want it to go away before Xmas.

Notes from the Lochside

The far side drifts in and out, grey veils of misty rain swirling across the still water. The robin darts onto the deck, grabs a piece of something from the birdfood scattered on the railings and vanishes again, only to return in a flurry of wings to send an inquisitive chaffinch packing. Falling leaves look like small birds flying to the ground; as the rain grows heavier, the drops hit the remaining foliage, drawing the eye – was that another bird?
No, just a bouncing leaf.
A bedraggled great tit, feathers askew, lands on the bird table and tucks into the birdcake, caution and hunger in equal measure as the bird looks over its shoulder for predators then returns to its feast. More arrive, great tits, blue tits and the occasional coal tit. For a while it looks like a game of feathery billiards, each bird that lands on a feeder sending the previous incumbent bouncing off in another direction, to the table, or the hanging coconut shell, or the debris scattered below on the decking, none willing to share their position. Gradually they settle down and seem to become more tolerant, and even the robin slacks off his sentry duty.
A flash of yellow catches my eye and makes me look twice at the bird that's just arrived. Smaller than the chaffiches, with a deeper notch in the tail - female siskin. Another joins her, and finally a male arrives, smart in black, green and yellow.
The loch slowly reappears, punctuated by a small group of cormorants, their flight low and purposeful, heading southwest. Mallards squabble at the water's edge. The far side emerges as the rain eases off, a tapestry of green and brown and russet. The trees are beginning to turn colour; as if someone is tweaking the hue and intensity settings.
For a brief half-hour, the skies clear, and the birds, strange to relate, vanish.
Then the drizzle returns, and the far side starts to disappear once more.

Eye to the Telescope

Where did summer go? The last few swallows - late fledgelings of the last broods - are gathering themselves together, eating as much as they can before the long haul south. The geese have been arriving, dropping in in large numbers, whiffling down from the north to land in their old familiar fields. The rain continues to encourage the snails in my garden...

At this rate it'll be next year before I can blog this year.... so I've decided to do things out of order.

It's fifty years since someone had the bright idea of counting the geese, to see how many pass through and overwinter, and to find out how well they are breeding. 0545 on Sunday morning found Mum and me lurking on the edge of our usual field, waiting for the sun to come up, and the flocks to head out to feed. Naturally, things didn't go according to plan. It was about an hour before we could see more than the vague outline of the landscape, and the geese decided to have a Sunday morning lie-in, which left us feeling rather envious. By about 1000, only about seven thousand had left, and the rest were hanging about on the fields.

Which means taking a different approach to counting.

Back to the Visitor Centre, and set up with a telescope trained on the dense mass of grey-feathered bodies packed in 'tight as ticks on a hedgehog' on the Low Ground marsh, and in the grazing fields beyond. Counting is in clumps of five, rather than strings of twenty, and can only be a 'best guess' - how do you account for the rise and fall of the land, or the awkward geese that hide behind the gorse bushes?
I entertain thoughts of air traffic control - 'All geese in field 59 please proceed to the runway, take off and circle before landing again.' They are so much easier to count in the air!

My eyes ache by the time I'm done, and the traditional goose-count egg-and-bacon sandwich is very welcome as we tally up the count.
It's looking like a funny year. Although there were a lot of geese to begin with, most seem to have gone further south, with only 16-17,000 remaining at what is usually the peak time. Signs and portents? Or just geese being awkward?
Ah well. See what next month brings!

Slow Boat in the City - Part 2

15 July. Sometime today, we will have to turn round, but we’d like to see how far we can get! We’re heading deeper into the urban zone, beginning with Sale, and suburbia starts to blur into one long stretch of canal and back garden, with boats in various states of repair. At Stretford, we come to Waters Meeting – not far from Old Trafford – and a piece of modern sculpture almost hidden from view. Really urban now – towering piles of containers, and wharfsides, the old Pomona Lock, derelict sites and modern apartment blocks.

We make it all the way to Castlefield Junction and Quay, pretty much in the heart of Manchester, under a network of bridges which I find utterly fascinating.

Even here, nature is existing side by side with man – a young heron stalks fish from the canal bank, unconcerned by our passage.

We can’t go any further – from here it’s the Rochdale Canal, which requires negotiation with British Waterways – sounds fascinating though! So we turn round, and head back south, and the inevitable end of the journey. We make it as far as Moorefield Bridge, just beyond the lights of Daresbury


16 July. Another tunnel morning, and fine-timing! After successfully sliding through with few hold-ups, we stop at Anderton again, to take advantage of the shower block, and visit the Lift shop, before heading for Middlewich once more, by way of the Canal Craft shop at broken Cross, where Drew buys a traditionally painted stool.

As we go through Big Lock, we’re helped with the locking by a chap we met over a week ago, who just happens to live nearby. There is a moment of faintly hysterical hilarity as we rise up through the Middlewich Locks to come face to face with what I can only describe as a daisy-chain of dogs…
Back on the Middlewich Branch and the deep Wardle lock proves to be awkward, throwing us against the forward gate despite my best efforts to hold the boat in the middle of the lock; I am reassured by the lady in the lock cottage that this always happens, and just to let the bow sit against the gate. We moor up a short way after, below Bridge 30, and have fish and chips for supper.


17 July. Our last full day of cruising, and we plan to be almost back at the boatyard tonight. Back across the Cheshire plain, with the deep locks, and we find ourselves wishing that we’d found somewhere to do a second pump-out. There is the expected queue at Cholmondeston Lock, and a short visit to the Venetian Marina shop; no chance for the pump out here, we’ll have to make it to the morning! The weather seems to have settled into a routine – clear and sunny mornings, clouding over by mid-day and throwing it down in the afternoon, and today is no exception; it’s coming down in stair rods by the time we moor up for the night back on the Shropshire Union proper at Calveley, and do our packing.

18 July. All that remains is the last couple of miles and the Bunbury Staircase; we moor up at the yard by 9.00 am as required, and then it’s just emptying our gear from boat to car, and final handover stuff in the office (and complementary coffee, which was nice!) End of the journey, all 202 miles, 64 locks, (182 lock gates) and 329 feet and 5 inches up and down again, time to download all the photos, and figure out our next trip!

a couple of collections from the trip....

boat names

boat dogs

and for the interested, a Googlemap of the entire trip is here

Slow Boat in the City - Part 1

12 July. North! At least as far as Barbridge Junction, where we swing onto the Middlewich arm of the Shropshire Union Canal, (a low bridge marks the turn, and it’s a blind corner –lovely!) The locks along here are extremely deep, and can apparently get very busy – they take ages to fill, so the boats back up waiting. There are a couple of big marinas as well, so it gets pretty hectic at weekends. We make our way to Middlewich – a pretty sharp turn with locks involved. By the time we’ve navigated our way through the town, negotiating the masses of moored narrowboats at the yards, and stopped for water, we’re ready to stop for the night. Mooring is just before Big Lock (and it is!) and the conveniently placed Big Lock Pub. Of course we did, and very good it was too.

Big Lock pub, Middlewich

13 July. Now we’re on the Trent and Mersey Canal, and the first task of the day is Big Lock. Fortunately there’s someone else to go through with (it’s one of the double-width ones) and we’re away up towards Manchester. Some interesting features of the canal here are the flashes beside the channel (keep to the marked bit!) where there are the rusting remains of scuttled boats from the fifties. Many have been raised and restored, but some are beyond help.

derelict in Billinge Green Flash

The landscape takes an industrial turn after we go through Broken Cross, the canal passing under the pipes of the ICI works, where an unexpected club mooring makes things interesting.
After passing the Lion Salt Works (seen on the BBC’s ‘Restoration’ programme, we have lunch at Marbury Country Park, before going a little further to moor up at Anderton, where the shore party investigate the Anderton Boat Lift.


14 July. Timing is the thing, heading north from the Anderton lift. There are tunnels, and they are on a timer…first comes Barnton, and then Saltersford – you have a twenty minute slot between the hour and twenty past going north, and then it’s a two hour run to Preston Brook tunnel if you don’t want to wait around. There are no towpaths in the tunnels, and it’s easy to imagine the old boatmen ‘legging’ their way along while their horses went the airy route over the top. Passing the Black Prince boatyard is a bit of a squeeze, too. Just before Preston Brook is Dutton Stop Lock, with a grand fall of six inches…not so much a lock as a water control mechanism, but it seems very strange going through the motions for such a small change in level!

Dutton Stop Lock

Preston Brook Tunnel is impressive, with an almost cathedral-like space below the second airhole from the west; we emerged to find ourselves now on the Bridgewater Canal, and after passing under the M56, we head further north, past Daresbury ( a very modern ‘innovation campus’). The canal is wide, and although Mum’s search for a post office is in vain, the scenery’s not bad. There are no locks, and we chug peacefully along some way above the Manchester Ship canal.

Lymm (above) seems to be almost all marina, with a boat at the bottom of the garden the order of the day. We finally moor up at Little Bollington, on a windy canal bank.

Slow Boat in the Sky - Part 2

Yes, well…before this year’s holiday overtakes us I reckon I’d better finish writing about last year! Where were we?

Oh yes, moored up at Llangollen, listening to Barbara Dickson…

8 July. Next morning saw a shore party heading off into the town to have a look at what was happening – dancing in the streets, and plenty of music. Back on the boat, the sounds of the Eisteddfod drifted across from the festival ground, all the international competitors taking part in the various competitions. The horse-drawn barges clip-clopped past on their way to the waterfalls, and the day was spent just chilling out, and looking at where our boat might take us over the next week or so.

round the town, and the horse-boats

9 July. Another high-in-the-sky day, with the excitement of crossing the aqueducts again. One thing about doing an out-and-back route instead of a circuit is you get a second chance at the photographs… there was the usual throng of boats at Trevor, though fortunately not so many dayboats causing chaos, and we waited to get into convoy across the Pontcysyllte. More tunnels and the Chirk aqueduct, and we were back to locks and an over night stop (and dinner) at the Jack Mytton pub.

on the Ponte (Drew)


between the tunnels.



10 July. The main aim of today was to get a pump-out. (Oh the romance of boating!) We found a helpful boatyard at the Blackwater Marina, and once that was done, took a side-trip up the Ellesmere Arm for some lunch and to replenish the stores. The highlight was Vermeulens’ Delicatessen, which provided a wonderful selection of delights; we’d recommend anyone taking the trip to make appoint of stopping and shopping! Drew made a very elegant three-point turn of the boat up by the new wharf (much to the disappointment of the gongoozalers on the bank) and we headed off again, through the open farmland and mosses to our overnight mooring at Grindley Brook, ready to tackle the staircase in the morning.

Ellesmere and around

11 July. Tonight finds us back at Hurleston Junction, in almost the same place as we spent our first night, planning new explorations. Farewell to the Llangollen Canal. We’ve got almost another week, and we’ve covered the ground (or water) we’d planned to do – so where now? We’ve done the countryside – how about some urban landscapes for a change?