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Chapter 12 – Week 11, River Severn/Staffordshire and Worcestshire Canal

 

Saturday July 10

Wandering to Worcester

 

After a somewhat broken night’s sleep caused by the return of a Party Boat to the wharf nearby at midnight and the subsequent sounds of drunkenness and mayhem and an inability to get off again before 2am (the church bell tolled the hour) my waking was late. Bill, who’d slept the early part of the night was up and doing from 4am, then back to bed and up again at 7. All in all, a restless sort of night that made us a bit half hearted about doing much in the day. We pushed off for the two hour trip to Worcester around 9am, saying goodbye to the groom next door and wishing him well. He was very laid back about the whole thing and told us his top priority was to get over having had too much beer last night but to be organized enough to fit in lunch at the pub down river, with a pint or two, before the service.

 

The trip on the upper Severn to Worcester is very pretty, with black faced sheep grazing up to the river’s edge on their river meadow farms, alternating with heavily wooded tracts on upland banks. The wind wasn’t quite so biting - only two layers of wool and a wind jacket today - no thermals. The local lasses, of course, were in singlet tops. The fishermen were out in force - competition day we think - as they were regularly spaced out on their little platforms along the banks. Not a very sociable lot, either - no responses to my waves and now expert, “Orright”. We saw a mink on our travels here today. Bill spotted him swimming across the river in front of us and cut the motor back. Once he reached the left bank he nipped along level with us for a little way until he reached his home. During his little scurries between patches of cover I did manage to get a picture of him, cursing the shutter delay of digital cameras all the while and later erasing the six frames where I missed him.

 

We traversed the Diglis lock without a hitch, both managing to get hold of our down wires and took on water immediately outside it, giving thanks for our beautiful flushing toilet as we sat down wind of the porta-potty wash out facility, euphemistically called a sanitary station, by BW. A few hedges to hide the small number of remaining factories on the river approach to Worcester with a few flowers and a bit of a mow of the verges of the basins and locks would make the water entry to Worcester rather grandiose. The Cathedral with its tower and other church spires, some nice Georgian buildings with sweeping lawns and a handsome stone bridge, to say nothing of a hundred white swans on a handsome river all do their bit to impress. Passing the charter barges and their beautifully flower bedecked moorings, we spotted ours beyond them down river, near the racecourse, in a pretty section overhung with willows, and moored successfully. All the way up the river were reminders that this is a river that floods - a flimsy landing stage crushed by a large log still resting upon it, tree branches stuck high in the alcoves of the town bridge, ten or twelve feet above the water line, mooring rings on riverside steps and twelve foot mooring poles.

 

After a pleasant lunch of left overs on board, we set out to explore. We stopped on the Riverside Walk on the bank above the moorings to ask directions of a very weather beaten, partially edentulous litter officer who turned out to be a very well spoken and obviously well educated, knowledgeable man, with whom we had a good chat. It made me wonder about his life and the changes that must have taken place in it - Bill thinks I’m crazy when I start wondering about things like that.

 

The first stop was the Guildhall which was built from 1721-1727, replacing an earlier timber framed structure. Finding ourselves near the Cathedral about 2pm, we thought that we could fill in an hour or so looking over it. It is built in the same style as Gloucester Cathedral but is a lot more commercial about its presentation. There is the element of a museum in sections with helpful presentations about the archaeological aspects of the structure and translations and explanations near various tombs and memorials. I think if you’re going to chose one cathedral to see in this area, Gloucester is the one, especially if you use one of their very knowledgeable volunteer guides. From the Tourist Information Centre next to the Guildhall, we explored possibilities for tomorrow and have in mind The Commandery, two sets of Almshouses and the Royal Worcester Porcelain Factory.

 

Sunday July 11

The Walking Weary of Worcester

 

Lovely Sunday morning lie in with the pitter patter of raindrops on the roof early but woke to fair skies. During breakfast we saw the first black swan ever in our 11 weeks on these waterways.

 

The chap immediately in front is in Rotary and they are having their second Annual Dragon Boat Race on the river today. They hire the boats (each complete with dragon decoration, oars, coxswain seat and festive drum, life jackets, pennants etc). Corporations “buy” a boat for the day and crew it; and each crew member gets sponsorship from friends and rellies for his or her effort. All the money goes to the Rotary charity. His narrowboat had been volunteered as the start line boat.

 

The neighbour two down popped by for a chat. He’s renting a boat to see how he likes it before investing in a three year old ex-hire boat, as his brother in law has done. Wanted to know what we thought of narrow boating. Has he got an hour? He told us Harrison Ford was out in a narrow boat somewhere near. If that’s the case I hope he manages to go unrecognised so he can have a nice time.

 

Sunday is truly a day of rest for the good folk of Worcester. Nothing opens until 11am, some at 1.30pm and most, not at all. We made a start with Berkeley’s Alms Houses, built in 1703 and still being lived in today so not open to the public. We then went through the historic area of town where some absolutely glorious stone and brick buildings, several hundred years old, have been converted to nightclubs, of all things, complete with tawdry signage. We then looked at the very beautiful Laslett’s Almshouses, and all I can say is that the poor who lived there must have been very privileged. Again, these are being lived in, and are not open to the public. Two beautifully preserved streets of half timbered houses, New Street and Friar Street, were a joy to wander down. We thought Upton-on-Severn had the best totally preserved street but this tops it.

 

Next, (and not just to bore Bill rigid), we visited the Royal Worcester Factory. Being Sunday, the tours of the factory were not running (no matter, we’ve done the Royal Doulton tour previously) but the Museum and the outlet shops were open. I had a quick browse through the latter with Bill and then he declined to join me at the Museum, which was really the best part of the lot.

 

Then it was off to a little pub nearby for lunch and then we were on the doorstep of The Commandery when it opened at 1.30pm. The building dates from 1200 when it was established as the monastic hospital of St Wulstan, offering aid to the infirm, the poor and travellers to the city. The hospitals affairs were wound up with the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII in1539. It then became a family home (1695-1764), a complex for small businesses (1764-1864), a school for the blind (1864-1887), a printing works (1888-1905) and then a home and print works (1905-1973). Finally it was sold to Worcester City Council, was extensively renovated and established as a museum, telling mostly of Worcester’s role in the English Civil War (1642-51).

 

To complete the day we called in at Greyfriars, a splendid half timbered wealthy merchant’s house built in 1480. It was saved from demolition in 1943 and is now in the care of the National Trust. The rooms are of most generous proportions and by deed of the donors, an eccentric recycler of all things ancient and his sister, it has been left as it was when they lived there. We returned to the boat in time to see the last of the Dragon Boat Festival. The river bank had a most festive air with people out enjoying themselves and picnicking.

 

Monday July 12

Thwarted by Machines, New and Old

 

It was push off time to travel the last of the River Severn and join the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal, known affectionately in canal circles as the Staffs and Worcs (wuss). On the river we passed along a very pretty part of the river up to Bevere Lock and waited for our green light. But it stayed solid red (we knew by now that flashing red means he’s seen us and is getting the lock ready, so no more harassing lock keepers). Then we noticed the men working on the lock verge on the right hand gate mechanisms and thought “Uh Oh.” Next the lock keeper appeared and told us there were some serious problems with the lock and there would be a delay of one and a half to two hours. Lucky we’d time up our sleeve and it just happened to be lunch time and the washing still needed to be done. All of that rounded out the time nicely and we were able to enter the lock though through one gate only.

 

Once through Holt Lock, we travelled through the very pretty Shrawley Wood. There is a tiny stream called Dick Brook that joins the Severn about here and we were interested to read that in the seventeenth century, this little stream was made navigable to serve a forge deep in the woods. Several lock chambers were carved out of the sandstone and barges brought pig iron up to the doors of the forge. It was apparently easier to bring the iron to the wood than the wood to the iron. And then it was on to the Lincomb Lock, the very last manned lock we’ll traverse on our twelve week trip. There are only 40 odd locks to go and we’ve done five of those coming up the double staircase plus one, coming into our mooring in Stourport-on-Severn.

 

We had a boat load of Norwegians (by their flag) follow us into the lower staircase because they couldn’t read the signage saying this is a no-no here as there’s no room in the upper pound for boats to pass. With a boat coming down out of the upper lock the pound got a little crowded. We had to ask them not to follow us in until we’d emerged from the top of the upper pair. I hope they understood why.

 

A nice chap at the top lock helped us exit and told us to go beyond the basin through the York Street Lock to quieter moorings in the canal. So here we are. We’ve been for a walk up the high street and had our happy hour.

 

Tuesday July 13

Stourport

 

Above the TV is a plastic box belonging to the boat that was presented full of cleaning materials. Once these were stowed, the box became a receptacle for all of the brochures, books and booklets that we have acquired on our travels. We decided today it was time to tackle the task of culling and jettisoning and posting. This was duly done, with only one minor set-back. When it was all nicely taped up, we discovered the photo CD that we’d burned for the couple we travelled down the Thames with, was inside. Merde. Re-do. We wandered down to the Post Office with our 10.5kg box in Bill’s knapsack, only to find out it would cost half the price if we’d broken it up into 2kg parcels. With a ₤80 saving at stake this task was achieved at the parcel counter of the Post Office, then larder stocking and back to the boat.

 

Wednesday July 14

Wednesday at Wolverley

 

We headed out of Stourport to just beyond Kidderminster, only a few miles as the crow flies and only four locks, as we wanted to visit the station and see if we could book our train to Gatwick yet and to stock up on liquid refreshments as the Tescos in Kidderminster is canalside with moorings and you can wheel the trolley to your door. Not that we were going to be drinking a trolley full but we carefully calculated our next eight days consumption with a bit extra to have a drink with Will and Jane and the boys when we returned.

 

As we left Stourport, the outskirts came quickly, considering its once busy role in the industry of the area. We saw remains of this everywhere. A canal arm going to nowhere (once a canal/railway interchange for goods), Pratt’s Wharf and its quaint bridge (the site of a former lock), canalside bridges in the middle of fields, their bricked up openings once leading to factories (now dismantled). We travelled through a wooded section where it was evident that sizeable branches of pollarded willows had been brought down by wind last winter and had obstructed the canal, but had since been removed by BW staff or their contractors.

 

At the pretty Caldwall Lock, four contractors, two men and two women, presumably their partners, were working to clean up the lock and its surrounds, clipping ivy, mowing the verges, sanding the gate beams for painting and painting the over-bridge railings. One of the lock beams was missing its outer end and the chap explained that the local lads had tried to set fire to it recently. Like most boaters we just wanted to be in Kidderminster for as little time as possible. We remembered at Sharpness Linda saying “Promise me you won’t moor in Kidderminster”. We walked up the hill to the railway station and saw all the CCTV’s in the central city underpass had been ripped from their mountings, which reinforced the feeling. As it was, we needn’t have trudged all the way up the hill as the train journey we want is not yet open for bookings.

 

The central part of the town is very old and tired and many of its buildings date from the early 1800’s and appear to have had very little maintenance. It is, of course, famous for carpet making and we passed two factories that continue production to the present day. New canalside apartments on the outskirts of town look more promising as a place to live, if you absolutely have to live there. The town appears to be a shopping Mecca. Bordering the canal and the river Stour which runs beside it, were clustered five separate supermarkets that we could see. The Tescos is open 24 hours and is bigger than the Hypermarket at home. Outside it, at the moorings, two employees were grappling for shopping trolleys in the canal. They retrieved two while we watched, found another and had yet to try for the one we ran over as we approached the mooring. Crunch, grate, grind. They said they usually retrieved about 15 trolleys per week.

 

We had been the only boat at the mooring when we pulled up but there were six there when we returned. Two of us headed out together and at the first lock there were two boats waiting to come down so the alternating took some time. Kidderminster Lock nestles at the foot of the Cathedral in a very picturesque setting if you look north. If you look south you see a modern motorway running over the top of the two centuries old canal and almost burying the lock. The cathedral predates the canal by two centuries. Such a juxtaposition.

 

We stopped for a late lunch at 2pm, having cleared the town and reached the charming Wolverley Court Lock, sitting in the middle of daisy strewn fields which were once the site of a sand extraction industry. From one of the wildflowers, blossoming in profusion by the canal, wafted a delicate honey perfume on a soft breeze. The sun was shining - bliss. We have moored early just outside Wolverley and will go for a stroll to the village later. We’ve decided to have our evening drink on the verandah of the quaint pub that overlooks the lock ahead of us.

 

Just after we pulled up, a boat went by, wife at the bow ready to get out and open the lock, husband steering. From the husband to me, as they pass “’How’s your ‘holiday” (I had seen them at a previous lock and spoken briefly to the woman). “Fine thanks” says I. “You should have your American flag out tha back” says he. “We’re not Americans, we’re Australians” I hastened to reassure him. “A thousand pardons” he replied. “Accepted” called I cheerfully after him. Then he shouted at his wife at the front of the boat “You told me they were Americans; they’re not, they’re Australians” and she yelled back at him “Well she had a twang and I wasn’t sure what it was”. And off they tootled to the lock. There they spoke to Bill who’d been checking to see if the moorings were nicer on the other side of the lock. “Sorry”, said the chap to Bill, “my wife told me you were Americans”. “No, mate”, said Bill, “they’re the ones with the funny accents”.

 

Thursday July 15

Beauty and the Beast

 

Today’s plan was to travel up the Staffs and Worcs to the junction with the old canal arm up to Stourbridge (now a dead end) and then have a wander up that arm where I wanted to see the Red House Glass Cone, a glass factory open to the public. Glass and crystal is what Stourbridge is famous for and it is the home of Stuart crystal.

 

At 7.30am we left Wolverley moorings which overnight had become a boater’s sanctuary. Last night we had heard the pleasant sound of steel on steel at dusk as pins were hammered in and people pulled up for the night. We passed through the lock and almost immediately were in some of the prettiest country we’ve seen. The canal was cut through red sandstone, which was resplendent with foxgloves and ferns, and garlands of ivy trailing down to the water. At Debdale lock there was an interesting, substantial cave in the red cliff face that is believed to have been carved out by navvies working on the canal and used as a shelter. At some sites the canal cutting was very narrow and deep, insufficient for boats to pass, known in the language of “the cut” as “rockins”. They are always very pretty and intimate. We passed very few boats, perhaps because we were out so early but those we did pass always seemed to be moored, as if their owners had just come out here in the countryside to sit in the sun and relax.

 

We passed by an old factory, which appeared to be sitting out alone in the middle of a field, its Victorian sunburst windows and bricked up canal entrance reminding us of its prosperity at the height of the canal age. From the noise, there was still some sort of business operating from it. Its neighbouring factories were long since demolished. Passing through delightful woodlands with gnarled old oaks bordering the canal, we came upon Whittington lock, picture postcard pretty. Three houses with beautifully manicured lawns and gardens border the canal. I could easily live here (even though I spotted a salt box that reminded me its not always summer in England).

 

We reached historic Kinver and took a stroll down the high street and back, looking at its seventeenth century half timbered houses and Victorian villas. We could have visited their ancient sandstone cave houses but declined the mile walk up a large hill after enquiring directions from the local postie. I was a little concerned that this delay in Kinver may have meant we’d miss out on a mooring when we reached Stourbridge, which you’ll see is a joke in itself when you reach the end of this report.

 

Outside Kinver, we reached Dunsley tunnel, short as tunnels go, but complicated by the fact that there was another boat approaching from the opposite direction. As we were closest, the other skipper waved us on. Bet he regretted that as his wife ran them aground moving over for us and he couldn’t get off his boat to push off as, at that point, there were shoulder high nettles. I made an “Ouch” face at Bill who did the blinkers sign back at me, meaning, like Manuel “I know nothing”.

 

At Wordsley Junction, two kids were fishing. As I took a photo of the turnoff sign above the head of one of them he said “You taking a picture of me?”, “No”, I replied, “of the sign above your head”. His question and my answer both had to be repeated before he understood my “Strine”. “That’s alright”, he said, “I thought you were taking a picture of me because I’m beautiful”. “No” I replied, “I was hoping to take a picture of the big fish you’d catch”. “I caught one already, not like him” (his mate), “he’s caught nothing”. “Are they edible”, I asked. “Edible, you mean eatable, nah” he replied. “Oh well” I said to Bill, “At least he’s not throwing shopping trolleys in the canal”. More on this subject later.

 

As we approached Stourbridge, despite reassurances from Pearsons that “You could do worse than spend a night in Stourbridge”, a sense of foreboding came over both of us. Old rusting factories, new noisy factories, bricked up old canal entrees gaping blankly, razor wire, debris in the canal, smashed windows, graffiti - signs of mankind. Why did we come here? This is not what we imagined. Finally we reached the end of the line the wharf at Stourbridge. Hoping to get an overdue pump out here we heard sound of keys jangling and saw a chap locking up the wharf - at 3.15pm. Wait, wait. No, sorry, have to go and pick the kids up from school, can’t do it. But we’re desperate. OK I’ll ring my mate and see if he’ll come down. Yes he will. Ten minutes - good. Mate arrives, pump out achieved, offers moorings for the night (first impulse is to get the hell out of here). Calm down. Listen to his reassurances that you are safer here, locked up in their yard, than back at the junction, where he tells us the kids go to fish and when nothing is biting they trash your boat and set it adrift. I take back the kind remarks about the fishing kids. We decided to bite the bullet and stay here.

 

So, here we sit, in downtown old industrial Stourbridge, behind a spiked picket fence, both quietly doubling our alcohol consumption. We may both be incapable of cooking dinner shortly and may have to use our BW key to escape to buy Chinese takeaway for tea.

 

Friday July 16

Glass Country

 

I woke, thinking to myself, if we have to be holed up in this God forsaken place, let’s take a look at what made it come into being - glass and crystal. I had picked up a brochure in our travels for The Red House Glass Cone, a massive brick cone, one of four out of forty remaining in Britain, used to house a furnace for glass making. The cone in Stourbridge has been converted to a tourist centre and museum. I talked Bill into a visit and we set of on the long hike there (just missed the bus at the stop up the road - not another for 20 minutes), leaving the boat in its safe razor wired moorings.

 

The cone is a massive brick structure that looks like a big bottle. A furnace in its basement (coal loaded in from the canal, not the one we’re on, running beside it). This fire heated ten clay crucibles full of molten glass on the floor above and around these crucibles were arranged work stations called “chairs”, each staffed by 4-5 men who created the glass work in a wonderful co-operative team effort. Today the furnace is gas fired, the glass workers are artists in residence or rent studios on the premises, the superstructure is an AV guided museum and gallery, and of course there is the ubiquitous shop. We enjoyed the visit but I couldn’t talk Bill into a visit to the glass museum further on up the road. On the way back to the boat, however, I did my best to cajole Bill into every glass factory shop we passed (as you do, girls). We had to laugh as I, with Bill numbly in tow, went to the front of one establishment called The Glassworks, only to discover it was a pub.

 

Once back at the boat we both decided we couldn’t handle another night in the depressing basin at Stourbridge and high-tailed it out of there to moorings at Greensforge which had been described in our guide as “delightful”. So here we are, below the lock, emerging from a shady cutting, a stand of tall silver birches to our left, a small holding to our right and the ever present pub up beside the lock.

 

We thought we’d have another go at booking our Virgin Train tickets to Gatwick, having been told on three separate occasions at Worcester, Gloucester and Kidderminster, that that service wasn’t yet open for reservations. I talked first at length to a voice recognition machine - that was fun. It had not been programmed with Strine and kept saying “I don’t understand you, please repeat”. It was all I could do not to say desperately “Please, please let me talk to a person”, but then I realised how crazy that would sound, pleading with a machine. Finally I was put through to the newest recruit at the Vertex Agency in Dingwall, wherever that is, a lass called Fiona. The conversation went something like this:

 

Fiona: “That service is not available.”

Me: “What do you mean, not available?”

Fiona: “It’s booked out.”

Me: “How can it be, it wasn’t open for reservations two days ago.”

Fiona: “Well it’s either booked out or it’s not running.”

Me: “Which of those two is it.”

Fiona: “Just a minute I’ll find out”... “It’s not available.”

Me: (thinks - Oh shit - here we go round in circles) “When is the service before the 10.14.”

Fiona: “8.19, but you’ll have to change at Watford.”

Me: “OK, I’d like to book two first class tickets on the 8.19am service from Wolverhampton.”

Fiona: “I’m sorry you can’t book first class tickets over the phone.”

Me: “I beg your pardon?”

Fiona: “You can only book a coach (economy) ticket and then you have to go to the station you’re leaving from and collect the tickets and upgrade there.”

Me: (thinks - I don’t believe this) “But we’re on a narrow boat, miles from Wolverhampton.” Fiona: “Well that’s what you have to do.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous.”

Fiona: “Well that’s what you have to do.”

By this stage, with my free left hand I had made a small effigy of Richard Branson into which I was sticking long pins.

Me (honey sweet voice): “Thank you very much.”

 

Guess what we’re doing tomorrow? Yup, going to Wolverhampton.

 

Progress This week Distance (miles) 29.5 Locks 29

Total Distance (miles) 737 Locks 564

 

The journey continues………

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