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’.