The hefferlumps on holiday

[Hefferlump]

10th July 2010

I’m late, i’m late, for a very important date!!

 

The 10th July dawns, D-Day, and we are as prepared as we will ever be, which isn’t very prepared at all. Well, that isn’t strictly true. For the fortnight away we had pared our packing down to the bone and were only taking 7 t-shirts each and a couple of pairs of trousers/ jeans/shorts each as well. Mrs H balked at the idea of a mere one pair of undertrollies a week (was she never a student, one pair used to last me a month in those days!) but we thought we had it sussed. In fact, we had it so sussed we sensibly bought one of those big laundry bags for the clothing and shoes we were taking.

 

So, why weren’t things going according to plan? Well, we had arranged to collect some food from a farmer friend of ours and me, like the prat I am, had i) drunk too much the night before (it was an open bottle and needed putting out of its misery) ii) overslept and iii) arranged to collect the meat from somewhere in completely the opposite direction to the one we had to travel in. So, come Saturday, it is noon and we have to be four hours distant, with four hours to get there and another hour of getting ready to do. We are doing the 4C but, as we are starting a day and a half north of Middlewich, it is more of a lasso than a ring.

 

The best laid plans, eh? As soon as I pick up the sensibly purchased and compactly packed laundry bag it utters a scream and the handles snap. “Perhaps we have overdone the underwear”, I say. “**&%$£££”, Mrs H says so, having manhandled the bag into a car and packed a truss in anticipation of any future hernia, we head out of sweaty London by 1.00pm...and arrive an hour late as expected! North of where we are leaving from (Preston Brook) is apparently starting to resemble the Sahara and people are renting camels for the run from Wigan to Skipton. Heading sarf, however, is a different matter.

 

55 feet sounded big to two gongoozlers but, actually, it really is the opposite of the Tardis. It is bijou and compact with no wasted space whatsoever. NB Beeston Castle will be our home for a fortnight so we have to love it and it has to love us, although the Glasgow Kiss I receive as I hit my head on the hatch is not what I had in mind. However, our guide for the start takes us through all we need to know (and some we immediately forget) before we head through the Dutton tunnel. I drive, our hirer explains and Mrs H sits on a seat, relaxing immediately except for the moment that one of my manoeuvres almost brains her on the wall. “Keep within the profile of the boat” I said. “***&% off”, she replies. Then, emerging into daylight again, we hit our first lock. She drove, I windlassed and it was easy. Fine, you might say it was only a six inch stop lock but it was the first we had done and we had done it well. Of course, during all this time we had been at the stern and the cameras we had packed were at the front, meaning that, inevitably, the collective wildlife of the North West assembled on the towpath and didn’t move as we passed by. Herons, badgers, kingfishers, wildebeest...all give us a rousing send off. As you can guess, as soon as dropped off our guide, took control ourselves and hurriedly collected the camera, that same wildlife found something infinitely more interesting to do and buggered off.

 

Well, after a couple of miles or so we moored by Ryan’s bridge, having passed other boats already hunkered down for the day. This city dweller has already picked up the first wound of the trip, a vicious splinter from the handle of the lump hammer. On route to our mooring for the night we had seen several old, almost derelict wooden working boats moored opposite the towpath and, as they seemed seldom visited, Mrs H remarked how convenient they would be to hide a body in. I resolve to hide all sharp implements. By the time the sun had set we have eaten, we have dodged a shower or two, we can still hear trains and cars so are breaking ourselves into the countryside gently (if they could chuck in the odd aircraft and some police sirens it would sound like Hackney) but we are relaxed, pleasantly mellow, the subject of the odd photo and looking forwards to what tomorrow brings which, it appears, does not involve any locks.

 

Until tomorrow

Edited July 26, 2010 by Hefferlump

[Hefferlump]

11th July 2010

 

That is a stupid place to put a corner!

 

Day two arrives and we are raring to go. Saltersfort and Barnton tunnels and, whilst waiting for the clock to tick over to allow entry, two other boats handled by experienced crews arrived. Although first in the queue we decided to follow them. However, just as the trucking convoy moved towards the entrance an unlicenced cruiser overladen with Chavs bounces its way out. Oh well, replace it with a nicked VW Golf and it could be London.

 

After Preston Brook tunnel the previous day I was fairly certain that the two short tunnels we were facing would present no problems. I was right. Corners, on the other hand......

 

 

.....whoever decided to stick bridge 201 on a corner or the corner by the bridge is a personal enemy of mine now and I will hunt him down. Enough speed to steer...yep! Enough left turn...nope! The bang on the bank dislodged some of the washing up and caused the resident on the boat moored after the bridge to look backwards. What would have filled his vision was a boat hurtling towards him despite full reverse.

 

I claim it was measured! If you stop a foot short and don’t hit the other boat then there was no accident and I didn’t understand the reason for the bad language from Mrs H. There again, I wasn’t at the pointy bit staring death in the face!!

 

The rest of the day was pretty steady, although why fate decides that you will only meet someone coming in the opposite direction as you are both approaching the same bridge is beyond me. On our trip to the outskirts of Middlewich we got through the stench of Northwich asap and soon had 4 hours of really pleasurable cruising under our belts. We moor up early just short of the Croxton aquaduct (the Ponty it isn’t) and I am sent off to buy bread and milk at 4.30pm on a Sunday. Thank God for Tescos Express (I NEVER thought I would praise that godawful company). I return with all I was sent for plus plenty of stuff I wasn’t. Sadly, however, my provisions did not include salt or pepper, which makes the eggs for breakfast tomorrow not as appealing as they should be. It continues downhill as my longterm bet on Holland for WC glory goes tits up but a late recovery is achieved with a decent bottle of burgundy. See you tomorrow, assuming that the horseflies haven’t eaten me; it appears I am part of their foodchain.

 

TTFN

[Hefferlump]

12th July 2010

 

I have a lump hammer with Thomas Schaffernacker’s name on it.

 

“Some light showers but brightening up in the afternoon”, he said on BBC breakfast news. Not where we were. Quite frankly we would have been drier if we had got out of the boat and climbed into the canal! You know, the type of rain that makes you realise a lot of waterproofs aren’t, well, waterproof. The type of rain that is incessant and finds almost every inch of your body and the inches it doesn’t find didn’t interest it much anyway.

It was not a day for the Cheshire locks but we were going to give it a go, sometimes with the help gratefully received from a couple making their way back to Bristol, who joined us at the Big Lock in Middlewich. They stopped to shop, we kept on trucking with yours truly avoiding any explanation about what Mrs H was to face. Being disabled meant that she had to drive into and out of the locks and, as someone who can have difficulties in standing, that was the last thing she needed on a day that was making her condition worse because of the weather. But, today, more than any other day, she was a star. I am not saying she didn’t complain; she did. I am not saying she didn’t swear, she did, and with great gusto and inventiveness. But everything she had to do she did and, as I know how things can be with her, she deserves a medal.

 

Our journey was not as eventful as the previous day but it did have its moments. As a, now, ex Gongoozler can I ask why the horns on most canal boats have the volume of a pealess whistle blown by an 80 a day smoker? I mean, what is the point of them. I have farted louder than those!! Someone joining from the Shroppie almost T boned us (our hire boat has a superb reverse gear, thankfully) but said he had sounded the horn. I am sure he did, he was very pleasant about it...but we didn’t hear a thing. Give them decent horns FFS!!

 

Most of the day, weather wise, was a misery and, for Mrs H, a real effort. The Bristolians caught us up and we had their help when required and, in the end (thanks to my inability to properly read the Canal AC route I had planned out) we did two locks more than required. I say that, but when I checked it and it had us sleeping virtually under the M6 if I had kept to that plan. Between lock 55 and Chell’s aquaduct is far more pleasant and, as I type, the rain has stopped and we are both showered, warm and dry. Fortunately, in mooring, I had not rammed a moored cruiser (it looked empty but I discovered that it wasn’t when I walked past) but it was more by luck than judgment. I blame Mrs H, who, as I brought the Beest in for the final ‘kiss’ of the bank, announced there was a small duckling panicking and swimming into the narrowing gap rather than away from it. Well, I avoided crushing it (if you have ever had your arm hairs gripped by Mrs H you would have done anything to stop the pain as well). A subsequent downer, though, is that the Bristolians have passed our mooring and, on being asked where they are going, they say one more lock and then a stop at Rode Heath for a takeaway Chinese. If only we or rather, Nicholson’s, had known....I fancied crispy duck.

 

Until tomorrow

[twbm]

Good stuff, keep it coming.

[Janet S]

Oh yes, please keep it coming! It's the funniest thing I've read in ages!

 

Janet

[imnogeek]

Most enjoyable, I look forward to the next installment

[Hefferlump]

13th July 2010

 

Aww Crap!

 

The day dawns grey, cloudy but mercifully dry for our next assault on the Cheshire locks. In response to Mrs H’s question of “There is a funny smell. What’s cooking?” I replied “Our trainers at Gas Mark 2. How else are they to dry?”, thus rendering her speechless for breakfast (I must remember that trick).

 

Today did not seem as intense as the previous day, mainly because, at our first lock, we had a wait for a good hour in a queue. Strangely there was bugger all coming down to slow us but about six or seven boats had arrived at the same time in our direction, and the first one in the queue was a butty (yep, I am learning the lingo!). I really couldn’t see how both “halves” made it into the lock but it did and, as it was a single lock as opposed to subsequent twin locks, it was really the only hold up. It was also at this lock that we first bumped into (not physically) narrow boat “Vingt-Deux” and its owner, who single hands it around the country. Anyway, as I sit in the boat now, at 10.30pm, I have decided he is one of boating’s true gents. If, on your travels, you come across him say “Beeston Castle” says ‘hi’ as, today, he was full of good advice given in a broad Scouse accent and yelled to Mrs H from the boat behind. “More throttle”, “Give it a whack”, “A touch of reverse in the locks means you can rest gently on the gates” meant she became more and more confident in the boat. Mind you, we were spoilt for people to chat to and receive advice off. If you know the couple who own a choc lab called “Polly” say hello to them for us. One other boat also saved our bacon...we had moored up for lunch and Muggins here thought “A simple middle line attached to a mooring pin will hold it”. Well, as we sat at the stern our attention was drawn to a boat sounding a pretty decent horn (so they do exist) from behind us and gesticulating wildly in our direction. I looked at the towpath and couldn’t see a problem (we were still just as close it appeared) but, on standing up, I saw our bow was wandering regally across the canal and the middle rope was in the water. I managed to rescue the boat and get us back in, thinking that trying to find the mooring pin in the long grass would be impossible as we had drifted forward as well. I need not have worried as the mooring pin found me...reeling in the rope from the water revealed the mooring pin still resolutely held in the knot I had tied. Well, I say revealed; I only became aware of it as it smacked me hard on the shin, immediately taking my mind off the numerous insect bites I had collected so far.

 

The other matter of note was my brilliant method of reducing the amount of washing up you need do. Simply break on a bollard, by rope, from too fast an entry speed. It is guaranteed to reduce the amount of usable crockery at a stroke. I do not recommend, however, leaving a Ribena bottle with the lid off as it is so bloody sticky underfoot and, mixed with shattered glass, makes cleaning up so much harder. Still, I have now used the boat’s mop, probably the first hirer of a Narrowboat ever to do so.

 

We moored early as per the Canal AC’s suggestion, at the Red Bull Station near the Red Bull pub. We recommend it if you get the chance to stop...good food and decent beer (Hartley’s Cambria Way slipped down a treat). I mention, though, that on your return at night you will find the station’s gates are locked, meaning that you have to use the towpath all the way to get back to your boat if you have moored up. Normally, of course, that is of no problem...but with a wheelchair it is, especially if the chair is wider than the entrance to self same towpath. Fortunately the now resolute Mrs H, with me as a willing assistant, was able to “cane” her way down the slope to underneath the bridge and I followed her down, huffing and puffing, with a manhandled wheelchair. I needed it more than her after that. All in all it was a good day....

 

....which may have you wondering why I have named today’s entry as I have. Well, in the hours of darkness it is bloody difficult to see dog poo, but you soon notice if you have “shoed” some onto the boat by the attendant smell that has you wondering whether you have become in sudden and urgent need of a pump out and that you must give up curry. Now, this observation might not win me many friends but, by and large, the only dogs I have seen crapping on the towpath and the result being left behind have been from full or part-time boaters (not Polly’s owners though, who were meticulous in towpath etiquette). Moor up, let the dog out and then wait for him/her to return. Do you do that? Well, it isn’t on, is it? If it is your dog, then clean it up...plastic bags are not only for the top of mooring pins.

 

So, to bed. The forecast for tomorrow is a repeat of yesterdays but at least the wet weather gear is now dry (but, as it doesn’t really work what does that matter?). If it really lashes it down I will try and linger really slowly through Harcastle as I am sure the hill above is more effective at stopping rain than my waterproofs.

 

Night night.

Edited July 29, 2010 by Hefferlump

[Hefferlump]

14th July 2010

 

OK...which one of us rides shotgun?

 

Don’t you just hate Bill Gates?? Although this is Thursday morning as I sit in the launderette at Burlaston typing up yesterday’s entry, it is the second time I have done so. Why? Because just as I had almost finished the entry dear old Bill’s programme decided to restart the computer after some uptdating and, furthermore, not keep the entry I had typed, together with removing two month's worth of work files. Cheers, Billy boy!!

 

We have been setting our alarm for 7.00am every morning but have woken at 6 each day! However, rarely do we head off before 9.00am and today is no exception. We water up and put the rubbish off (I think BW have upset the binmen as it is overflowing there and, naughty naughty BW, there is no glass recycling bin I can see). Another boat, doing the 4C in the opposite direction, turns up gasless and "Vingt-Deux", wearing that shining armour once again, is on hand to boil them a kettle. He then hops on board for the first two locks to give Mrs H a couple of really useful tips, and then it is off to Harcastle...to become boat number 9 in a 10 boat queue. The good news is that 9 of us are being let through (well, not good news for number 10, obviously) and, after half an hour or so we are on our way.

 

What can one say about tha famous Harcastle tunnel? Dark, damp, narrow and 45 minutes long, that’s what. As we head in the keeper says something about walking out if things go wrong, which would be ok for me but Mrs H would need a snorkel or some waterwings on the wheelchair, so fingers are crossed that nothing goes wrong, and it doesn’t.

 

The rain we had been promised doesn’t appear until we start on the Stoke locks, but only lasts for an hour and, although it is cold, it is not heavy. We were, however, a bit wary as, at RB, a BW notice stated that there were anti-vandal keys on locks 40 and 35. Bandit country, we thought. It started off well, with every lock being set for us and people coming up at the same time either sharing or doing all the work, but the industrial landscape (mainly derelict around the newer developments) is in stark contrast to most of what has gone before. The now demolished factory sites are huge acres of derelict land that may remain so for some time in this credit crunch time and most remaining businesses seem to have seen better days. One, however, takes our eye. We think it was called “Dolphin” and contained the worldly pleasures of tackle and bait, engine repairs, air guns, a shooting gallery and, if none of that has tempted you, Country & Western and American line dancing! That must have been one hell of a business plan to present to the bank!

 

On through Stoke, at one lock managing to step out of the way of two lads bombing, bare-headed and undoubtedly uninsured, along the towpath on unlicenced motor bikes. Great, I thought, gripping the windlass even harder. And still the vandals’ favourite target, 35, to come. What would it hold???

 

Well, what it held was a pleasant run past a lot of houses with gardens down to the bank, friendly dogs and their owners, and a semi rural landscape. We had passed where Canal AC had said we should stop (it would have been difficult to coral one narrow boat in case our preconceptions was right and it was dangerous) but we were not going to make Stone, so stopped at Burlaston, within virtual touching distance of both a pub and, sadly, a major rail line and automatic road barrier with attendant beeping...which happened so rarely we could be in the back of beyond. A trip to the pub and a return with the beer; all done just in time to beat a huge thunderstorm that even drives the ducks away. Water bouncing off everywhere but we are able to leave the rear doors open with the hatch closed and watch nature at its finest. After 40 minutes there is clear blue sky, we have eaten and are having a cuppa on the stern in the peace and quiet. All in all a pretty decent day.

 

It certainly beats working...

[Janet S]

Sounds so familiar and absolutely fabulous!

 

Great report. I look forward to more....

 

Janet

[Sue1946]

Well done - this is a really great cruise blog!

Keep 'em coming?

[Hefferlump]

15th July 2010

 

Towpath telegraph.

 

Apparently there is one! We had sent an email to "Vingt-Deux" informing him of where we had berthed for the night and he said he already knew because of this phenomenon. Of course, that meant that we must have done something noteworthy to be noticed...and not necessarily in a good way. Sadly, this evening the mobile internet signal is no more that 1kbps apparently and there are no carrier pigeons at hand so we cannot even check what it was. We consider trying to lasso and use a swan but, hell, have you heard them hiss??

 

Anyway, laundry out of the way we start particularly late from our mooring but we do have time on our side. Every boater we pass, and there aren’t many, all say that there are 60 MPH winds on the way with attending rain, thunder and plague of boils. Because of my insect bites and bruises from careless use of mooring posts, lock gates and lump hammers I have no fear of the latter as there is probably little untouched flesh the boils could attack. However, we prepare, wrapped up to the nines, and barely see a cloud for most of the day. So, Stone here we come....

 

...and...

 

 

.... Stone here we go! I know it is a canal town and I fully expected plenty of permanent moorings, but I would struggle to park Top Gear’s reasonably priced car in the available spaces for temporary stops. It is not as if we are late, what, 2.00pm or so, so my advice, if you want to visit the town, is to moor overnight just north or south of Stone (depending on your direction of travel) then grab a place by 9.00am the following day and set the crew to repel boarders and carpetbaggers, allowing the use of grapeshot if necessary. Definitely a shortage of temporary moorings but, I suppose, BW want the yearly money. However, it must be said that some boats moored do not appear to have moved since Noah’s flood and I wonder whether the town itself is missing out on passing trade. It certainly missed out on ours.

 

We resolve, having spoken to a boat coming up, to stop at the Salt bridge. We are desperately short of milk and the sight of Mrs H without a morning cuppa is not something you want to witness. Off to the village I walk and, although there is a cracking pub with apparently excellent food, there is a distinct lack of bovine derived produce. Crash helmet and reinforced codpiece it is for me tomorrow morning then, so I stay at the pub for a beer...

 

The rain we were promised has finally set in at 10.00pm but we are nicely locked down, protected against the wind, rain and smell of dog crap. The latter is seemingly a cash crop here as I can see no other reason for its profusion...except boaters. This time I am pretty certain it is boaters as no one else seems to use this towpath; certainly not the locals as they are over half a mile away. CLEAR UP AFTER YOUR DOG!!!

 

Nighty-night

[Mikeonb4c]

Just read this diary - ooooh I did enjoy it. Wot a larf

[Hefferlump]

16th July 2010

 

Do we need a passport?

 

Again we wake up early and make no use of the time. Mrs H insists on being fed strawberries whilst in bed to be followed by a round of toast. I tell her that it is hardly equitable as she knew we were running out of milk as well, so it wasn’t all my fault, but she was having none of it....and she had none of the toast either as the toaster’s use immediately tripped the inverter, a surprise to me as we had done a decent run yesterday and the batteries should have been charged.

 

I apologise, now, to the commuters on the train passing our berth for the sight of me in my trollies. In my defence it was either those or a plastic poncho and a sudden gust of wind could have seen me in court and labelled a flasher. We resolve (well, I do, the only Resolve Mrs H knows is the hangover cure) to make sure that the batteries are fully charged.

 

We stop, first, at Weston for milk. I was disappointed to see last night I was less than a mile from a tidy-looking pub that had the added advantage of poo-free mooring. I take the brief walk into the village; it is described as pretty but what I saw alongside the main road wasn't great save for a really beautiful flower display outside the cottage next to the pub. Postcards posted (do I know 19 people I want to send postcards to? Apparently), tea brewed and onward to Hayward for water.

 

The day can at best be described as blustery. We warn one boat passing about a shallow stretch of canal and then look back and see them appearing to aim for it until they are stuck. We first timers do not know just what effect wind can have on a NB, even on a narrow canal. It is a hard drag into it and, at one lock, I arrive, see where I should wait but end up on completely the opposite side of the canal. Mrs H’s comment, “Aren’t you meant to be over there?” was a waste of breath and, a week ago, would have resulted in some comment involving words such as “state”, “bleeding” and “obvious” back. Instead I simply said “I know”. Perhaps I am finally relaxed as the only other explanation for my complete change of attitude is that there is a pod somewhere back on the canal, out of which this body exited, and Donald Sutherland is about to point at Mrs H and utter a moan before I try and tear her limb from limb! I then carry out a textbook move to get us over to the correct side and then see an obviously experienced boater do exactly the same as I had done...and get out of it exactly the same way as I did as well. Mrs H is impressed.

 

One strange thing did happen though. As we pass a moored boat a chap was looking out of the side doors and asks “First time?” “Yes”, I say. “Do you go on the canal forums?” “Yes”, I reply again. “Are you hefferlump?” Subsequent research shows it was a user Ataraxia on the Just Canals forum but I do want to know his secret. I mean, as a lawyer it would be a real gift to get to the bottom of anything in three questions!! Actually, cancel that, all the cases would finish too quickly!!

 

Finally, Hayward, and where we take our leave of the T & M and look forward to a new canal. We shop at the canal farm shop ("Ouch!!", said my wallet) and go and water up. As that is happening a NB exits the S & W, intending, we discover, to head south and thus reverse into the water stop. “This could be interesting”, I thought, as the wind might cause a few problems but there was then the reassuring sound of bow thrusters so I looked away....

 

....and looked back when I realised that the thrusters couldn’t cope with the wind and the boat is drifting broadside on. My new muscles helped to heave it in and then I engaged in what, I have now discovered, blokes thrown together on a towpath do. We compared insect bites. He was impressed with the horsefly feast that had occurred on my right calf and happily regaled me with how his had resulted in a visit to hospital as he had seen the poison travelling, as a red line, up his arm. Drips and all sorts had followed. He then looked at me as if I was slightly loony as I tried to examine the back of my own leg and acting as if the reverse crab was a natural position to adopt...think of geriatric limbo dancing with a musical accompaniment of bone cracking and sinew twanging.

 

Exiting Hayward we head to the first lock and meet one coming the other way, so I have a brief chat (insect bite resulting in it turning septic, apparently). Honestly, these discussions were beginning to remind me of Monty Python’s “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch. I am waiting to be greeted with, “You think that is bad. This leg fell off the last time I was bitten and I had to sew it back on. You have had it easy, you have!”

 

Tixall Wide came and went as we really wanted to make sure we had given the engine a proper run and the batteries were charged. As a result, of course, the heavens opened and we got soaked...well, I did as I have already described the usefulness of my waterproofs. Mrs H, on the other hand, looked resplendent and, more importantly, dry in her blue poncho. By the time we got to the Radford Bridge in Stafford I was wet, tired and cold so decided to call it a day.

 

I should say, now, that my overnight mooring skills are things of wonder. I was, again, perfect as I fitted in the gap seemingly made for The Beest. That, of course, makes my still pathetic knot tying of the middle rope, and its resultant lack of usefulness, whenever I reach a temporary halt at locks or wherever, all the more galling. I have descended to the novices trick of “Tie as Big a Knot as Possible, It Looks Impressive and Might Work”. It still doesn’t work, of course, but it reassures the Missus.

 

So, bed is now calling me as I feel rather tired. I am retiring to the sound of the following being said by a couple to a friend as the pass the boat: “Remember, the dog poo is up here”. Have I told you my view about poo on towpaths......?

 

G'night

[Hefferlump]

17th July 2010

 

“You don't wanna do it like that!”

 

Saturday morning sees me wondering off to post a forgotten card and then continuing on to a retail park for some insect repellent. I resolve to make Mrs H love me even more than she does by buying her some Eccles Cakes from a local shop and, all in all, I am away over an hour. Mrs H was not pleased and had imagined all sorts of horrors as I had not answered any of her numerous texts or increasingly panicked calls. Having self-righteously stated that I had my ‘phone with me, and it hadn’t rung or beeped once, I produced Exhibit A and immediately discovered I had it set to mute. Even the Eccles cakes didn’t swing a merciful sentence.

 

Today was not a good day. It seemed that whatever we had learnt we had forgotten except, strangely, I had the temporary “waiting for the lock knot” sorted. We hit front gates for the first time; Mrs H, in order to stop a drift back in a lock, gave it more reverse and went faster; I started to open a top paddle before checking the bottom ones and, finally, we were greeted by the Harry Enfield of Penkridge.

 

It must be said that Penkridge had not gone well anyway as a hire boat had parked at the bollards before the middle lock in order to go shopping. I found myself tutting and muttering about hirers, for God’s sake!! I had had to do some fancy parking, twice, to get into the lock just as the missing hirers returned and then Mrs H accusingly asked why I thought I had the right to jump their place in the queue! That did not put me in a good mood for my meeting with Harry.

 

Now, no one had said that there was a shortage of water on the S & W; in fact we had been told there was no problem. Now this lock did not appear to have any mooring posts so, overseen by a spectator who was soon to be revealed as Harry, I parked it at the seemingly best place just before the lock (next to mown grass is often a give-away), pulled the boat sideways and went and opened the gates as it was set for us. Walking back Harry said, “You didn’t want to stop there, there is a sandstone ledge and you will have run aground. You shouldn’t have done it like that.” Cue a panic from Mrs H, whose mad revving discovers that we are, indeed, bottomed out and stuck. “You will want to move it out into the middle”, remarked Harry. I clenched the windlass tighter and smiled. “The last person we (although he only seemed to have a dog for company) saw doing this meant that we had to rock them violently until they were off”. Cue sobbing and approaching hysteria from the boat and increasingly violent thoughts from me. As I lean over from the bank and rock and push the boat I am met with screams of “Don’t fall in, don’t fall in. You are going to fall in,” from Mrs H, now rigid, hyperventilating and in meltdown. Of course, a deep breath from her at that moment would have made her realise that, if we were aground, it was probably a foot deep at that point and I could paddle out, but at that point Harry chirped in with, “If you manage to get in watch the left gate, it opens of its own accord whilst it is filling.” Cue wailing from Mrs H (who imagines herself hammering back towards Penkridge on something resembling the Severn Bore) and, from me, a murderous glint in my eye accompanied by slightly mad and high pitched giggling coupled with imaginative thoughts about the ways I will rid the world of Harry.

 

I get us off, we get in, and there is absolutely no problem with the left gate or any other gate. There is also no sign of Harry either, and I begin to think I might have imagined him.

 

The rest of the day was uneventful. We have now moored for the night just south of Long Moll’s bridge. Mrs H has now reached the karmatic state that only a bottle of Chardonnay can achieve and has retired for the night. I have declined to tell her that the area is apparently renowned for bats feeding on insects over the water as that would find her frantically making a crucifix, whittling stakes and grabbing the lump hammer...and I rather fear she may use the latter two items on me! I, on the other hand, am watching my assorted bites oozing stuff no human body should contain.

 

Until tomorrow............

[Sue1946]

Ouch!

(From laughter that is)!

Please, do, keep this up?

[Trooperdan]

Please keep this up! I am going to hate for your trip to end, great reading!

[Hefferlump]

18th July 2010

 

Reginald Molehusband? Not me!!

 

Everything that was wrong with yesterday is right today. Everything that we had forgotten yesterday was crystal clear in our minds today. Stuff we didn’t know came to us as second nature. Yes, it was as near a perfect day as you could have (we work on the basis that no day is perfect as, if it is, it will never be repeated and life will not be worth living). We awoke to muttered comments, by gruff-sounding voices outside, about boilers, slingshots and “using the big Pole” so, in the expectation of an Eastern European version of a brick shithouse barrelling his way through the doors, I emerge innocuously swinging the lump hammer...to find a group of sedate anglers beginning a match around the boat. We have brekkie, I check the weedhatch (all clear for the first time ever) and, wonders of wonders, the batteries have lasted the night. We prepare and head off south for our last day on the S & W and hit a steady beat all the way to Autherley. En route a group of young kids on some form of canoe experience stand up in their canoes, salute and shout “Aye, aye, Captain” as we pass (I point out to Mrs H the respect I was shown, she replies I should savour the experience as it will undoubtedly be a unique one). The Mocker Gods gain revenge on her though, as I run aground at a corner but extricate us by simply asking her to move to the front. She returns knowing that the transfer of her weight to the front caused us to lift; I say nothing even though I know that is the case and she knows I know that is the case. I also know that she will spend hours wondering why I haven’t come out with some pithy comment or other about diets but I have changed and wouldn’t dream of doing so, or at least not whilst she is expecting it. I will save it up and put it in the bank for future use! Thank you, Mocker Gods!!

 

Through the Narrows just outside of the junction the traffic is with us and, despite yet another sharp shower (coinciding, as usual, with a visit by Mrs H to the pump-out) we approach the junction with the Shropshire Union. Another NB is just ahead of us and makes a bit of a Horlicks of the sharp right turn. I pull in to go and check for their clearing away through the stoplock and to see if anything is coming down (it is) When they are all clear, it is my turn.

 

I hit nothing and the turn was a smooth as David Niven in a DJ. Into the stopper and then out to water up and visit the shop that boasts that it stocks provisions. It is this part of the day that stops it being perfect. Firstly, the pressure in the tap is so low it must be being drawn though by a plodding, half dead donkey tied to a wheel, hidden from sight nearby and walking aimlessly, and slowley, in a circle, meaning it takes ages. Secondly, it appears,that in the dictionary of Staffordshire English the word “provisions” only means cans of fizzy drink and UHT milk kept in a fridge (why??); you want bikkies...they have ‘em. However, if you want bacon, butter or anything decent to make a cuppa with, you will be sorely disappointed.

 

Still, we are on the Shroppie, and what a delight it is. Wonderful views interspersed with deep and brooding cuttings crossed by photogenic bridges. I wildly point a camera at a heron in flight and get it in shot and, when we reach Brewood we pull up for the required supplies. Mrs H gets up the steps under her own power (something she would not have attempted just over a week ago) and I manage to carry up the wheelchair without turning that wonderful shade of puce only my doing any form of exercise used to achieve. Into the square to discover a music festival in full flight so I leave Mrs H being entertained and hit the Co-op. Suitably replenished I even manage to grab a couple of Pimms (in aid of Cancer Research makes it taste even better) and we were on the point of staying longer until the singer made a fatal mistake. Now, although I am into my early fifties I can still remember what it is like to be young. I still feel young even though my knees creak and I walk like a constipated duck first thing in the mornings until my joints are properly working. I even like some of the current music. I mean, modern music is not The Stones, Floyd or Man but some of it is bearable. I even quite like some of Lady Gaga’s stuff....

 

...but....

 

... I do not like Lady Gaga’s stuff sung by a bloke with a belly and in his mid forties who tries some of her moves. It is something I had never wanted to witness (or thought I would for that matter) and, even now, I am trying to erase the memory. We beat a retreat and resolved to make the Hartley Arms at Wheaton Aston, especially as Nicholson’s says that there is disabled access both sides of bridge 19.

 

The first lock after Brewood provides a bit of an eye-opener as we meet a trio of “boaters” on a small cruiser. You will note the use of quotation marks and I do so here as, at the end of your ISDN line, you will not have seen me doing that really naff quotation marking over each shoulder that Southerners tend to do when they are being posey. As I approached I noticed that the lock both set and the gate was open in our direction, so I began to head towards it. As I did so a double of the trio came into view at the bottom lock gates, one crossed the gate and then began to open the lock paddles. “We might be quicker than I planned through here,” I thought, worriedly, but thought I had better sound the horn. It took three goes at it for the one trying to open the paddles to look around and finally stop what she was doing. “Sorry, I was miles away”, she said, when I finally joined here, leaving me to wish it wasn’t only in her mind. I approached the other, I thought, untouched paddle to be told by number 2 that, “she was finding it a little bit stiff and couldn't open it!!” Thinking that this was their first ever time out (oh, my pride of a week's experience) I decided to impart some of my widely held knowledge of that week to her. I said that she should always check in the opposite direction as it could save them some work, and, to feign interest, I asked how far they were heading. “We have a mooring at Brewood,” was the frightening reply, closely followed with, “where have I put the handle?” I discovered it, as she looked in the grass, still attached to the paddle handle with the safety catch barely gripping. I regaled her with tales of smashed jaws and noses but even then, I think she wasn’t taking it that seriously.

 

Moving on to Heaton Ashton, as we run slowly down towards bridge 19 I decide, too late, to swing into a gap big enough for a 70 footer meaning I miss it completely. I then notice a space one back from the bridge (and thus closer to the pub) and think I might do it if I use bow thrusters. I don’t use them as I don’t have them. However, I can see it is mooring there or nowhere. I decide to spread some of the blame if it goes pear-shaped by asking Mrs H if she thinks The Beest will fit. She squawks, “What, there? No way!” I couldn’t understand why she was being so definite in her decision until I saw she was pointing at a gap that I couldn’t have fitted one of those silly electric cars in; it was barely a yard long! “No”, I said, “That one”, and indicated my target. “What, there?” she squawked again, “no way!” However,by then I was committed and, do you know what, this grand old 55 footer slid perfectly into a 56 foot gap without hitting the bank, the boats at front and back, or me needing to use the middle rope. Just in case you wonder whether this one week hirer has made a typo I will repeat it. It went in WITHOUT HITTING THE BANK, THE BOATS AT FRONT AND BACK, OR ME NEEDING TO USE THE MIDDLE ROPE. I drive a Mondeo, a big car, it turns on a sixpence, but I would never dream of trying to park in a space a foot bigger than the car and, let’s face it, the bonnet on the car is considerably shorter than the 54 feet of "bonnet" I am driving here!

 

Moored up we resolve to investigate the disabled access promised in Nicholson’s. I quote, “There is wheelchair access on both sides of the canal at bridge 19”. It is a minor error, I must email them with a correction and I correct it now. It should read, “There is no wheelchair access on either side of bridge 19. Well, there is on the pub side before the bridge but that is a private mooring, after the bridge on the same side is a mooring by a garage for filling up; opposite that there is no route up for anybody and the remaining route up is an unmade gravel slope with a gate a wheelchair user could not open, immediately followed by a step” Put that in the new edition, Nicholson’s!

 

However, I sit here tonight happy with my lot. The day was rounded off with decent beer and a cracking, good value meal in the pub, with Mrs H showing the female version of testicular fortitude and walking both to the pub and back. This woman, who I love to bits, loves me and, despite Creedence Clearwater Revival telling me, on the CD, there is a Bad Moon Rising, I don’t believe them. Can it be an almost perfect day again tomorrow? It had better be or it could get really nasty, it’s pump-out day!!

 

G’night.

 

Ohh...and for the whippersnappers on here aged under 40, just Google dear old Reginald to see what the heading means...

[RLWP]

as smooth as David Niven in a DJ

 

Now, that's smooth.

 

Good work that man, keep it up!

 

Richard

[Guest wanted]

Thanks for your blog, really enjoying it

[Sue1946]

Another brilliant piece!

 

It reminded me of this:

 

http://www.canalworld.net/forums/index.php...=24905&st=0

 

from last year.

 

Since the photo competition seems to have gone (for the time being only, I hope?) then maybe a cruise diary competition could be started?

 

I'd be hard put to separate these two for a start.

[Hefferlump]

19th July 2010

 

No, No, No, not a perfect day, please!!!

 

It very nearly was. We breakfasted early and watched a boat reverse down the canal for cheap fuel, having heard they had had to move from bridge 20 because of kids chucking bricks. We had, therefore picked the correct bridge, despite the disabled access being in serious breach of the Trade Descriptions Act. Then, we were off, hoping for another great day with just a bit going wrong. Firstly, Norbury Wharf for fuel and pump out and, all the way there, the sun was shining, the meetings at bridges went with us and the insects left me alone. Damn!! No queue for the pump-out or diesel and a perfect park. Double damn!! Time for tea and a cake and it’s great. Damn, damn, damn!!! When the attendant finishes I note that Mrs H and I still have tea to drink and cake to finish so I tell her we will have to leave it. “No you won’t", we are told, "You stay and finish up and I will take my time over the bill”. Damn, damn, damn, DAMN!! Nothing, simply nothing, goes wrong so it is off to the Anchor at High Offley, having heard so much about it. “It’ll be shut,” I think, almost hoping I am right. Oh no it isn’t, and I have a couple of cracking pints of 6X. Olive is charm personified and I crack up when I ask her if she does wine and she says, “Yes, red or white”. Do you remember when that was the only choice? I am tempted to become all Al Murray here and just love the idea of a pub having so narrow a choice, as Al would say, "for the ladies" (note to Mrs H, just joking) and I spend an hour wondering how the pub hasn’t been gentrified, thanking God that it hasn't been, and knowing that, if they ever bring back Crossroads (again) then, in Olive, we have a ready made replacement for Amy Turtle (Google time again, you youngsters).

 

On we press passing, at one point, a Saffer in his boat who we had eaten with in the Red Bull with all those days ago...and everything is still fine until, at last, we run aground trying to moor up. Not a major catastrophe, I grant you, but enough to stop the headlong rush to “a perfect day”. Hurray!!! Mightily relieved we pull in opposite the Wharf and the crew of the Harlequin, a timeshare boat behind, helps us moor up and ply us with alcohol until our dinner is ready and we can retire gracefully, full of food and alcohol and at a quiet mooring by a pub if we get second wind. We are snug and the rain promised for today has just started, well overdue but sufficient to bring about a deep sleep.

 

So, to bed, thanking God for that shelf just under the waterline a bridge or so ago otherwise, like a rather tubby human mayfly, I would flutter my wings one last time before keeling over. I warn you now...if this is published on the site, but there is nothing to follow apart from a heartrending post from Mrs H explaining my sad and early demise, you will know that the grounding didn’t count and I will have had my perfect day.

 

Hopefully, gulp, I will return tomorrow...

[Athy]

You expect a choice of pink as well as red and white wine? You must go in posh pubs. My last local (in Heanor, Derbys.) sold only white wine because no one ever asked for red.

[Hefferlump]

You expect a choice of pink as well as red and white wine? You must go in posh pubs. My last local (in Heanor, Derbys.) sold only white wine because no one ever asked for red.

 

No. Mrs H had got used to the choice of having something other medium sweet, no matter what the colour.

 

 

 

 

20th July 2010

 

A complete lack of bollards

 

We awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed and leap to immediately (ok, an exaggeration but you know us by now) and I see NB Harlequin off with a manly handshake and a bottle of wine for the lady to thank them for the previous night. They have taught us the secret of peeing on the move (sadly I feel Mrs H would mix up the jugs deliberately) and filled in some details about shared ownership boats. We are looking to ‘strike three’ in “almost perfect days” but, deep down, we didn’t think we would be that lucky...

 

...and...

 

...guess what...

 

...we weren’t!

 

The beat to Market Drayton is not great, despite the spectacular nature of Woodeaves Cutting. Mrs H has a brain fart moment in the flight of five and I really should have learnt, by now, that if there isn’t a bollard before a lock then there is a damn good reason for the absence of same. The damn good reason between locks four and five was the hidden shelf by the overflow channel, resulting in much straining and various levels of revving of the engine, both ahead and astern, and all seemingly to no avail until I decided to risk “all that is special” by pushing off using a position Rudolph Nureyev couldn’t achieve in his hayday. I sit here typing with strategically placed icepacks but we make Market Drayton and moor up close to the bridge into town. A cuppa is brewed just as it starts to tip it down and then I emerge, washing in laundry bag, and begin the mosey into town. It is a short mosey as a local informs me that the nearest launderette is a couple of miles away. I emerge again, unencumbered with crusty pants, and head into town to by some of the world-famous gingerbread. In that singular task I am an abject failure. I buy chocolate, I buy groceries and some desperately needed 2-ply, but I am unsuccessful in my search for the spicey male bipods. I am also crap with my sense of direction back to the boat (I blame a local who, in response to a request for the quickest route back to the canal, obviously was directing me to a completely different canal from the one that visits Market Drayton). A 20 minute walk into town was an hour’s walk on return, through a modern housing estate and finally fetching up at a completely different bridge from the one I had left the towpath from. Mrs H was not happy and my cuppa she had made in anticipation of my return had reached stagnant pond status.

 

Still, it was dry and we could try and do the Adderley flight of five before mooring. We decided against watering, as I had seen someone trying to use the dribble that passed for the water point at Market Drayton, and pressed on to the flight. I had covered myself in insect repellent apart from one very small area just above the inside of my left elbow (where I was immediately bitten). On our arrival there we met, in the top lock, the same boat we had left at the Red Bull Station, gasless. They had managed to buy gas, after they had left us there, in order to boil their own kettle but sadly had run out of water shortly after that!! God obviously wanted them to give up caffeine!

 

So, the five locks and there is no pressure from the front or behind and alls’ well. Mrs H is composure personified during the drop down and we take it steadily. The only black cloud is the one dumping all the rain the canal systems have needed. I had hoped that the rain would be more evenly distributed over the country rather than seemingly solely on the Beest and me in particular, but we end up safely through and moor below the bottom lock. There are even mooring rings in the embankment, meaning there is no shelf to be wary of and I can get into the dry and warm relatively quickly.

 

Tomorrow...Audlem. We have checked and "Vingt-Deux" has promised he will arrive by 11.30am so, I pray, we will be in the Shroppie Fly whilst they still do lunch. With all those flights to do I have called ahead and ordered some valium for Mrs H, just in case, and she has pre-medded tonight with Chardonnay.

 

So, snuggled down with the rain outside...goodnight campers.

Edited August 5, 2010 by Hefferlump

[Wilbur]

20th July 2010

 

A complete lack of bollards

 

We awake, bright eyed and bushy tailed and leap to immediately (ok, an exaggeration but you know us by now) and I see NB Harlequin off with a manly handshake and a bottle of wine for the lady to thank them for the previous night. They have taught us the secret of peeing on the move (sadly I feel Mrs H would mix up the jugs deliberately) and filled in some details about shared ownership boats. We are looking to ‘strike three’ in “almost perfect days” but, deep down, we didn’t think we would be that lucky...

 

...and...

 

...guess what...

 

...we weren’t!

 

The beat to Market Drayton is not great, despite the spectacular nature of Woodeaves Cutting. Mrs H has a brain fart moment in the flight of five and I really should have learnt, by now, that if there isn’t a bollard before a lock then there is a damn good reason for the absence of same. The damn good reason between locks four and five was the hidden shelf by the overflow channel, resulting in much straining and various levels of revving of the engine, both ahead and astern, and all seemingly to no avail until I decided to risk “all that is special” by pushing off using a position Rudolph Nureyev couldn’t achieve in his hayday. I sit here typing with strategically placed icepacks but we make Market Drayton and moor up close to the bridge into town. A cuppa is brewed just as it starts to tip it down and then I emerge, washing in laundry bag, and begin the mosey into town. It is a short mosey as a local informs me that the nearest launderette is a couple of miles away. I emerge again, unencumbered with crusty pants, and head into town to by some of the world-famous gingerbread. In that singular task I am an abject failure. I buy chocolate, I buy groceries and some desperately needed 2-ply, but I am unsuccessful in my search for the spicey male bipods. I am also crap with my sense of direction back to the boat (I blame a local who, in response to a request for the quickest route back to the canal, obviously was directing me to a completely different canal from the one that visits Market Drayton). A 20 minute walk into town was an hour’s walk on return, through a modern housing estate and finally fetching up at a completely different bridge from the one I had left the towpath from. Mrs H was not happy and my cuppa she had made in anticipation of my return had reached stagnant pond status.

 

Still, it was dry and we could try and do the Adderley flight of five before mooring. We decided against watering, as I had seen someone trying to use the dribble that passed for the water point at Market Drayton, and pressed on to the flight. I had covered myself in insect repellent apart from one very small area just above the inside of my left elbow (where I was immediately bitten). On our arrival there we met, in the top lock, the same boat we had left at the Red Bull Station, gasless. They had managed to buy gas, after they had left us there, in order to boil their own kettle but sadly had run out of water shortly after that!! God obviously wanted them to give up caffeine!

 

So, the five locks and there is no pressure from the front or behind and alls’ well. Mrs H is composure personified during the drop down and we take it steadily. The only black cloud is the one dumping all the rain the canal systems have needed. I had hoped that the rain would be more evenly distributed over the country rather than seemingly solely on the Beest and me in particular, but we end up safely through and moor below the bottom lock. There are even mooring rings in the embankment, meaning there is no shelf to be wary of and I can get into the dry and warm relatively quickly.

 

Tomorrow...Audlem. We have checked and "Vingt-Deux" has promised he will arrive by 11.30am so, I pray, we will be in the Shroppie Fly whilst they still do lunch. With all those flights to do I have called ahead and ordered some valium for Mrs H, just in case, and she has pre-medded tonight with Chardonnay.

 

So, snuggled down with the rain outside...goodnight campers.

 

I have been following this 'blog' with great enjoyment as at the same time we were on the Shroppie. We too got caught on the same ledge between locks 4 and 5 as we pulled over to let a crew of 8 past us. We were at Market Drayton on the 21st and trudged around the town in the rain looking for gingerbread. Of course, according to my wife, it was my fault that we could not find any gingerbread and upon reading through your post there appeared a faint glimmer of hope that perhaps i could pass the blame onto you if you had admitted to buying some on the 20th, but alas, it was not to be.

Come to think of it we probably even passed each other on route.

Wilbur

At the time hiring NB Phoenix out of Norbury Wharf.

Edited August 6, 2010 by Wilbur

[Hefferlump]

Hi Wilbur,

 

Pretty certain I remember seeing a Phoenix on our travels...mind you, I saw three "Black Pearls" so it could have been another one.

 

From the start of our journey I had been considering what name I would give a boat if I owned one. In the end I alighted on the name "Dilligaf" as a clever and witty choice (work it out or you tube the song of the same name)...and immediately came across one of that name moored at Breewood!! Mind you, as the male owner had hacked out and removed the name of an ex girlfriend from a "xxxx heart yyyy" wood carving at the front of the boat he obviously did!!