Higham on the Hill to Longford, 12 miles, 0 locks
It rained terribly last night and was still at it when I awoke. Deciding that, even though I was desperate to get off the Ashby Canal, there was no point in doing it in the rain because if I got grounded again it would all be too much for me, I went back to bed. A little after 10 the noise of the rain reduced and by 10:30 I could hear ducks quacking outside—a sure sign that the rain was going—and I set off at 11 in light drizzle.
Well, I say set off. What actually happened was that I tried reversing and turning, trying to unground Oothoon's prow. Eventually I reversed so far that I thought I was going to use the boat behind as a pivot but at the last moment the prow swung free and I was off. Having thoroughly read the Ashby Canal Society's guide to the canal, I tried to stay at about 2mph (3.2kph) however I would occasionally stray up as far as 2.7mph (4.3kph) if the canal permitted. Most of the time I could feel the rudder jiggling, which is what happens when either I'm accelerating too hard or it's very shallow. I was feeling very stressed, worrying about every bridge, fearful of every gust of wind and terrified that I'd meet another boat coming towards me. As it happened I (almost) ran into one as he shot under a blind bridge, but somehow we missed and I didn't get grounded. Then another boat shot under the same bridge, just narrowly missing both of us! My state of anxiety continued for the 7 miles back to the start of the canal, with me repeating to myself that I could make it and that it would soon be over.
With all the rain last night I was worried that canal levels might have risen slightly and made passage under bridge 17—already taking the mick with how low it is—being impassible, but I got through with an inch to spare between the bridge and my chimney. Not that it mattered because an unavoidable tree right next to bridge 15 attacked the chimney and bent the coolie hat. The last straw was a large weeping willow—again unavoidable unless you wanted to risk being grounded—which set the chimney's hat at an exceedingly jaunty angle.
There were a couple more oncoming boats and all going surprisingly fast, but all passed without incident and finally—finally—I made it to the junction with the Coventry canal. My hands were very cold at this point and I was quite shivery, but I realised that it was probably that I was needing the toilet, so my last action before departing the Ashby, was to wee in it. Interpret the symbolism as you wish.
Getting onto the Coventry was a bit tricky because you need to poke yourself right across the channel and then wind, however I was still terrified of going near the edges, so I did a peculiar manoeuvre which ended up with me backing up the Coventry back towards Nuneaton for a bit. But after that I gave a huge sigh of relief as I went past the entrance to the Ashby and onwards to Coventry.
After the slow pace and (perceived) constant danger of the Ashby, the Coventry was a joy. It's wide and you can go near the edges safely, and if you want to do 3mph or—wreckless fool you—4mph, it's all possible. My destination was to be two bridges down and The Navigation Inn, which Nicholson's describes as "Large pub with a comfortable lounge and an award winning garden with swings. Real ale and a large varied menu served 12:00-21:30 daily. Children welcome. Mooring." Hmmm. Sadly things haven't gone well for the Navigation since Nicholson's was written. The sign is missing, the bottom floor is boarded up, the top floor's windows are smashed and there's a large hole in the wall. The award-winning garden is now overgrown with weeds. I clearly was not going to get my Sunday lunch here—the one that had kept me going for the last three hours on the Ashby. Never mind, Coventry isn't that far. If I pressed on, I'd be there in a couple of hours and then I can have the rest of the day off.
Things went well for the next part of the journey, down to Hawkesbury, where the Coventry joins the Oxford canal. There is a nice pub there, but (as usual) nowhere to moor, so I kept going, whizzing under the M6 motorway bridge at a dizzying 4mph, just because I could!
At Longford, where the Oxford originally joined the Coventry, I had to slow down while a trip boat set off. Still, I've followed trip boats on the Regent's Canal and they don't hang about, so it wasn't going to slow me down. Indeed, I was finding it hard to keep up. Every now and then there'd be a slight loss of power, as though something was round the prop. A couple of times I went into reverse in an attempt to clear it, but it kept happening. Under bridge 9 the engine cut out completely and wouldn't start. I had a bit of inertia left so I managed to coast into a slightly inelegant landing alongside the towpath, but I couldn't get the engine to start. Then it dawned on me: Occam's razor says that the most likely explanation was lack of Diesel and it had been a long time since I'd last filled up: back in Welford! I tied up and dipped my dipstick, cursing myself that the 'quick checks' I'd done the other day didn't include the fuel. Funnily enough the first few years I had Oothoon I never put diesel in at all, because in the few weeks boating I had I never really went very far, so it's something I rarely think about. A passing boat asked if things were okay and when I said I needed diesel, they said there was a huge Tesco by the next bridge, so I thanked them and off they went.
They were right: it's a gigantic—and I mean gigantic—Tesco Extra. It seems to be the hub of a shopping village that accompanies the Ricoh Stadium, which I'm guessing is home to Coventry's footie team. It was about 3:30, so it was still open and as it was an 'Extra' I knew they'd sell petrol cans, so I bought two and some lunch—a chicken fajita wrap. The petrol station was round the other side and at the far end of the car park, which felt like it was going to be a long way back. There was a Pay-at-Pump free that was out of Unleaded, so I managed to fill my cans with 10 litres exactly without that horrible hanging around in the shop, all for the princely sum of £1.19 per litre! On the way back, I was amused to see that Tesco have decided to have a price war with Aldi. Their weapon of choice—the one that, by being 5p cheaper, will bring hordes of Aldi shoppers flocking to Tesco: Tomato Ketchup. Who knew that ketchup buyers were so price-sensitive?
Back at the boat, I put the diesel in the tank, crossed my fingers and turned the key. Nothing. The engine didn't start. I rocked the boat a bit (not easy as it looks like she's grounded at the back) then tried again. Then I had a horrible thought—something I was sure someone had told me about diesel engines and running out of fuel and airlocks. I called Sandra back at Ice Wharf, who confirmed that I probably had an air bubble and that I needed to do something with the top of the fuel filter to get rid of it. This all felt very familiar and that sick feeling I always used to get when the DeLorean had an airlock in its cooling system came back all of a sudden. (I should explain that I used to have a DeLorean car and that one, or both, of the head gaskets had gone, causing it to overheat a lot. This required me to wait for the engine to cool then fill up the cooling system, but thanks to a brilliant piece of design, the header tank is too low and you'd quite often get airlocks. I became quite adept at squeezing the various cooling pipes to force the air through, rather like squeezing a cow's udder to get milk.) After a cuppa—the first since I'd set off at 11—and a quick read of the engine manual (I say 'read'—I mainly looked at the pictures to find where the fuel filter was) I decided to give it a go. Turns out that there is a bolt on the top of the fuel filter and if you unscrew it, underneath seem to be a lot of bubbles. I let them dissipate, then put the bolt back, The engine still didn't start. I released the bold again, hearing some hissing this time, but after tightening it, the engine still didn't start. In the end I removed it completely and briefly blipped the engine, which caused a small spurt of diesel to pop out of the bolt hole, but after putting the bolt back the engine still wouldn't start. There was now really nothing for it but to call River Canal Rescue, who I'd joined a few days ago when I got my first internet access in days (yay!) They were very helpful and courteous, but rang back to say that their engineer was on a call and it'd be dark by the time he would be free, so could he come at 10am tomorrow. I wasn't going anywhere, so I said yes.
After a bit of pottering about, I decided that curry was in order. Consulting Google Maps on my phone (which actually worked out where I was for a change) I found four "Indian Restaurants" in reasonable walking distance. Three of them were one way, so that's the way I headed. The first was a takeaway. The second was a takeaway. The third was a long way away, but was also a takeaway. So it was back all the way to where I'd started, hoping that the last one would be a restaurant. It was and dinner was poppadoms, followed by vegetable biriany. When I got back to the boat and looked in Nicholson's, it looks like I'd walked the best part of four miles to get to that restaurant, so I don't feel too guilty.
I'm conserving power tonight by leaving the lights off, so there'll be power to start the engine tomorrow. I've got a funny LED desk lamp thing that I bought off eBay ages ago and which is really too weak to be useful, however it runs off three (rechargeable) AA cells and—sellotaped to the ceiling—it's better than nothing. Wish someone did G4-equivalent LED light fittings, so I could replace the four 20w each halogen lights that I have above my desk. I'm sure that would be a huge power saving.
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