Boating in the rain

Fazeley Junction to Atherstone, 9 miles, 6 locks

I awoke at 5am to hear the drumbeat of rain on the roof. Peering out of the window as I stagger to the loo, I can see that it's very heavy and not a good sign. By 8am I've slept fitfully and had dreams about Oothoon being in a video game where I have to steer her past various obstacles, including weirs, twisty bends, other boats and other hazards that I can't remember. I get up, with the intention of going to the loo then back to bed, but I realise that I'm too awake for bed and decide to make coffee and some breakfast, then see if I feel any more sleepy. I'm not paying attention while I make breakfast and make far too much, but it does get me in a boating mood. As I eat, I notice that there's water dripping from a grille in the ceiling. These normally cover the mushroom vents and it's not surprising that a bit of rain might have got in, so I think nothing of it. By the time I'm finished, the rain has stopped and it looks like it might be brightening up, so after doing the dishes I get ready and set off.

About 30 minutes later, by the time I reach the first lock, the situation has changed: rain is pelting down from the sky and I'm starting to feel distinctly drippy. I moor at the lock approach as I have to wait for a boat to come down and I wave to the captain of the boat behind telling him to go through. I, meanwhile, go below and get out of my wet clothes and dress properly: lots of layers, my waterproofs and boots. By the time I've changed, the boat behind is in the lock after mine and the rain has died down a little. I manage the lock without a problem and leave the boat in it while I walk the short distance to set the next lock. The people in the boat ahead have kindly left one of the back paddles open for me and the lock is empty and ready. I set it and by the time I've got back to Oothoon there's another boat just arrived so I don't even need to close the top gate because the other crew do it. At the next lock, another boat arrives as I'm leaving, so I can leave the top gate open again.

After the canal leaves Tamworth it wiggles around in the country a bit then passes through Polesworth. There are decent moorings just before the first bridge so I stop there for lunch. I am thinking 'pub lunch', but I remember that I have bread to use up and I fancy some soup, so I have soup and a sandwich instead. The weather improves while I'm lunching and by the time I'm finished it's not even raining any more, but I keep my waterproofs on all the same. I'm curious about this dripping grille, because I've realised that there's no mushroom vent there. I unscrew the grille and underneath is a big bolt. This is clearly on the other end of the loop that my centre ropes attach to. I'm not surprised that it leaks, given the stresses and strains that the centre loop must undergo, but it'll need sorting so I re-attach the grille and make a mental note to look at it later.

There's quite a way to the next lock, which is the bottom lock of the Atherstone flight and it starts to drizzle again. I'm fine in my waterproofs, except that when the rain stops and I lower the hood, my ears and head are cold. I'll need to dig out a wooly hat. The bottom lock is a breeze—as John said it would be. It also has new square bollards on one side, but the middle one is not in the right place for Oothoon's centre rope so I ignore them. This lock is a little more forceful than the previous ones and I'm only just quick enough to grab the centre rope to stop the boat banging into the top gate. Another boat wants to come down, so I'm quickly out of there and a boat has just come out of the next lock and I'm straight in. This time I decide to tie Oothoon to the rear bollard, to stop her going forward. Although the square bollards are terrible for wrapping rope around, they're fine if you just want to attach a static rope. I make a loop using a bow-line and put this over the bollard and it's sufficient to stop Oothoon from going near either the cill or the front gate, even with both paddles open.

It's a similar story with the next lock, except that the rear bollard is positioned slightly differently and the rope almost isn't long enough, but I manage it in the end. At the next lock there's a boat waiting to come down and I chat with her captain while we're waiting for the lock to fill. He recommends mooring just before the railway bridge—which is basically the pound I'm just about to enter. He says that it's relatively quiet (if you ignore the trains), that there are shops nearby (including an Aldi) and that the only problem he had was the boat grounding in the middle of the night. Hoping that that won't happen to me, I thank him for his advice and moor up halfway between Baddesley Bridge and the railway bridge.

I'm cold and a bit damp again so I warm up and get changed, then remember the centre loop. I surround the loop with the sealant that was used on the cracks in the roof near the central heating chimney, hoping that this will work. When I come back indoors, the drips seem to have stopped, so maybe it has. We'll see what happens tomorrow after it gets pulled and stretched a bit.

I can't face cooking so I walk past the next two locks to The King's Head. It's quiet but they do a giant Yorkshire with sausages, which is what I'd have made if I could have been bothered. It's dark when I've finished and I've forgotten to bring the Everlasting Torch, so it's a cautious walk back to the boat. It has stopped raining and the forecast for tomorrow is for occasional light showers. It'll be interesting to see how that's different to today. I'm pooped and in my warm cosy bed by 10:30.

Tamworth Time

Fazeley Junction, 0 miles, 0 locks

Still can't get on the internet, even though I try with the computer on top of the cratch thanks to the sunny weather. It occurs to me that there might be a free WiFi network around and there is, although it's amazingly slow. Slow will do, though, and it allows me to find where the station is and the train times. I get chatting with the people three boats down, who are locals and who tell me that the easiest way to London isn't from Tamworth station; it's from Wilmecote, which is about a mile away. I decide to walk there to get the lay of the land, passing another boat that has a pipe organ on board! It is from Belgium and is the kind that would have been found in café's before the arrival of the Juke Box. The captain tells me that he's 80 and that he owns several organs, but after his wife died he decided to live on the boat and the little Belgian organ is there to keep him company.

When I get to Wilmecote, sure enough there's a train to Birmingham early enough to get me to London for 10am and plenty of trains back. I start to walk into Tamworth, but as usual the road signs are made for cars, not pedestrians and they're taking me a long way around, but I'm passing a bus stop as a bus arrives, so I jump on that.

Central Tamworth could be central anywhere, which is a shame given that at one time it was the capital of the Anglo Saxon kingdom of Mercia. The main tourist attractions are the castle and the large church, but I'm not really in the mood. Now that I'm in town, I can get a phone signal so I call the customer who I'm supposed to see on Tuesday or Wednesday. They've gone live with the work I did last time I was there, but they want to let it bed in for a while to see what needs doing next. We leave it that I'll do another day there once I'm a bit closer to home, which is fine by me. Now that the pressure's off, I'm regretting having not set off for Atherstone, which I've decided will be my next stopping place. I've heard that tomorrow will be wet and there will be locks to do, which would have been better done today. Still, that's just me pressuring myself to get on. I stop by the 3 Store and ask if they're having technical difficulties and it turns out that they are: they're starting to share transmitter poles with T-Mobile and that means re-jigging the network to use Nokia switches rather than Ericsson (or was it the other way around?) The upshot is that although there's signal and the network is carrying voice, it isn't carrying data. The girl in the shop hands me a piece of paper which explains some of this and says that when my bill arrives, I should take it in and they'll refund the days when I've had no service. Although they specifically mention Tamworth, I'm wondering whether this is affecting the rest of the region too, which would explain why I've not been able to get on-line for days. Wandering through Tamworth, I remember that both McDonald's and Costa Coffee do free WiFi. If only I'd brought my computer, I could have got on-line. Drat!

After getting a bus back to Fazeley (since I have no idea how to get there), it's on with the heating and dinner is the leftovers from yesterday's tacos. It's all quite comforting, as is listening to Russell Brand's podcast. I notice that I've got two new One Life Left podcasts, so I listen to one of them before bed. Now I don't have to worry about work for a while, I can enjoy the rest of the journey home without having to worry about the outside world. At least, until it starts to worry about me.

Junction to Junction

Fradley Junction to Fazeley Junction, 11 miles, 0 locks

Was at a bit of a low ebb this morning, partially because of the so-so weather and partially because of the 'parting of the ways' with John and Rita. After a brief chat with John in the morning, I cooked breakfast then set about essential chores: emptying the loo and the bins, then getting the brolly stand changed for one that is smaller. Its about time I filled Oothoon's water tank too and while there's a water point this side of the Fradley lock, there's also a couple after the swing bridge on the Coventry canal. I decide to use one of those so John repositioned Izzyinn Two to use the one this side of the lock. As I head for the lock I wave good-bye to Rita, then John sees me through the lock and the swing bridge.

After a quick water stop, it's time for some boating. I know that Frazeley Junction is about 3.5 hours away and there's no locks, but it's not until I've set off that I realise I've left the map indoors. This might be a worry normally, because I like to know when and where the locks are, but I should be okay without it. The journey is largely uneventful, meandering through nice scenery and countryside. The sun even comes out for a little while and makes everything seem even better. Around 5:30 I go under Lichfield Road Bridge at Hopwas and notice that there's a pub on either side of the canal and a decent mooring spot too. It occurs to me that I really should stop now, because the signs are right, but the sun is still shining and from my vague memory of the route I'm not far from Fazeley, so I press on. Big mistake. The sun goes in not long after and it suddenly starts to feel cold, and there's lots of boats moored so I'm crawling along at 2.5mph (4kph). There's not many landmarks at this point—even the frequent bridges that have marked my progress disappear—and I realise that I have no actual idea how much further there is to go or whether I'll make it before sundown. It's a thoroughly miserable state of affairs and one of my own making. I keep doing this: setting a target and pressing myself to make sure I get there, even when my instincts are telling me not to. I really need to stop doing this, because it's not doing me any good, but I've no choice but to go with the decision I made and so I keep going.

Frazeley turns out to be about three miles from Hopwas and it takes me over an hour to get there. Without the map I'm not sure whether I've arrived or not, but there's a long queue of boats moored and I figure that surely I must be there by now. I stop and tie up in the first available spot, then wander along the towpath to look at the BW sign I can see in the distance: Frazeley Visitor Moorings, 48 hours, 7 days max. There's a spot directly opposite the BW offices, which is where several people have told me to moor, so I shuffle Oothoon along into it. Once all is secure, I go indoors, put the heating on and get changed. I've got mince to use that I should have cooked yesterday, so it's taco night again (yay!) That at least puts a smile on my face and the minor amount of cooking and preparation takes my mind off what has really forced me to get here today: train accessability.

The internet isn't working again, although the modem claims to have five-bars of signal. Without it I can't check train times from Tamworth to London; neither can I figure out where Tamworth station is relative to the mooring (although the train lines seem to cross at the other side of town). The only other option is Atherstone, where the station is right next to the canal, however I like the mooring here, whereas Atherstone is an unknown quantity and I don't want another Long Eaton. Fortunately it's Sunday and I won't have to be in London until Tuesday or Wednesday, which gives me time to work out what the best option is. If it's Atherstone, I've got Monday to move there and possibly Tuesday too. I decided to sleep on it.

Gongoozling

Fradley Junction, 0 miles, 0 locks

Having a bit of a lazy day today. It was misty again and not really conducive to getting out of bed, but last night John had suggested breakfast at the Kingfisher Café at 9am and I was just about up and ready in time. Although John was up, Rita and Freddie (their dog) were still slumbering, which seemed very sensible to me. I wandered up to the café, but they didn't serve breakfast until 10am and a little chat with the owner revealed that the nearest cash machine was back in Alrewus. Given that I didn't have much to do until 10 and given that Alrewus was, in the cafe owner's opinion, "only a 20 minute walk", I decided to pop back before breakfast. On the way I came across one of the boats whose crew had helped me through the Fradley locks yesterday and when I said where I was going, he told me not to miss the butcher's.

Turns out that at the speed I walk Alrewus is actually about a 40 minute walk (still faster than by boat though!) but it wasn't to cold and the mist made it seem rather special. At one point you could see the sun clearly in the water, yet when you looked up at the sky there was just haze. Thanks to John's directions I found the cash machine without problem and popped back to 'ave a butcher's at the butcher's, who by this time had a queue out of the door. Now I normally shy away from proper butchers, largely because I find they remind me too much of where meat comes from, but this place had everything. Vegetables outside, loads of bright red meat inside, fish over there, amazing 'Texas' steaks that I don't think I've got a pan large enough to hold, a bakery and a well-stocked cheese counter. And everything is local. Talk about freshness and low-carbon footprint. Actually, it probably doesn't have a low carbon footprint, judging by the number of people who go there in their cars. I bought sausages, bacon, Gouda with nettles, some sausage rolls, eggs and a loaf; then set off back to Fradley.

By the time I got back, at 11:20, the weather had improved and the sun was well and truly out. I was wearing layers, so I was a bit hot. John and Rita were going to be a few minutes, so I thought I'd make coffee and by the time I'd had that and joined them to walk up to the Kingfisher Café, it was 12:05, and five minutes too late for their breakfast. I was a bit cross about this—mainly at myself for wasting time having coffee which meant that we'd missed the breakfast, but also because I can't see that it makes any odds to a café what they're cooking, so why not offer breakfast all day? (I suppose the real answer is that breakfast is a loss-leader to get people in when they otherwise wouldn't and is priced accordingly; the rest of the menu is effectively not as good value.) John and Rita went for the double-egg, ham and chips; I got my 'revenge' by ordering a toasted bacon roll with extra sausage, egg, tomato and mushroom, and a pot of tea—or their standard breakfast all bar the beans and black pudding. It was delicious and filled me up nicely. 

After more tea, we wandered round to The Swan for an afternoon drinkie and a bit of gongoozling (i.e. watching boats). I know what I'm like with booze in the afternoon, so I had shandy and it was all very pleasant sitting in the sun. I'd bought a book on knots in the shop next to The Swan and I don't know whether it's that I'm stupid or whether it was the shandy, but I was having a hard time understanding the diagrams. Another shandy later and it was decided that there was a dearth of boats to watch, so we went back home—John to take Freddie for a walk; Rita to read and me to 'play' with the washing machine.

On the way I bought a brolly stand that allows me to fix an umbrella to the tiller. I've wanted one of these for a while, although I'm not sure whether it'll be as useful as I hope. The one I've bought is basically two rings on a stick, with one ring 90° relative to the other one. One ring goes round the tiller, the other round the umbrella handle and they're tightened with screws. Seems simple, although perhaps a little inflexible. John showed me his brolly stand, which is a T shaped piece of tubing. The top of the T slips over the tiller and is held in place by two hand-tightenable screws, with the leg of the T pointing upwards and into which you put the brolly. It looks far better designed than the thing I've bought, but apparently the manufacturer doesn't exist any more.

When Sterling sent me a Pro Combi S to replace my old 1.5Kw 3-in-1 combi, they kindly sent me a 2.1Kw model. This meant that instead of standing no chance of running the washing machine without a mains hookup (given that my washer is 2Kw) I was suddenly in the running, although I hadn't had the nerve to try it. Today, I decided, was the day. It all went well enough at first—the engine started and I was running at a good number of revs, the sun was shining and the solar panel was doing its thing, and the washing machine was going round and filling with water as you'd expect. Then the alarm sounded on the inverter, I started to look worried and then it closed down and the washing machine stopped—full of water and my smalls. After waiting a moment or two to check fuses and the inverter trips, I reset it and off it went again for a minute or two, the washing swishing around in the little porthole and looking exactly as though everything was going well. Then the alarm sounded again, the inverter closed down and everything stopped. Thinking that maybe I needed more power, I decided to angle the solar cell so it was perpendicular to the sun's rays and I opened the throttle a bit more. After waiting a couple of minute to let it 'build up a head of steam', so to speak, I reset the inverter and crossed my fingers. After another couple of minutes the alarm sounded and it all stopped. Just at this point, John and Freddie returned from their walk and after a quick mental calculation, John pronounced that I was probably a battery short. This sounded reasonable to me, but what to do about getting my knickers back? John pointed out that it was probably the heater that was causing the problem and if I did a cold wash it might be all right, so I turned the thermostat from 30° to 0 and reset the inverter. This time it all carried on nicely, proving that there's just not enough wonga to drive the heater. John and Freddie continued on to their boat and my undies continued to revolve until the cycle completed.

I spent a little time fruitlessly trying to get onto the internet, then fitting the brolly stand (the ring is too large for my tiller), then finally giving Oothoon a wash down. Then it was time to go to the pub for dinner. I was in a very indecisive mood, so in the end I had a 'Berni Special' (that's Prawn Cocktail followed by Steak). No Black Forest Gateau on the menu, unfortunately, but there was Lemon Cream Dream, so I had that. I know it's not even vaguely healthy, but I also know that I'll be doing proper boating for the next few days and should work it off. Anyway, I was up and down onto the roof enough times trying to reposition the solar cell and I did give the boat a clean, which must count for something.

More Trent and Mersey

Branston to Fradley Junction, 7 miles, 8 locks

Woke up to a very misty morn. So misty, in fact, that visibility was about 300yds (274m), however the sun was clearly up and fighting and it quickly started to get brighter. John and Rita were up and set off just as I was making a flask of tea. They said they'd have the first lock set ready for me, but before I got started four South African ladies on nb Ophelia came past.

After the first lock, the canal starts to go through the National Forest and is joined for a couple of miles by the modern-day A38, which in Roman times was known as Ryknild Street. This seems to be very busy and is extremely noisy too.There's a brief deviation at Barton Turn, a tiny place that seems to consist mainly of a pub, a lock, and a turn-off of the A38. It's actually an adjunct to the much larger Barton Under Needwood (hence the 'Barton') which is a good distance from the canal. Amusingly, there's a couple of Little Chefs at Barton Turn (one each side of the road) and I was tickled to see that the canal-side one has piling nearby so you can moor up, should you be in need of an Olympic Breakfast or a toasted tea-cake. The Little Chef itself is directly opposite the entrance to Barton Turns Marina, which is vast and has its own hotel, pub and parade of shops!

After a couple of bridges the canal goes through Wychnor lock and turns away from the A38, finally restoring peace and tranquility.  It then dithers about for a bit before passing Alrewas (pron. "Olrewus") which was supposed to be last night's destination. At Alrewus lock, the canal briefly turns into the River Trent. Just before the lock, the landing stage has been ripped out and BW are doing substantial works to fix up what I'm told was a bad bit of bank. There's a temporary mooring point, but it's a long way from the lock, so I was very fortunate that I arrived the lock was empty and one of the bottom gates was open. I called to a passing couple to ask if they would open the other gate for me and the gentleman kindly obliged, allowing me to go straight in. Although these are narrow locks there's a lot of force in the water and I wasn't quite quick enough to catch Oothoon before she hit the front gate, so after she'd popped up to the surface, I took advantage of the short gap before Izzyinn Two turned up to check that everything was still intact. The only casualty seems to be my Ikea 'aerolatte', which will probably never froth again.

Alrewus itself is slightly set back from the canal but even if it wasn't, you wouldn't be able to see much for the number of boats that were moored there. I think not getting there yesterday actually worked in my favour. After Alrewus, there's a short straight, another couple of locks in quick succession, then you're in Fradley Junction. Once again I was lucky and people waiting to bring their boats down helped me through the locks, so I was through in no time.

Fradley Junction is where the Trent and Mersey, and the Coventry canals meet and is one of the most famous canal junctions. When I leave here I'll be heading south down the Coventry, but John and Rita will be continuing on the Trent and Mersey, so it'll be a parting of the ways. They arrived a little after me and we regrouped and hit the BW café for tea and cake. We also had a wander up to look at the Trent and Mersey locks, because John had heard a rumour that they'd been closed, but it looked like if they had been, it was only so that the Cill markers could be repainted.

We had dinner in The Swan: a hearty bowl of Cream of Onion soup (unusual but tasty!) followed, in my case, by minted lamb pie with veg and new potatoes. Very nice. Another pint or two of Spitfire later and it was back to the boat and I was in bed by just after 9:30.

On the Trent and Mersey Canal

Willington to Branston, 7 miles, 2 locks

I've been a bit rubbish today. For a start off I didn't get out of bed until 9am, even though I'd set my alarm for 8 (blame it on the Autumn duvet that I installed a couple of nights ago if you like, or perhaps the combination of booze and batter from last night). Either way, I doodled around until it was getting on for 10 when I decided to go to the Post Office to send in my request for compensation for the journey back to Harborough on the day of my eye exam. Of course, the next boat over has the couple from Birmingham on it (who introduced themselves as John and Rita) so I'm chatting to John and Rita's interjecting from below decks, and the time passed very nicely. Then it's the Post Office and everything's sorted, then it's back to Oothoon with the intention of getting going. I started the engine and got everything sorted at that end, then pottered around making flasks of tea and checking e-mail and generally not rushing, and John and Rita have left already and I'm still messing around, and eventually I set off.

It's all lovely. The weather's grey but dry and although I'm convinced I can feel rain all the time, there's no actual water falling from the sky. So Willington disappears behind me and the canal meanders and wanders and then there's some aqueducts and a pipe bridge, and then it's Stretton and the canal's still plodding along and I'm behind a boat that's doing exactly 3.0 miles per hour (not 2.9, not 3.1, but 3.0) and then it's Burton upon Trent and there's a bridge with a basin and a winding hole and then—oh my—a lock!

Dallow lock is the first of the narrow locks on this canal and there's a queue. There's one boat going in when I arrive with another waiting (who doesn't shuffle up). After him is Mr  3.0mph, who hasn't bothered to tie up or indeed step down off his boat; instead he's reading the paper and giving the throttle the occasional blip when no-one is looking to keep roughly in the right place. After him is me, stood on the bank holding a green and red 67ft dog on its leash, and after me are a couple of people renting, where the chap is—well I was going to mention Wallace from Wallace and Gromit, and Norman Clegg from Last of the Summer Wine, but I've worked out that they're both Peter Sallis, so the chap is just like Peter Sallis, and like him is funny and helps make the time pass. There's so many people around that when it's my turn for the lock I'm just an unnecessary cog in a well-oiled machine. I just need to get the boat into the hole, stand around looking decorative while she rises out of the pit, then wave gratefully as we leave.

Burton upon Trent passes uneventfully, with the exception of a shortish stop at the Chandlery at Shobnall, who are friendly, helpful and courteous; and then it's Branston lock, which I need to do myself. Branston is one of those locks that I love—it's in the middle of a field in what seems like the middle of nowhere, and if you were to look from the edge of the field all you'd see is the lock gates and paddle equipment standing like obsolete relics of a bygone era in the middle of a lot of grass. It all goes well: I don't do the brave thing and leap from one narrow gate to the next, and nothing goes wrong either.

I'm just passing Branston Bridge when I realise that I recognise one of the boats moored near the pub there: it's Izzyinn Two, who have stopped for a sandwich and a cuppa, heard that Alrewas (pron. 'olrewus') is full, and have decided to stay. As I approach, John asks whether I'm stopping for the night and—given that there's an Oothoon-sized gap immediately after them—I say I will.

We chat a bit and Rita makes tea, then John helps me seal up the cracks around the central heating chimney using the stuff I've bought at Shobnall. After that, they're off to the pub (which is really an Italian Restaurant in disguise) for dinner and I stay at home and have the prawn and pesto pasta that I've been promising myself for days. After dinner I wander along to the pub to join them, and we have a few rounds before coming home again. I'm rather squiffy at this point, which might be due to the Grappa I had instead of red wine in the last round. Don't care: I'm feeling happy, contented, and all's well with the world. And if John and Rita have anything to do with it, I might even be on a different canal tomorrow!

How deep?! You have got to be joking!

Shardlow to Willington, 11 miles, 5 locks

Grey and overcast today and very dreary, but at least it was dry. I set off from Shardlow with a vague idea the Willington should be my destination although I wasn't sure how far it was. My hackles were up almost immediately that I'd set off, as I came under Idle Bridge and approached Shardlow lock (4'5/1.35m). A Canaltime boat (Canaltime are a boat time-share/hire company and, round here, a euphemism for something far less delicate) was just leaving the lock with two people on board and two operating the lock gates. They shut both gates and climbed back aboard and waited as I pulled up in front of them, forced to tie up so I could re-open one of the gates. They stood on the back deck looking blank and I walked past them without acknowledging their presence. This simply wouldn't do. After the events of the past few days, I needed to let these petty annoyances go, so I tried to breathe deeply and think calm thoughts, like perhaps if I'd sounded the horn they might have noticed me. I got Oothoon into the lock and had just opened the first ground paddle when another Canaltime boat emerged from under the bridge. I wound down the paddle, opened the back gate paddles and opened the gate for them to come in. Turned out that they were a Welsh couple on their fifth canal holiday (what is it about the Welsh and canals?) who were very nice although it was amusing to watch as the lady's magnificent bosom rather got in the way of turning the windlass.

They kindly offered to close the gates and off I roared, only to pass the Birmingham couple from yesterday, who were just starting off. I finally got to meet them properly at the next lock, which is Aston lock (8'1/2.47m). I arrived a few minutes before them and went to help the boat already in the lock come down. There's a bridge just in front of the lock and to my amazement I looked down and there was Oothoon's prow, heading for the lock gates! I quickly shut the paddles and ran back to try to catch her, to find that the Birmingham captain had done so and was holding onto the end of the centre rope as tight as he could. Without the surging current from the lock, we quickly got Oothoon back under control as the captain of the boat in the lock came to have a look. He explained that there was a certain knack with the I bollards and it came down to using the right knot. He showed me how to do a clove hitch (which I already knew how to do, although I didn't know its name and which is apparently a bad choice) and he said that if I used that, I wouldn't have any more bother. Excitement over, the Birmingham couple—whose boat is called Izzyinn Two (apparently the captain used to be a freelance motor mechanic and people were forever knocking at their house and asking "Is he in?", so the house became known as "Izzyinn", which is why the boat is "Two")—and I went through the lock without further ado.

We met again at the next lock—Weston lock (10'11/3.33m)—where it was Izzyinn Two's turn to break away and dance about. Glad it's not just me it happens to! As I climbed out of this lock, I noticed that the locks seemed to be getting taller and I was nonplussed to find that the force of the current of water entering the lock as it filled, which makes the boats move towards the top gates, was so strong that I couldn't pull Oothoon away from the gates.

Izzyinn Two stopped for water just after the lock and I stopped for lunch. We set off again at about the same time, with them in the lead, so it was no surprise when I caught them up at Swarkestone lock (10'11/3.33m). What was surprising was the queue of boats waiting to go through. There were our two, plus another three!  It seemed to be taking a very long time for the lock to cycle, so Izzyinn Two's captain went to have a look...and was gone for ages. When he finally returned, he explained that there were a 'foreign' couple on a Canaltime boat (by which he meant a couple whose grasp of English wasn't great) who were trying to operate the lock using instructions provided in their native language. They'd got a bit confused and not only had all of the paddles open, but the tiller had somehow got itself caught under the lock ladder! He'd shut all the paddles, drained the lock a little so that the tiller came free, then finished off the locking so they could go on their way. With this obstacle past, all that was left to do was unground the boat in front of us so they could go through, along with the Canaltime boat with the Welsh couple on, which turned up just at that moment.

Izzyinn Two's captain decided that I should stay on my boat and he'd operate the lock, so both our boats went in together and the locking passed so easily that I wasn't prepared for the behemoth that is Stenson lock (12'4/3.76m). This isn't so much a lock as a vaulted cathedral with a waterfall feature at one end, that has had its roof nicked. Having been through Stenson lock before, the lady on Izzyinn Two refused to be in the lock and insisted on doing the gates and paddles. I've no idea how she did this, given that the back gates must be at least 15' high (4.57m). The waterfall feature became positively scary when at the front of my boat with the gates shut behind me and the strong current that I'd experienced in Weston lock seemed to be magnified, such that even on full-reverse I couldn't get Oothoon away from the front of the lock (we were still below the cill at this point, the bottom of the gates being up above us). In the end, the captain of Izzyinn Two attached my centre rope to his boat and used the power of the Prop Of Doom (as seen in action yesterday on the Trent) to pull us both back from the cill.

After that, it was all plain sailing into Willington. I popped into the Co-op for tea bags and, as it looked like rain, I popped into the pub for a pint. Who should be there but the crew from Izzyinn Two, who bought me a pint and invited me to join them for a chat. They were both very interesting people who were genuine continuous cruisers. Indeed, they'd been cruising almost as long as I've lived on Oothoon, which gave me pause for thought. We talked about some of the highs and lows of continually being on the move, and in particular how they dealt with the cold winter months (apparently it's as simple as having the fire on all the time). They had ordered dinner in the pub and although I wasn't supposed to, the smells wafting around me as we sat talking were so overpoweringly good that, when I bought the next round of drinks, I ordered a large yorkshire pudding filled with a cumberland sausage and onion gravy, with mashed potatoes and peas. I'm sure my doctor would tut, but you have no idea how huge it was, not to mention how yummy!

Homeward Bound

Long Eaton to Shardlow,  6 miles, 7 locks

Having reached a low point yesterday I felt a bit more positive this morning. I think it was the idea that I was going to get off the Erewash combined with that idea of something definite to look forward to. I originally started on this journey with grand plans of going to Manchester via Selby, then to Liverpool and via the Anderton Boat Lift to Llangollen, then down the Severn to Bristol, and back on the Kennet and Avon canal and the Thames. As time has gone on and reality has set in there's been a degree of de-scoping—something I'm a master of after 30 years in the computer industry. Manchester was left on the cutting room floor once I realised that Oothoon is too long to go over the Pennines thanks to the Calder and Hebble's short locks; the Kennet and Avon got shelved after a relatively small river like the Soar flooded, making me think that the Severn was going to be too hairy; Llangollen, a definite until only a week or so ago, vanished into the distance as realistic locking times were fed into the equations and extended stops at places that were comfortable ate up the days. This shifting sands of destinations and times makes it difficult to have a clear way forward, but I at least knew the clear way back to Trent lock.

I'd said four locks yesterday and the first of those was okay. By the second—the one with the winding hole where I could turn round—the weather had got brighter and that 'boat' thing had kicked in: you're not on a dodgy canal surrounded by knaves and varmints; you're on your boat, boating, and the weather's looking up. It's in weak moments like these that you consult your Nicholson's and convince yourself that it's only a day's travel to the end of the navigation, and how that would make a fitting end point for the journey, not to mention another canal you could 'tick off'. I was in this semi-blissful state by the time I'd opened the exit gate on the second lock, just as another boat came round the corner towards me. The captain came over to take over control of the lock while I left and we got talking. He was from Langley Mill, at the end of the canal and every time they wanted to go somewhere they needed to 'do' the Erewash first. I asked what it was like upstream and he said that both the landscape and the people got more 'country'. I asked whether the paddles were vandal-proofed all the way up and he said that they were, except where BW had replaced some of the lock gear and hadn't fitted the anti-vandal measures, so kids still drained that part of the canal. And I asked what the locks and moorings were like and he said that the locks were stiff and hard to operate, and that moorings were few and far between. Then he said that, even with all that, they'd had a pleasant journey down and there'd been no fridges in the canal this time. I think that convinced me. My thought bubble—containing a rosy picture of the end of the navigation in its faithfully restored glory—burst, and was replaced with a vision of swirling murky waters full of shopping trollies, just waiting to wrap themselves around the propellor of the unsuspecting boater while pre-teens in shell suits looked on, laughing, then started throwing things. I asked the captain to hold on a moment, as I was going to turn round and I'd be joining him back to Trent lock.

During the return journey I took the time to see whether Long Eaton was as bad as I'd thought. It probably isn't, but things do look different during the day. For example, the towpath edge from where I'd moored in the lock approach is terrible, but gets better once houses start to border the towpath. I'd discounted those as moorings because they were too close to, well, 'inhabitants'. Long Eaton lock isn't in a pretty location, but lose the people and it's otherwise unremarkable. The moorings that I couldn't find last night are definitely there, although they had boats on them yesterday. In short, if I'd arrived a few hours earlier when it was daylight and the moorings hadn't been grabbed, and if perhaps there had been another pair of eyes looking at the situation more objectively than me, things might have turned out differently. But then, it's become very clear to me that boating generally works far better with two because canals were designed knowing that there'd be at least someone on the boat and someone controlling the horse.

I know that it's wrong to anthropomorphise things, but I was struck by how the closer I got to Trent lock, the brighter the weather got, making you think that it agreed with the decision.

Stopped for a quick lunch at Trent lock, then managed to share the lock with a Birmingham couple. They left the lock first and were off along the Trent, while I nipped below to get my map. When I finally popped out onto the Trent and turned right to follow, there was no sign of them. I was a bit surprised at this, especially since even at full power Oothoon was barely managing 3.8 mph (6.1kph). A boat coming the opposite way fair whizzed past, so I'm guessing that the current was fairly strong, and it wasn't until I got to the mechanised locks at Sawley that I saw the other boat again—it was just pulling out of the lock. I tied up and went to take over the lock and asked the captain just what kind of engine he had. Turns out that it was 2.8 litre and a make I'd never heard of. He also said that he'd had the prop changed—apparently this was a new boat and whenever the original prop (which was made in China) hit anything it would bend out of shape. Indeed, he said that you could actually bend it with Mole grips if you tried hard, so he'd had it replaced and sent the bill to the boat builder. Now, apparently, the problem was that even on tick-over the boat went too fast. No wonder they'd lost me!

Sawley was hard work. It's a big lock, as you'd expect from something that links a canal to a river, and the gates and paddles are all operated hydraulically using a push-button console, supposedly by a lock keeper (although no sign of one today). Getting Oothoon in was quite a struggle, because with locks like that you really need to keep the boat under control using ropes, and that meant she needed to be on the left side of the lock, but no matter what I did she went over to the right-hand side. Eventually I wedged her diagonally across the lock, with the prow in the top right corner and the stern in the bottom left, which was inelegant but allowed me to reach the ladder on the left side. Then she didn't want to come over even on the rope. Figuring that it had to be the wind, I tried closing the bottom gates—not straightforward when you're trying to control a boat with the other hand, even if you do just need to keep your finger on the button. Controlling her wasn't helped by the lock having silly I bollards, that seem to have taken over from the equally useless L bollards, and where a single turn of the rope slides and has no grip, but two or more turns of the rope are immovable. Eventually I got her within a couple of feet of the left side of the lock and three twists of rope around the bollard, and I pressed the 'raise' button to open the top paddles. Fortunately it's all sequenced and a small amount of water is let in to raise the water levels, then the paddles are opened more to give a more substantial burst, then finally they're fully opened so the lock can finish filling. Things were under control until the lock got about half full, but at that point there was sufficient slack in the rope for Oothoon to start wandering over to the other side of the lock. I dare not loosen two of the turns off the bollard or I'd have had no grip and been pulled over, so I had to watch her doing a little dance around in the lock. Fortunately she calmed down as the paddles opened fully and even floated over to my side, ending up obediently parked right next to me once the lock was full!

The last bit of the Trent, from Sawley locks, is flat, pleasant, and has a cross-rivers with the unnavigable mouth of the River Derwent on one side, a little navigable bit of Trent on the other and the entrance to the Trent and Mersey canal straight ahead. I headed for the Trent and Mersey and got through the first lock with no problems. After all the rivers I'd been on recently and the horror of the Erewash, it was lovely to get back onto some well-maintained honest-to-goodness broad canal. I wasn't on long before I got to Shardlow, which seems to be mainly pubs, boatyards and boats, and seemed like an excellent place to stop. Again all the 'proper' moorings were full (and this at 4pm too) but there was a cheeky towpath mooring near Idle Bridge, which I grabbed. Been a while since I've needed to put pegs in to moor and there was something very comforting about it.

I'd meant to try the pubs—there are two within spitting distance of each other—but after a nap and cauliflower cheese for dinner (and there was no rain so I could put the central heating on) I was pooped. I'd had several e-mails and txt's from people concerned that I was so low yesterday and two offers of help, so I spent a happy time replying to those and chatting. I might be physically alone here in on my boat, but I'm clearly not alone in spirit.

I've had enough

Loughborough to Long Eaton, 10 miles, 9 locks

Apart from the trip to Aldi this morning going well (except that it started raining as I started to walk home) today has been on the poor side. Obviously the wet weather and grey conditions haven't helped, but neither have scarily big locks, inconsiderate parking in a lock approach and ending up on the Erewash canal.

I needed to get the train to London again tomorrow, so my choices were to stay in Loughborough and travel from there or get to Long Eaton which is the next station up. Wishing to make progress and having heard that the Erewash Canal was worth a detour, I set off for Long Eaton and in fact the journey has generally gone well—I even managed to buy more gas at Kegworth—and i was through Trent Lock well before 6, giving me plenty of time to find a mooring and settle down for the night with the heating on. Except that there isn't anywhere to moor. There's a lot of boats near Trent lock, but there's nowhere obvious to moor on the Towpath side and—with the exception of the Royal Oak, who have a mooring limit of 18 hours—there's nowhere on the off-side either. Sheetstores Basin, which I hoped might be the answer given that it's run by a boatyard, was completely full of boats and the approach is narrow and at an odd angle, meaning that you'd need to turn about 315° in order to get in. Then there would be the problem of there not being any space and having to reverse out, so I kept going—eventually finding a terrible spot right by a main road which had the disadvantage that I couldn't approach it without grounding. By this time it was starting to get dark and so I continued up the navigation, eventually going through Long Eaton lock.

Now it's at this point that I should mention something that Nicholson's doesn't, namely that Trent Lock has a discreet sign saying that a Water Conservation Key is required for the navigation. I didn't realise what this meant when I went through Trent Lock, because the ground paddles appeared to have been taken out of service and half the gate paddles were missing too, but I found out at Long Eaton: it means you need a 'handcuff' key to unlock the paddles. Now it so happens that earlier this year I bought one of these, mainly to find out what it is, so I do have one; but if I didn't, I'd have had to reverse halfway back to Trent lock before I could have turned. Now I was already feeling fed up with this canal, at how grotty it seems and how Long Eaton seems to be populated with chavs (at least going by the people hanging around near the lock), but this was really the final straw. If they need these for the whole canal, maybe it isn't the kind of canal I want to be on. I think I decided there and then that I've had enough: I'm tired of not knowing whether it's going to be possible to moor when you get somewhere; I'm tired of towpaths that you can't get near for bushes and reeds; I'm tired of never knowing whether where I've moored is safe; I'm tired of inconsiderate and ignorant boaters; I'm tired of not knowing whether there'll be enough power to start the engine in the morning; and I'm heartily sick of bad weather. I know that there's always lots of politics going on in my home mooring (not to mention people who are beset with 'issues') but at least I can plug into the mains and shut my front door and pretend none of it is happening. I've also realised that I'm missing my friends terribly. I know that I speak to some of them regularly on the phone or via e-mail/instant messaging, but it's not the same as going out with them or being in their company. In short, I just want to go home.

Going to work tomorrow is a lost cause, so I'll just have to make my apologies and hope they'll be understanding and I have to go through another two locks before there's a winding hole, which means four locks before I can get off this hell-hole of a canal, but after that it's full speed for London and 'home'.

While I'm having a moan, can I just mention the idiot narrowboat owner who had moored on the last two bollards of Kegworth Deep lock and who was polishing his boat's roof and rearranging the TV aerial, and the imbecile fibreglass cruiser owner parked on the same lock approach, only two bollards from the lock itself. Between them was a gap of approximately 70ft, which through lack of choice I was forced to squeeze into in order to operate the lock. As I approached, the man in the narrowboat went below, having studiously ignored my pointed looks and gestures; the man in the cruiser poked his head out the door, followed by an arm to push me off his fragile little boat, then disappeared below too. After I'd got between them and tied up, almost touching the cruiser, I went to ask the cruiser owner whether they'd broken down. Apparently not and the captain seemed surprised that I might think he'd parked inconsiderately—if I wanted him to move, I only had to ask. I don't know how he thought I was going to do that, other than by pulling right alongside and shuffling along the gunwale to have a word. I mentioned that this was a lock approach and not a mooring, so he had no business to be there, but that if he was going to be there, he should at least moor by the narrowboat so there was a large gap left by the lock. Of course he completely ignored me and I went off muttering and wondering whether I should take photographs and report him, but I just wanted to get on as I was apprehensive about the lock as it was. Funnily enough, after Oothoon had descended into the deep deep pit that is Kegworth Deep Lock, another narrowboat turned up to use the lock and had exactly the same problems I had. I'm guessing that the cruiser owner still thought himself in the right and that narrowboat owners are a miserable and grumpy lot. Of course tonight I haven't a leg to stand on because i'm parked in the approach to Dockholme Lock—but only because it's the first clear bit of towpath since Long Eaton lock. At least I'm on the furthest two bollards so other boats can still use the lock if they need to. Unless that cruiser turns up.

My final word for today concerns my roof. I've got an Alde central heating unit and for some time now I've been concerned about what look like cracks in the roof where the chimney emerges. I'm now convinced that they are cracks, because tonight I discovered water dripping into the boat via the central heating unit. It wasn't much, but I didn't feel like risking putting the heating on with there being water about. Deep joy.

On a day when the sun was shining

Birstall to Loughborough, 12 miles, 7 locks

Woke up to find that I had no hot water because the water heater had no power. This could only mean one thing, namely that the batteries were flat. I soldiered on, boiling the kettle, making breakfast and pretending that it wasn't as bad as I thought, but eventually could put it off no longer. Taking my jump-start battery with me, in the vague hope that it might help, on opening the engine room hatch I could see that the inverter had powered off. That had to be a bad sign. I switched it off and gave the glow-plugs 10 seconds of 'glow', then tried to start the engine. It turned over, but didn't fire. I disconnected the clutch and put the throttle into a more 'jaunty' position and tried again, but nothing. Resigned that I would need to connect up the jump-start battery, I opened the back-deck hatch and also the engine bay hatch. From there I could see the solar regulator, which suggested that the batteries had at least two 'blobs'. Thinking that this aught to be enough (how scientific is that?!) I realised that after moving the throttle, I hadn't given the glow-plugs their chance, so I gave them 10 seconds again, then fired. The engine turned over a few times, then burst into life. I was saved!

I figured that the battery was flat as a combination of not running the engine much yesterday, combined with the inverter being on all the time and Herr Aldi's fridge. Now that I had the engine running, I could afford to experiment a little, so I put the inverter into power save mode. This is where it checks to see whether anything is using electricity and if not, it switches off. It's also the thing that causes me bother with the hot-water, because the heater's ignition doesn't use enough power to start the inverter. I'd previously convinced myself that this wouldn't work with the fridge—although I hadn't tried it—and it turns out it works perfectly, kicking in the inverter when the fridge needs to cool itself, but letting the inverter switch into its low-power mode when it doesn't.

With the engine running it was time to set off. Today's target was Loughborough—a name designed to confuse foreigners just as "Leicester" used to confuse Wei Wei Wong who took over from Anne Aston on The Golden Shot. According to Canalplan AC, under my new revised settings, this was easily achievable in a day, so I was quite hopeful.

Just before I set off, the little plastic cruiser that had been moored in front of me had left and I was hopeful that I'd catch it up by the time we reached the first lock. By the first lock, I had caught it up and another cruiser had joined it. After checking that they were fine being in a lock with a steel narrowboat, in we went, but their captains talked to each other and largely ignored me. At one point I heard the captain of one cruiser ask the other whether he closed the lock gates behind him. When this happens, you can always tell that they're basically asking for permission to be lazy and break protocol, and the other captain replied that while he normally did close the gates, as this was a river it probably didn't matter so much. He also said that cruisers were a lot faster than narrowboats. As it happens, once the exit gates were opened, both cruisers left, leaving me to do the gates myself. Now call me old fashioned, but just because a Ferrari has a higher top speed than, say, a Perodua Kelisa, doesn't mean that it isn't subject to the same rules of the road.

Although they'd hared off, leaving me to tortoise behind at my (legal) top speed of 4mph (6.5kph), it was such a nice day and the journey and view were so enjoyable that I didn't mind. I was bothered to think of how I expected to find the next lock—empty, and with both bottom gates open—but it was really far too nice a day to worry. As it happened, when I finally did get to the next lock, they had both had to sit and wait while a boat came up and it came out of the lock as I approached, so I went straight in! This continued for the next few locks, with them roaring away and me closing the gates and plodding on behind, only to find that the next lock was set and I was first in by the time I arrived. Eventually we got to Sileby lock where one of the cruisers was going into the marina and the other was stopping at the pub at Mountsorrel. Both captains came over for a chat to tell me this and when they heard that my destination was Loughborough, they were unanimous in recommending the moorings outside the Albion Inn.

The rest of the journey was more of the same—lots of sunshine, easy locks and thoroughly enjoyable. Until, that is, I got to Barrow Deep lock. Nicholson's says this has a drop of 9'7 (1.4m) and I really didn't fancy climbing down the wet slimey ladder to rejoin Oothoon after emptying the lock and opening the gates. After mentioning this to the crew of one of the boats that was coming up, they kindly offered to do the lock for me. Once in the lock, I stood on Oothoon's roof, keeping everything under control using the centre rope wrapped round a bollard, and they did the gates and paddles. I'm sure they have no idea just how grateful I am about that, but it's a lot! Next after Barrow Deep is Pilling's flood lock, which is only used when the Soar is misbehaving. As it isn't, both sets of gates were open and I roared though. Such fun!

Loughborough is a bit odd in that it's the end of the Leicester section of the Grand Union canal and the start of the Loughborough section, which eventually becomes the River Trent. The junction is T shaped, with the canal going one way and a strange straggly bit going the other down to Loughborough Wharf. I'd hoped that I might be in Loughborough before 4pm, because I'd heard that there was a Sainsbury's right next to Loughborough Wharf, but by the time I reached the T-junction I'd missed it by 10 minutes. I headed down there anyway to see the lay of the land and wished I hadn't. Apart from the basin being an awkward shape, there's barely enough room to turn Oothoon's 67 feet around, let alone a 72-footer. Even then, it was only possible because the wharf was empty: if there had been boats there, I'd have had to reverse out. My advice: unless your boat is short and you need the pump out/water point/showers that are there, give the place a miss. Of course the wharf is overshadowed by a modern-looking block of flats and whoever did the fitting out must have chosen soft stone for the wharf edging because it looks nice. I don't think they've realised that the limited room means that boats will inevitably crunch into the sides and the edge is badly damaged and tatty.

After mooring outside the Albion (which was closed) I had a look on Google Maps to find out where everything is and whether there's an Aldi. Turns out it's the other side of the car park that's over the little stream thing that runs past the back of the Albion, or a few hundred yards away. I think I know where I'm going tomorrow then.

Dinner should have been pasta with prawns and pesto, but after talking to my friend Paul I was in the mood for chicken. I wandered back towards Loughborough Wharf because I'd seen a Carvery there, but it turns out that that's only in the afternoon on a Sunday. The rest of the time they have an amazing range of tribute acts appearing, all for a reasonable price and including a carvery. Next up: Cher, on 27th September! I eventually ended up at the Thai Grand. Not what I was after exactly, but nice enough. I tried to get the same thing that I'd had with Cliff at Paulino's and think I managed it, although I can't remember what it's called.

On the way back to the boat I realised that the Albion was open, so I popped in for a pint. All very friendly and with four ales that I'd never seen before. After asking which was a good one to go for, it was recommended that I try all of them, although I could give the 'weak' one a miss if I liked. First off was Albion Special, brewed specifically for the Albion by the Wicked Hathern Brewery. This is quite malt-y and very nice. Next was, er, an ale from Cornwall that was of similar alcohol level but more hop-y. Finally there was, ah, something from the Leatherbritches Brewery that I really can't remember the name of, but it was 4.4% and was very good. By then it was closing time so I bought a couple of bottles of the Albion Special to take back to the boat (in case of an emergency). I hope my head is going to be okay in the morning!

Coventry!

Birstall, 0 miles, 0 locks

Having got through Leicester without incident I was looking forward to a nice quiet day's boating up to Loughborough today. I'd got ready, got the engine running and made my flask of tea, and I was just looking at my poor wretch of a phone when it dawned on me that I had a spare—an old K800i that I'd used before I got a 1st generation iPhone last year. I figured that although the old phone was ill, the SIM was probably fine and I 'd just dug the old phone out, connected it to the computer and sync'd it up, when it went mad, bleeping and burping as a load of text messages and voice mails came through. One of these was from Brian Duffy from the Modified Toy Orchestra, to say that he was speaking at a Delia Derbyshire 'thing' in Coventry. I gave him a quick ring to find that he was just about to set off, so I accepted his offer to put me on the guest list and said I'd see him later.

Delia Derbyshire, for those of you who don't know, was a musician and composer of electronic music who worked at the BBC Radiophonic Workshops. You might be familiar with her work through the creepy sound effects and electronic music used in, for example, Dr Who. Indeed, while Ron Grainer is the composer of the Dr Who theme music, it's Delia Derbyshire's rendition of it, using tape loops and electronic oscillators amongst other things, that is what we know. Her final well-known piece of work is the score to the film "The Legend Of Hell House", which was a 1973 horror film starring Roddy McDowall. Of course I know her best as the artist who did 'Quest', also known as the "Love theme" from Wordsearch.

The journey to Coventry took ages. There's only one bus an hour from Birstall to Leicester, even though it's only 3 miles away, but fortunately a passer-by pointed out that I was on the wrong side of the road (thanks to a strategically placed roundabout) and that I'd be better off walking up to the A6, where there's a bus every 10 minutes. Of course the busses go into the bus station, which is nowhere near the train station, so there's a walk between them, then you get the Birmingham train to Nuneaton, which seems to run only once an hour, and that doesn't connect with the Coventry train, so there's another 50 minute wait. Or–long story short–after leaving Oothoon a little after 12, I arrived in Coventry at 3:45!

When I got to the venue, they had just started showing episode 2 of the Dr Who adventure "Inferno" (featuring Jon Pertwee as The Doctor), This was chock full of strange noises and electronic sounds, including fragments from Delia's composition "Blue Veils and Golden Sands". Brian hadn't given his talk yet, but nothing was going right either: they'd told him that the projector could only accept an SVGA input so he'd left his 'presentation' laptop at home and was using his older one, whose battery wouldn't keep a charge and which couldn't show movies from within Powerpoint without dropping every other second of video and losing the sound completely! Always the consummate professional he managed to give the talk anyway and wowed us by having the same model of green lampshade that Delia was so fond of (which does give an absolutely amazing sound if you hit it right). Afterwards there was a brief presentation by the chap who now lives in Delia's house, who was showing some 'Delia' artefacts such as her gas mask. There was then a section on Delia's work on White Noise and Electrosonic, although I missed some of that because I popped out to Ikea with Brian to get some coffee (Ikea being slap bang in the middle of Coventry, on floors 3-6 of a nearby office building).

We returned to hear Pram give a live performance using three generations of tape machine (reel-to-reel, 8-track and cassette) which is the kind of technology Delia used to use. This started by them coming round with a box of tape strands which the audience picked at random. These were then spliced together into loops while the audience listened to an except from a quadraphonic 8-track cartridge (done properly, with a speaker in each corner of the room). They then put the spliced tape loops onto an amazing contrivance of blocks of wood with tape spools nailed to them and finally through a reel-to-reel tape machine, while they improvised over the top. The arrangement was such that all of the improvised sounds were added to those already on the tape, building into an amazing layered soundscape. From time to time the loop would be changed and during this time they jammed against stuff recorded on cassette. I should also mention a thing that I don't even know a name for: if you imagine a cylinder about the size of a baked-bean tin, mounted on a shaft which is rotated by an electric motor. Instead of the label there are umpteen loops of magnetic tape and these are played using a ring (the kind that goes on your finger) that has a tape recorder's playback head attached to it. The musician can touch the tape head to the cylinder to play stuff back off the loops and by moving the head from one loop to another you get a different recording. It was amazing and I couldn't believe the sounds that came off of it.

The last item of the day was a showing of the film The Legend of Hell House. This was scored by Delia and such is the quality of her work that, for example, she managed to take an ordinary scene of someone standing in a corridor and make it absolutely terrifying using sound alone.

I had to leave before the end with some misguided idea that I was going to catch a train. How wrong I was. Turned out that the train had been replaced by a bus (only I didn't know that) so I missed it and had—you've guessed it—an hour wait for the next trainbus. To pass the time I popped into the Indian restaurant opposite the station, which was heaving, but they managed to find me a table for one next to the cloakroom. After this the bus duly arrived and I set off for Nuneaton.

At Nuneaton station, I somehow got talking to young man from Ghana. He was telling me about his country and particularly the politics. He was coming to the UK next year to study in Edinburgh then I think he was going to go back and shake up the political system. Talking to him was a very pleasant way to pass the train journey and it just shows that you never know who you're going to meet.

Got back to Birstall to find that everything was okay, but the lights were looking a bit dim. Hmmm. Wonder if I'll get the engine started in the morning?

Tonight we've got a triple-bill for you: all three parts of Wordsearch, featuring the music of Delia Derbyshire! In case you're wondering, Quest (the theme music) is on her album Electrosonic.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Leicester—and on a boat!

Kilby Bridge to Birstall, 11.5 miles, 16 locks

Was a bit achy this morning so missed my 9am projected start time and actually set off about 9:30. I think I'd expected there to be other people heading for Leicester today but in fact I've only seen three other narrowboats moving—two coming from Leicester and one that started in Newton Harcourt and caught me up at Freeman's Lock. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The main memory I have of today is how terrible the locks are on this section of canal. The paddle gear doesn't work well and it is often stiff or completely broken. The gates don't work well and veer between opening by themselves on a whim and needing two people to push them open. The locks leak terribly, which means that you often can't open the bottom gates unless the paddles are up and even then with difficulty. Finally—and this is just my personal opinion rather than the matter of fact of the above—the lock gates are often treacherously thin at the top where you must walk over them. A lot of the time an extra beam has been added at the top, to make it an extra 3-4" wider; sometimes two beams; and one gate even had two railings on it, which felt really safe; but sometimes you find a gate where you're literally walking on the width of the gate itself—perhaps about 6"—and it just feels so dodgy and unsafe.

Apart from the terrible locks, the other main memory I have of today concerns bollards. In no particular order: the weird 'L' shaped bollards that they have here where you can't reliably wrap a rope around because they twist off; the weird pole bollards that they had at one lock, where nothing would stay attached because they had no 'top'; the inconsistency in number and placement of bollards within locks; the omission of bollards just after the bottom gates where you'd tie your stern rope to while you nip back and close the last gate; and finally, the bollards that are completely absent—not just a few missing, but none at all—outside of locks, giving you nothing to tie onto while you try and operate the lock. Oh, and one for Granny Buttons: I saw a single wooden bollard, albeit rounded and tapered at the bottom, that was next to the gates of one lock for no clear reason.

Can I just put in my 2d to complain about lock ladders too. BW are saying that they're putting in extra bollards to stop people mangling the lock ladders; let me tell you that I can see their point!

If you ignored the locks, the bits in between were very good. This part of Leicestershire has some amazing countryside and quite a lot of it is right next to otherwise scummy parts of town. Even Glen Parva—apparently most famous for its young offender centre—was stunning if you go by canal. Once the canal meets the River Soar at King's Lock it gets more interesting and the canal and river swap places a few times as you go through the city, but the vista of Leicester City football ground with a huge weir in front was an unexpected treat. This is Freeman's Lock, where the couple I mentioned earlier caught me up. They'd stayed in Newton Harcourt the night before and stopped at Kilby Bridge to take on water, which just goes to show how much faster you go if there are two of you (see below).

Once you leave Freeman's Lock something wonderful happens: you're still on the canal (the Soar taking a rather low-rent route round the back) but it's river-wide and expansive, and feels exactly like you'd think the River Soar should. This is the bit of canal that was built for flood defence and after the confines of the 'normal' canal, which often has so many reeds growing from the bank that fully half of the navigation is unusable, this was like a breath of fresh air. With no other boats as far as the eye could see, I opened the throttle and let rip. I was loving the space and freedom, and from the way she was handling I could tell Oothoon was too. I'd forgotten until that point, how she'd lapped up the non-tidal Thames last year and it brought back happy memories of our journey back from our enforced stay in Oxford last year. 

After the joy that is the 'mile straight' (as the locals call it) the misery of returning to the regular canal is brought home by North Lock. This can only be described as mean spirited and ugly, and it goes out of its way to ruin the joy you've just experienced by having nothing right: the towpath is almost at head height, there are chains along the walls of the approach that scrape your paint or catch on anything that projects, the gates have narrow tops, the far side is barely wide enough to hold the  balance beam, the lock gear is stiff and the gates immovable, and it exits under a bridge with a railing preventing access to the towpath until your boat is well out of sight of the lock. I had decided that, for once, I wasn't going to go back and close the bottom gate, figuring that for anyone arriving at the top, the closing of the gate was almost as nothing to everything else that is nasty about this lock, whereas for someone arriving from the bottom, they'd be overjoyed that they didn't need to moor their boat out of sight of the lock while they set it,  At the last minute I relented and asked a passing emo if he'd close it for me. As I chugged away, I watched him trying to figure out how to do that (given that pulling on the amazingly stiff balance beam's handle had achieved nothing) and I think he walked off in disgust leaving it open.

After North Lock I was entering familiar territory: this is the bit of towpath I'd walked a couple of times in my recent visits to Leicester and I knew that if there was going to be trouble it'd be at Limekiln Lock, which is the next lock after North. Sure enough I could see people sat in the seats next to the lock and as soon as I got near, one of them was up and by the boat, telling me to throw them a 'lock key' and they'd sort everything out. This was Wes, apparently from Leicester but brought up in Bolton (or something) who was in his thirties or forties, slightly tipsy, and who claimed to be a water gypsy and a well-travelled-by-canal 'water rat'. When I approached the lock with my windlass (which is what a 'lock key' is actually called), he took it and offered to show me how to do the paddles the water gypsy way. This, I was bemused to find, involved unlatching the pawl that normally stops the rack and pinion of the paddle arm from falling back, then turning the windlass the wrong way. His lady companion had joined him at this point, asking all manner of awkward questions and in the end I said I preferred my own technique and took over from him. I've no idea whether he really was a water gypsy or had any actual experience on all the canals he name-dropped to know whether he was a water rat (aren't they something to do with the theatre?) but he satisfied my dread that I'd run into a n'er-do-well in an entertaining and charming way. By the way Wes, if you're reading, I took your advice about The Plough only to find that it was closed because it's gone bankrupt—perhaps selling beer so cheaply wasn't such a good idea after all—and you were right about The Mulberry too: expensive; plus they'd stopped serving food by the time I got there.

Dinner was the leftovers of last night's lasagne, but not before I had to change the gas. To do this I put on the navigation light at the front of the boat and nearly blinded two lads in a fibreglass cruiser who were trying to find a mooring. I could hear all this shouting but didn't know where it was coming from until I switched the light off. I'm now officially running on Herr Aldi's fridge, so expect flat batteries all round tomorrow morning.

One final thing: yesterday I set off from Harborough at 11am and arrived at Kilby Bridge at 9:30pm (albeit with a delay for a dunking and a stop for a spot of lunch); today I left Kilby at 9:30am and finally moored at 8pm (thanks to a flask of tea and some sandwiches so I didn't need to stop). These long days are clearly not sustainable and are also inconsistent with the timings that Canalplan AC is giving me, so today I've timed myself doing locks. Under ideal conditions—that is to say a lock with a good approach, good exit, good gear, good gates and which is already full—I can do it in 21 minutes, starting as I approach the landing bollards and finishing as I start to leave the lock behind. If the paddles, gates, approach or exit are rubbish, but the lock needs no filling, I can be through in 25 minutes. If the lock is 'wrong' and needs filling too, you're talking 30-35 minutes. On that basis, it's actually quite impressive that I've done as well as I have, but I'm guessing this will drastically alter the timings for my journey to Llangollen and not in a good way.

Progress at last!

Market Harborough to Kilby Bridge, 14.25 miles, 12 locks, 1 tunnel

Finally left Market Harborough, after first emptying the loo and the bins (again!) and checking that the Soar and Trent were being well behaved. Although my previous plan called for me to retrace my steps and go back down the Leicester Section, then up the Oxford and Coventry canals, I'd much rather explore pastures new, which means going north at Foxton Locks and through Leicester and Loughborough.

The Market Harborough arm was pretty—I'd not really had time to appreciate it on the way in as the light was failing—and all was going well until I got to bridge no. 4, which you may remember is an offside swing bridge. Last time I was lucky enough to find a volunteer to operate the bridge, but today the only people around were two men who were peering into either a telephone or cable TV distribution box a little way beyond the bridge. I was going to have to do it myself.

Having not previously approached the bridge from this end and being unable to see a mooring bollard on the 'swing' side, I pulled over to the towpath. Once there I could see the mooring bollard and decided that the solution was to simply give Oothoon's bow a shove and let her carry me over to the bollard. So I gave her a shove and...somehow didn't get on board quick enough. I don't know whether there was still a little bit of forward momentum at that point and she went off diagonally rather than straight, but the next thing I know I'm sliding down the side and in the water, dangling from the rail in the well deck at the front. I've often wondered what I'd do if I somehow ended up in the canal and how I'd get back on board (because various people have told me that narrowboats are fiendishly difficult to climb onto from the water). I figured I'd throw my leg up onto the gunwale and somehow hoist myself up, or if I was round the stern and the propellor wasn't going round, I'd use the two ribs round the hull and the rear fender as steps, or if she was moving I'd try and direct her towards a crash landing on the shore and climb out of the water there. But none of these take into account some harsh realities:

1) I'm not actually strong enough to lift myself up at the best of times

2) You weigh an awful lot more when your clothes are wet up to your arm pits

3) The edge of the well deck is about 2.5 feet above the waterline, so my arms were fully extended

4) Canals are shallow, but (except maybe at the edges) that doesn't mean you can touch the bottom

After struggling for what seemed like a long while, but which was probably only a few seconds, I did the sensible thing and yelled "Help!" Then a second later I did something even more sensible and yelled "Help!" as loud as I could. As I did this, one of the men from the distribution box vaulted the rail of the bridge, landed on the far bank and climbed into the well deck. He first attempted to pull me out of the water by grabbing my arms and pulling—like they do in films where someone is holding on with the fingers of one hand. That didn't look like it was going to work. Thinking fast, I suggested that he push the boat over to the towpath side so I could try getting out on the bank there. This he did, and after another vault over the railing and a quick sprint, he was waiting for me when I arrived. Although this initially seemed like a good idea, I suddenly realised that I was now in the rapidly closing gap between the boat and the bank—not a terribly sensible idea—but fortunately my hero grabbed the boat and stopped it crushing me. As I was now at the edge I gingerly put a foot downwards and found that  at full stretch I could reach the bottom. This was good, but still not enough to get me out of the water. Then I realised—the gangplank I'd bought a few weeks ago was basically a ladder with a bit of wood on it, so I asked my rescuer to climb on the roof and get it, which he did. After removing the plank, we lowered the ladder down and rested it on the bottom, and I climbed out, surprised to find that instead of the man who had saved me (who was still on the roof), there was a kindly Dutch gentleman with an enormous beard who was telling me to hold his hand so I wouldn't slip. Once I was out again and the boat was tied up (no idea who did that), my saviour gave me a cheery wave and went back to his distribution box; and the Dutchman and his lady companion continued on their stroll. I went below to get changed out of my wet clothes and dry myself—hurrying because I knew that I was taking up the mooring reserved for operating the bridge,—so you can imagine my surprise when I'd done all this and stepped outside again, to find that the bridge had 'vanished'. Turned out that another boat had come along behind me, with more crew on board and one of them had just opened the gate and was waiting for the boat to come through. Asking if I might pop through too, the bridge-man said yes, and so I did. They were stopping for a spot of lunch immediately after the bridge, so I proceeded on to bridge no. 1, which is also an offside swing bridge. Fearing the worst (and not wanting another ducking) I approached the bridge slowly, but then a woman jumped off a Canaltime boat that was moored nearby, ran across the bridge and opened it for me. Wonderful!

Swing bridges and the Harborough arm behind me, I decided to moor at Foxton and have some lunch. I was very worried that shock might set in and if it was going to do so, I wanted to be moored and fed. There are nice moorings at Foxton and after making Oothoon secure, I headed for the pub Bridge 61. Who should be sitting outside having a Ploughman's but the Dutchman and his companion. They enquired whether I was okay and I enquired about the Ploughman's, then after ordering a 'mixed cheese' Ploughman's and some tea, I sat next to them and we chatted. They were both very nice and quite concerned about my wellbeing, but I had to agree with the Dutchman that the Ploughman's wasn't the best. It's basically a sub roll, three types of cheese, a tub of Branston, two tubs of butter and an apple. However it is all bundled in a gaily coloured napkin/tablecloth, which wouldn't look out of place on the end of a stick if you were leaving home, the apple is a nice touch, and I rather like Bridge 61 as a pub, so I'm being much more forgiving than you might expect. After lunch it didn't look I was going into shock (unlike my poor phone, which has taken quite badly after its dunking—oh well, I was looking for an excuse to buy an iPhone) so I headed for the next hurdle of the day.

A BW work boat passed me as I set off from Foxton and roared away into the distance. I followed behind, at what I thought was a quite pacey 3.7mph, but could only catch them up when they slowed down for moored boats. Eventually I caught them up properly just before I got to the tunnel—looked to me like their propellor had dropped off!  Saddington Tunnel is 880 yards (0.5 mile/0.8km) long, is wide to allow wide-beam boats through, straight and relatively benign. I was convinced I'd seen a boat in the tunnel as I approached, but by the time I'd turned my lights on and entered it, there was no sign. I'm pleased to say that nothing happened in the tunnel. No oncoming boats, no engine bother, no electrical bother, and nothing supernatural. Which is good, because I was still a bit worried about my mental state.

After the tunnel there's a short section of canal before you hit the first set of locks at Kibworth. As I approached the top lock, I could see another boat between it and the next lock. I didn't know if they'd seen me, but apparently they had, because as I was operating the lock the captain of the boat approached and said that they'd thought they'd seen me entering the tunnel as they left (which cleared up that mystery) and that they were waiting for me at the next lock. We did all of the Kibworth locks together through to Crane's Lock, then they were stopping for the night—as they put it "in the middle of nowhere". I decided to press on, because I had it in my head that I had to be at Kilby Bridge or my chances of getting through Leicester in a day would be dashed.

By the time I'd reached Newton Harcourt it was just after 6 and my GPS had already told me that sunset was about 7:15, so I thought about stopping there. At least I'd be fresh and could make an early start in the morning. At the top lock I talked to the artisan who was decorating what used to be the lock keeper's cottage, who told me that the village didn't have a pub, didn't have a shop and didn't have a post office either. While none of those things were essential to me, being stocked up for a day or two thanks to Herr Aldi, I did fancy a pint. If I wasn't going to be able to get one, I might as well press on a bit further as there'd be less to do in the morning. I figured that I'd get as far as I could before sunset, then stop. The first two locks were a chore, but as I came out of the second one, I met a boat coming the other way who were sorry that they hadn't seen me and so hadn't left the gates open on the next lock, but that at least it was ready. This was fortunate, because apart from not having much in the way of towpath to moor next to, the lock also didn't have any bollards, making it tricky to stop Oothoon drifting off.

I eventually got through the third lock and after that was a half-mile straight to the next lock. I figured I could see well enough to get me down the half-mile and I'd moor at the next lock, but when I got there the gates were open and it was ready to go. Not wishing to look this gift horse in the mouth, in I went and started to operate the lock. Not far away was the next in this set of locks, also with its gates open, so after I'd finished the first lock, I went into the second. By this time I had my lights on and was being a lot more careful. Once that lock was out of the way, I realised that Kilby bridge was one mile and two locks away. Nothing! So I decided that I'd take my time, go carefully and reach my target after all.

Can I just take this opportunity to once again mention that out in the country, when the sun goes down, it gets really dark! Fortunately it was a clear night and the moon came up, glowing bright orange before turning its more usual white, otherwise I suspect I'd have been stuck. So, even though I've done it before and gotten away with it, my advice is: don't do locks in the dark. Can I also just mention that the countryside is full of animals, some of which are quite noisy and rather surprised to find you and your boat there. Having said that, I did go carefully, took my time, made sure all my movements were deliberate and not hurried, and somehow got through them. Now it was just a matter of finding my way through the rising mist and hoping that there'd be somewhere to moor.

I needn't have worried: I could see the lights from a distance away and the moorings were clear and excellent. I pulled up, moored and went inside to the lasagne that was to be dinner tonight. As a special treat and in homage to the Large Hadron Collider, I broke open a bottle of Atom Smasher, brewed by the City of Cambridge Brewing Co. Ltd. Very nice. Shame I'm probably too knackered to get up early tomorrow though—I'm supposed to be going through Leicester!

More work

Market Harborough, 0 miles, 0 locks

Back to work on the train again, only this time my host and I managed to meet up. We chatted for a while, but after the conversation fizzled out he went back to reading Motorcycle News and I back to Great Expectations. It's all getting very exciting now, with Pip having left his life as an apprentice blacksmith on the marshes to be a Gentleman in London and to follow the path of great expectation that has been laid out before him. I'm sure that there's going to be some love interest chucked into the mix any minute, as his life is far too straightforward at the moment.

Work went okay, with me deciding that if I didn't figure out why everything was broken within an hour, I'd abandon it. In the back of my mind there were some assertions I thought I better check and in doing so the root of the problem was discovered. After that it was straightforward to fix things and by not long after the end of the hour it was all working and the new functionality—which was the point of the change—was all in place.

A few more problems got knocked down during the afternoon, including one which I managed, but which is too slow to be usable. It requires a restructuring of the database schema and the reversing of some annoying datatype decisions to really fix this one. In my former life, I'd done this on a couple of occasions and each time it had made a significant difference to search performance.

We reached a convenient stopping point by the end of the afternoon and everyone seemed very pleased with what I'd achieved. There's a suggestion that they'd like me for another day either next week or the one after, so I've said that I'll work out where I'll be and let them know.

Getting home was less good. I'd just got on the Underground when they announced that—due to radio problems—all service on that line was suspended. We all got off the train and trooped out of the station, then headed for the nearest alternative. The queue there was crazy and—remembering that there was a third station nearby—I walked there instead. Unfortunately it was closed for refurbishment and rebuilding, so it was back to where the crowds were. They'd thinned a bit by now, so it was a bit less crazy, but it meant that I got back to St Pancras just in time to watch my train depart. Fortunately the next one was 25 minutes later and it was just after 10pm when I got home.

No posh dinners or leftovers for me tonight: I had fish fingers and Heinz multigrain Spaghetti, washed down with a cuppa. Need a decent night's sleep as well: boating tomorrow!