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.

Day 2 – Gayton Junction to Crick

After the heat of yesterday a dull cloudy and cool morning was quite welcome. Steady progress northwards along the Grand Union, we’d both done this stretch many times, me as a novice boater Bob as a well-worn experienced boater. We reminisce. His memories; ‘I’ve had a few good sessions in that pub’, mine; ‘I’ve crashed into that bridge more than once.’

        Then it’s the seven locks of the Buckby flight where we meet up with the couple who followed us down the Arm yesterday. Deep locks, stiff paddles, unyielding gates. I have to be helped regularly by my fellow lock worker to get the gates moved. My bingo wings are getting plenty of exercise and I’m coated in oil from the paddles on the gates. Bob looks longingly at my tee-shirt, he can see it’s potential as an oily rag and Bob can never have too many oily rags.
         By the Watford flight the sun has come out and it is a lovely late afternoon. With plenty of help from the volunteer it is an easy passage up the seven locks. Through the Crick tunnel. I go inside the boat for the duration of the passage and when I emerge to be re-united with my glass of wine I find all the drips from the tunnel roof has watered it down. I hate tunnels.

Day One – The Northampton Boat Club to Gayton Junction

The plan for the first day was to get the Northampton Flight out of the way then stop for a shower, cold drinks (for it was promising to be a hot day) and a meal at Bugbrooke to celebrate the start of the trip.  When we stopped to shop at Northampton Quay and five boats passed us heading towards the Arm we suspected it might be take more than the anticipated four hours get to the top. When we were in a queue of three at the first lock and we found out that ahead of us were two single-handed boaters and two men new to boating four hours was looking impossibly optimistic. It was slow on the first four locks to the flight and another boat caught up with us. Bob was already getting fed-up, said ‘If I were a bishop I’d kick in the stained-glass windows’. At the first lock on the flight we came to a standstill. Bob told me not to go ahead to help because I wouldn’t get any thanks for it. I went ahead to help.

        The elderly single-handed boater was glad to see me. He was trying to work out how to get his boat in the lock when there was nowhere to tie it up. ‘You look like a good anchor,’ he said, ‘hold, my boat while I open the lock.’ A good anchor? I obviously need to lose more weight!
Two more hours, two more locks. Then we ran out of water. Bob went ahead to try and offer helpful advice and try and get more water down the system. By the time he came back he was in full Victor Meldrew mood. I took the boat into a very shallow pound, grounded and was resolutely thumped by a boat coming the other way. More waiting. Bob lay down for a kip. Crawled through another three locks. More waiting. Another empty pound. I went to the top lock to let more water down. I was so effective in letting the water down that a family out walking harangued me for flooding the towpath. While I was at the top I opened the gate to let the last single-handed boater through and when I went to close the gate it jammed open. He had told me that he’d just dropped his windlass into the canal so it was probably this that was obstructing the gate; his final flourish towards impeding our progress.
        With a lot of muscle from the crew (the male crew, this wasn’t women’s work) of the last three boats the gate was opened and closed. By then, with the end finally in sight, the moods of us tail-enders had lightened and there was a lot of banter. We made sure that all three boats got through the obstructed gate.
        It had only taken us nine hours to do the four-hour journey. We didn’t bother going out for a meal that night.