Day 12 – Knottingly to Castleford

The crew is revolting and the captain is sulking. The weather forecast is not good. High winds and heavy rain. The rain mainly stays away but the wind bends the tops of the trees, blows dust and dirt from the builder’s yard into the boat and rattles us against the staging. Bob says he feels confident to travel in this wind. I point out that the wind has a name, Hector, and if a wind is strong enough to have a name it’s strong enough for it to be unwise to venture out onto a river. He is still sure we can make it to Leeds. I say, ‘OK you take the boat to Leeds, I’ll get a bus and meet you there’.

He sulks and I go off to do some food shopping. There is a parade of shops, I could get a wedding dress, buy Koi carp or get a suntan, pedicure and a tattoo. The only food outlet is a bakery so I buy two wholemeal hufflers (at least I think that’s what they called them) and go back to the grump on the boat.

By late afternoon the wind is easing and I agree we can move. We pass under the old A1 bridge, under the old Great North Road Bridge, past the Ferrybridge Power Stations and under the new A1 bridge. The River Aire is sheltered here, the hills of reclaimed colliery waste line the banks. Now they are planted with silver birch and alder. At intervals there are clumps of giant hogweed. They almost look like proper hills but they are too smooth and the tops are flat.  White egrets and herons flap away from the boat. It’s peaceful and pretty in the early evening sun and we are sheltered from the wind.

The locks along the Aire and Calder are huge and automated. Designed for the large commercial traffic that now hardly use them. They are often manned but today nobody is on duty, after all they didn’t expect that any boat would be idiotic enough to move when storm Hector is passing through. I like operating these locks, just turn a key, push a button and wait. The muscles I have built up doing the locks through to Nottingham are now returning to flab.

We moor up in Castleford and go to the pub. Castleford is a rugby league town, the pub landlord tells me that Castleford are at home to Hull KR on Sunday. I spent many a winter Saturday, wrapped in a red and white scarf shivering on crumbling terraces. Now Rugby League is a summer sport. I’d quite like to go and watch them but I daren’t suggest to Bob that we hang around another small South Yorkshire town for a few days just so I can watch a rugby match.

Day 11 Thorne – Knottingly

In the olden days I sometimes travelled through Thorne. I remember it as being a rather non-descript town. It still is. But a visit to the town provides food and cash and we spend a few hours trying to make the boat a bit cleaner and more presentable. The countryside and canal system beyond Thorne is rather non-descript as well. Flat land, long straight canals, electricity pylons, distant power stations There are few locks but more swing and lift bridges. All the bridges seem to operate in different ways. I learn that the best way to work them is, rather like putting Ikea furniture together, to read the instructions first. As we are only passing this way once the flat landscape, where the only hills are reclaimed spoil from mines, the remnants of industry and signs of long-gone commercial canal usage is interesting. If we had to do the passage along the Aire and Calder canal regularly it could become tedious.

At Kellingborough Colliery the old mine machinery still stands and there are acres of land covered in colliery waste. Large bollards line the edge of the wharf. Our fifteen-year-old guide warns of heavy commercial traffic but the huge barges transporting coal, sand and gravel no longer run along here. In Thorne we were told that the only large vessel on these waters is an oil tanker but that had passed by yesterday on it’s way back from the power station at Ferrybridge and was now in Goole. I don’t know whether to be sad that these boats no longer ply their trade along these waters or glad we’re not going to round a bend and meet one of the monsters.

Into Knottingly. It is a pleasant passage through a limestone cut where pink flowers grow out of the stone walls. The designated secure mooring is, less scenically, next to a builder’s yard, around the corner from the A1 and the massive cooling towers of the Ferrybridge Power Station. Well it’s supposed to be secure but somebody has nicked the padlock that locked the gate.

Day 10 – West Stockwith – Thorne

We were in West Stockwith Lock at 8pm waiting for the tide to turn. As we waited Bob and the lock-keeper sat at a riverside bench and chatted. I washed my knickers. Their conversation, about engines, gear boxes and blacking, must have been fascinating because the tide had almost turned back before they registered it was time for us to go. Bob came back to the boat preening himself because he was complemented on his skill and dexterity in handling the boat.

It was a cloudy morning and out on the river there was a very strong wind blowing in our faces, whipping up waves and chilling us. My phone said the temperature was 19degrees but Bob said, ‘if this is 19degrees my ***** a kipper.’ Flecks of rain hit our faces. Our book warned of large commercial traffic in this area but the only big boat we saw was safely moored up. The entrance into Keadby lock was again tight against the strong out-going tide. A cruiser who had passed us, sensibly waited for us to enter the lock before they joined us. He needn’t have worried, once again Bob handled the entrance into the lock with skill and dexterity.

Released from the lock, passing under the swing bridge we headed towards Thorne. At the next swing bridge, which interrupted a railway line, the instructions were to sound the horn to alert the man in the signal box. At that point we found out the horn didn’t work. Bob told me to cross the railway line to speak to the man in the signal box. I refused. Bob set off. After scrambling under the fence and crossing the line he got an ear-bashing from the man in the signal box and a high-vis jacketed worker. ‘What’s your job?’ Bob asked the high-vis worker. ‘To stop bloody idiots like you from crossing the railway line.’ He replied. I don’t think he’s very good at his job.

After that it was uneventfully on to Thorne.

Day 9 – Cromwell Lock – West Stockwith Lock

It’s an early start and the morning is bright with a light wind. Bob contrives to be the last of the four boats travelling, he’s apprehensive about this stage of the journey. I’m not, I have full confidence in his boating abilities. Anyway it’s his boat, he’s in charge, I’m only here to do as I’m told. The convoy is let out onto the wide river at high tide, with strict instructions not to try to cut the corners at bends. The chart shows a red line for the route to be taken and the chart is worth every penny of that ten pounds. The boat in front runs aground on a sandbank but after a lot of huffing and puffing manages to get clear. Otherwise our little convoy is fine.

We had booked in with the lock-keepers at Torksey and after two and a half hours we reached there but we were enjoying ourselves too much to stop. The day was warm and sunny, the river was wide, isolated from people and habitation and the boat was moving well.  I rung the lock-keeper and he gave us permission to carry on, advising us to stop at Gainsborough for a couple of hours because the lock at West Stockwith wouldn’t be open until after 4pm when the tide turned. I took my turn at steering, when I was in danger of running over a herd of cows standing in the water to drink I realised I was getting too close to a sandbank.

We moored up at Gainsborough just after 1pm. I was feeling lethargic but Bob went to look around the town and declared it a pleasant place. He went to town again and came back with a bar stool to sit on when he is steering. I wonder how long it will be before it gets in the way once too often and he jettisons it. At 4pm I called the lock-keeper at West Stockwith and was informed that two narrowboats were heading towards the lock and should we tag along behind them as they passed. At 4.30pm nb Natterjack sped past. By the time we’d undone ropes and set off he’d disappeared into the distance. We sped off after him, making speedy progress on the outgoing tide. Then the tide turned and we ground to a halt. The last mile was painfully slow, battling against the water, the engine roaring. When we reached the lock it was a difficult turn against the strong flow of the current.

At this point Bob asks that I mention he handled the turn with skill and dexterity and we arrived in the lock without hitting the lock walls or the narrowboat that was already in there waiting for us.

The added bonus for Bob was that the price of a round of drinks was £3.90, in comparison to our local where it would cost £5.60 and London where it costs £7.50. He likes it here.

Day 7 – Nottingham to Farndon

Bob makes a quick (unsuccessful) visit to the chandlers at Nottingham Marina and I look longingly at boats I can’t afford. Mooring up at the first lock we see Linda and Graham strolling along the towpath towards us. They’d been in Nottingham for a concert. If only we’d known I could have foregone being thrashed at Scrabble for a meet-up in a Nottingham pub.

Once we have cleared the lock we are now on virgin territory; neither of us have travelled beyond this point before. It’s nearly the end of the journey for me, crossing the top of the deep, empty lock the gates start to swing open just as I reach the vee of the gates. I’m left over a widening gap with a foot on each gate. I make it to the lock-side and have to wait for the palpitations to ease before I can continue to fill the lock.

After this life is easy, the river is wide and gentle, all the locks are mechanised and manned and the sun is shining. And when we tie up at Farndon Marina we find there is a converted Dutch barge acting as a bar and restaurant so all I need to do is get shower, change and go out for another meal.

Day 8 – Farndon to Cromwell Lock (via Newark)

Horror of horrors! When we arrived at Newark the lock keeper hadn’t yet come on duty and I had to operate the lock myself. In my early morning daze I didn’t notice the downstream paddles were open and I waited an age for the lock not to fill before I realized the problem.

             Newark is a lovely little town. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk around the centre and the sitting for lunch by the river. Bob was pleased that, despite it being Sunday, two charity shops were open. I was pleased the rest of the charity shops in the town were closed. I notice we are a week early for the food and drink festival. I would have enjoyed that.

In the late afternoon we left for Cromwell lock where we’d let out onto the tidal Trent. When moored up I went to sign in and check times with the lock keeper. We go at eight o’clock tomorrow morning along with three other boats. I pay £10 for a chart of the tidal Trent.

I notice that although the accents are northern I am still referred to as ‘M’Duck’. I wonder how far north we will have to be before I become ‘Luv’.

Day 4 - Fleckney to Leicester

Set off from the lovely mooring at Fleckney. I had thought of walking to the church but didn’t get up in time. I have a vague recollection of being moored here before, I think I intended to walk to the church then but didn’t make it that time either.

Another warm and sunny day.  The eighteen locks to Leicester were hard work and when we met up with a boat coming down from Leeds and tell him where we’re going he says, ‘Aye Lass, you’ll have muscles on your spit by the time you get home.’

The very rural, rolling countryside of Leicestershire opened out as we got towards Leicester. Graffiti appeared on the lock gates, we’re still a few miles from the town so at least the graffiti artists got a good walk in the open air before they defaced the gates. Once we got into the outskirts of town the graffiti was more numerous and more professional.

We moor up against a C&RT work boat at the Castle Gardens and stroll into Leicester to meet up with Jenny and Gary for a meal. We go to the Cosy Club, a converted knitwear factory.  It is a place that is evocative of the old industry of Leicester and a lovely ‘townie’ place to visit in contrast to the rural pubs we usually go into.

Day 5 – Leicester to Loughborough

A quick visit to Leicester market and then we were off again. I notice we are a week late for the Leicester Water Festival. We were warned that the water levels of the Soar were low. They were, we scraped along the bottom and when Bob checked the weed hatch he untangled a length of red and gold sari.

In Loughborough we stopped at Loughborough Wharf and met up with Sophie, Bob’s lovely grand-daughter, who is a student at Loughborough University. She had finished her last exam that day and was planning a night catching up with her washing. A night watching her washing go around or a meal out with Grandad? We won but I think it was a close-run contest.

So it was a walk through Loughborough and a meal at one of the town pubs.

Day 6 – Loughborough to Nottingham

It was another cool, grey morning that metamorphosed into a warm sunny day. Uneventfully up to Radcliffe and turned right onto the Trent. Beautiful wide-open waters. Even the boat seems happier on deeper water. It’s early evening when we get to Nottingham and we eschew a night out on the town for a meal onboard and a game of scrabble. After all at our age three nights out in a row could be too much of a good thing.

Day 3 – Crick to Fleckney

It’s another cool grey morning when we set off. Heading into Husband Bosworth tunnel the air feels suddenly warm. Bob’s reactor light glasses don’t react, mist over and he’s completely blinded. I dive down into the dark cabin and grope around for a replacement pair but when he puts these on they mist over as well. Somehow, despite the blind driver, the boat doesn’t crash into the sides. I take over the steering while he clears his glasses. When he can eventually see again he decides that the tunnel light is pointing in the wrong direction (even though I’m quite happy with it where it is) and walks off along the gunwale to move it. The C&RT guide-lines for passing through tunnels says, ‘keep arms and legs within the confines of the boat.’ It doesn’t say anything about walking along narrow gunwales to fiddle with headlights, presumably because they don’t expect anybody to be stupid enough to do that. He manages to get back to the stern safely and we emerge from the tunnel as the sun is breaking through the clouds. I hate tunnels.

Onwards to Foxton Locks through quiet green countryside. There are banks of yellow flag iris and straggles of wild roses and masses of elderflower along the canal-side. At Foxton we will have a two hour wait before we can go down so I make a visit to the Canal Museum. I forego the interactive device that shows me how locks work but there are some interesting facts about the canals. Both Watford and Foxton Locks, with their staircases and side pounds, are wonderful feats of engineering. Evidently it was a devised by Leonardo Da Vinci. Or was it the Chinese? Or was it the Romans? Ten minutes after leaving the museum I can’t remember what I’d read.

It’s a glorious evening as we leave Foxton so we carry on, even though a visit to the pub Bridge 61 is tempting. Bob does the locks, I drive. I scrape walls, prang gates. Then I empty the cupboards and tip the TV onto the floor when I try to stop the boat by tying it too abruptly to a bollard. It’s a bit upsetting really, I used to be able to handle a boat.