Up Stockton and on to Calcutt

The problems yesterday have resulted in a roster of roles which is made easier by having two extra pairs of hands. I am in the engine room, and T is skipper, with M and Grandad on locks and Helen managing Sadie, our Springer Spaniel.

T bellows Forward, Reverse or Neutral down through the doorway and I lean into the bilges and change the lever, confirming the change. When in the lock, I take over and manage the engine to keep the boat steady, watching the brickwork through the porthole.

We stop at the Blue Lias for lunch; a surprisingly disappointing time was had by all. the roasts were really very mediocre and the range and quality of the beers was poor. This is a pub that figures in all the beer guides and gets cheerful reviews everywhere, but we were unimpressed. Really unimpressed.

Afterwards, we continued on up the flight, watching for the old derelict buildings and chimneys that are all that remains of the old Southam cement works and quarries. At the top, we congratulate each other, then motor on towards Calcutt.

An hour later and we are turning into the marina, but with a strong westerly still, we miss the entrance first time and have to reverse back for a second attempt. It's the end of this journey and we are all a little disappointed: the trip has been quite difficult although memorable.

Log
3.4 miles, 10 locks

From bad to worse - past Leamington

The morning is beautiful: cool and fresh and a deep blue sky. We cross the Avon and I wonder again at the majesty of England's rivers. they are not particularly big, but they make up for it with a mixture of lush, verdant beauty and our rich heritage.

Almost immediately we also pass over the railway, and at that instant, a train comes into sight below the aqueduct. I wave and the driver hoots back; T beams from ear to ear.

We pass alpacas in a small field and then attractive apartments and on into a wooded cutting, where a rather disturbed chap shouts wildly at himself, cursing and swearing. We don't seem to care much about looking after those with mental challenges any more: one of the great tragedies of our age - we are happy to pay a few quid to have problems swept under the carpet and out of sight.

T and I are off to the football, so leave the boat with the crew. Within hours, the gearbox connection fails requiring an engineer in the bilges to manually change gear. More frighteningly, just an hour later, the engine stop cable fails as North Star enters a lock and comes to a halt with an almighty crunch. It may technically be enough to move us down into the next licence bracket lower. It is fortuitous that we are on our way to Calcutt Boats, who are the specialists in this engine. Thank Goodness we are not on the Trent or the Severn....or even the Avon, for that matter.

The crew struggle on to Long Itchington where the somewhat deflated football-goers return. It's a sombre night as we realise how much extra work will be required tomorrow to get up the Stockton flight.

Log
7.9 miles, 10 locks

Hatton and beyond

We have a long morning wait for the in-laws to join us, and then our crew is complete.

We had started earlier, descending through the first seven locks with a nice couple, but I could just sense the slight distaste of our somewhat rough and ready approach. Their boat was spotless and shiny and glistening and also could manoeuvre on a sixpence - they had a bow-thruster.

A bow-thruster makes it easier to move around, and at Hatton the overflow weir and the fresh westerly contrives to make it an interesting experience. However, maybe this is unfair of me: they charitably agreed to swap sides to allow us to be on the towpath side. It's complex! I won't go into details, but it's to do with the dog!

But we had to wait longer half way down and they motored on ahead. I think - unspoken - both parties were happy at the parting of ways.

Ninety minutes later we are looking to continue and almost immediately, NB Silver Lady, of Fenny Compton appears out of the lock above and we join forces. They turn out to be kindred spirits. Both parties are the proud owners of two 'not grumpy but not exactly ecstatic' teenagers, aged 16 and 14. We exchange tips about communicating by grunts. The only tension comes when bacon butties appear out of our side hatches. They have neither bacon nor rolls.

The rest of the flight slips by quickly as we lockwheel and chat, leaning on heavy beams, turning windlasses, get brown in the sun and exchange family histories with complete strangers. The canals do that. You either seem to love or hate your fellow boaters.

Hatton leads down into Warwick's Saltisford Arm, but we are thirsty for a pint so continued to the Cape, intent on a decent pint after lunch. In the evening, we moor up at the Tescos on Emscote Road along with two other boats. It isn't my choice and I would have kept going another mile, but the crew all want fish and chips, which are available nearby as well.

During the night, we hear plenty of local youth enjoying themselves loudly and raucously, and I even got up for a while as the voices seemed to be quite close at one point. But nothing happens.

Log
4.2 miles, 23 locks

Into Warwickshire - and one disaster after another

Yesterday's rain has disappeared completely and we are eager to press on. But the presence of the local BW man's boat at the liftbridge suggests that all is not well there. It seems that the mechanism has failed during the night and the bridge won't lift.

The extremely pleasant Warwickshire countryside appears very quickly and it is a very relaxing journey. Until disaster strikes when Helen falls inti the canal while trying to avoid one of the truly appalling stretches of swampy towpath: there really is no excuse for this state of affairs.
She is pulled out by a passing BW employee who jumps off a tractor and rushes to the bank, while we moor up. It's difficult to moor up quickly on a boat. I had never realised how long it takes.

Twenty minutes later we smell an unhealthy 'hot' smell. Sure enough the water temperature gauge, usually at 140 is now pointing at 220. Not good. We moor up again, but I notice that speeding up reduces the temperature quickly.

I try to release any air from the keel tank but the bolt is just jammed on. No chance of moving it, so I just put 3 litres of water into the tank. Problem solved, but it's not a good sign. Good thing we are on the way to Calcutt Boats who will be having a good look at the engine.

Soon enough, we are at Lapworth Top Lock. Most bizarrely, not one but two houses on the towpath side have "Private - No Mooring" signs prominently displayed. How does that work then? If we weren't running to a schedule, I'd moor up on purpose. It's not private. What's more, you pay absolutely nothing for that position and I do pay to moor up by the towpath.

Despite the number of locks, we just enjoy the descent and in no time we are among the anglers, moored boats, locks and the barrel cottage at the bottom. A man in a blazer and a boater sells us Cornettos and we turn out for the Grand Union. The light is golden and warm: like a field of wheat. It's the light on which childhood memories are filmed on.

We potter on in this glorious evening warmth, and the light goes as we disappear into Shrewley Tunnel. We stop for the night at the top of the Hatton flight.

Log
13.4 miles, 19 locks

Onto the North Stratford

We leave Bournville and the rather mundane surroundings confirm my thoughts that the Worcester & Birmingham becomes less rural with distance from the city centre. It all becomes very mundane, and at one point we watch as a suspicious and nervous youth hides a bag in the bushes then waits by a footpath? Waits for what? Or whom?

We approach the beautiful Kings Norton Junction where the toll cottage belies the rather dangerous nature of the green surroundings, according to the guidebooks. We turn the sharp angle, noting the profusion of scars on the inner edge of the bridge.

A family sit in the sunshine to watch us turn; fortunately we put on a splendid display, leisurely and effortlessly spinning the boat through 160 degrees. We quickly pass the site of the infamous Factory Lane liftbridge, which Tom Rolt successfully used as a campaign tool to effectively re-open the North Stratford. A grim-faced angler rather spoils the moment for me though. An inglorious angler.

The North Stratford has an utterly different character from the Worcester & Birmingham. It is very narrow, for a start, but more significantly, the North Stratford is never knowingly straight for more than a few metres at a time. Willows, ash and alder push in on boats and heavy shrubbery and reed beds hide small flocks of yet more anglers. Most cheerfully smile, nod or say Hello; a few don't, studiously ignoring you and actively trying not to catch your eye.

Other than two boats belonging to Birmingham University, we have seen no resident boats since leaving Gas Street and even along the Stratford, we don't see many until we reach Lyons Boatyard.

We are aiming for The Drawbridge at Shirley, which we reach just as the heavens open again with a brief but fierce storm. We negotiate the famous lift-bridge and moor up just beyond, where three other boats have also tied up for the night.

Log
10.4 miles, no locks

Bournville - an early experiment in corporate responsibility

In 1879, George Cadbury, a Birmingham industrialist, started to build a chocolate factory in the fields of Edgbaston some miles outside Birmingham. With it, he constructed a model village alongside the Bourn Brook, a trout stream that feeds the Rea nearby.

Cadbury had novel ideas on how his workforce should live, and this was a substantial change from the cramped hovels and tenements where workers generally lived. He built all the facilities, including a wonderful Friends' Hall (he was a Quaker), churches, schools and recreational facilities.

Quite remarkably, most of these buildings survive to this day (including the Bournville Baths, left) and clearly the current owners share the same belief in preserving a neat, tidy and orderly neighbourhood. However, notices on lamp-posts suggest that 21st Century local youths are not as teetotal as their Bournville forefathers.

We wander, under a scorching sun, along the Recreation Ground, across the park and back to the village green. We continue to Cadbury's World. We had expected a factory visitor centre but it is a very grand affair with large numbers of visitors queuing noisily for a timed entry. It will cost more than 40 pounds, and we only wanted a quick visit - 30 minutes maybe. We decide to leave it for another day when we can devote more time to Cadbury's chocolate empire.

South by southwest: to Bournville

Leaving the centre of Birmingham by most canal routes requires a great deal of imagination to envisage the people and history who made this area. But one route has its history and culture remarkably preserved, and it forms one of the most elegant entrances - or exit - for any city in Britain.


The Worcester & Birmingham mixes it up for all types: for the environmnetalists and ecologists there are the leafy glades and sylvan walks for much of the first five miles; for botanists, the Botanical Gardens and unusual trees poking over walls and fences; for railway enthusiasts, the ever-present trains, just feet away; for industrial archaeologists, there is the juxtaposed railway and canal architecture, squeezing through a green artery to the very centre of the city; for architects, the variety of buildings from The Mailbox to Uncle Joe; and for social historians, the world of the Cadburys at Bournville.

Heavy rain delays our departure: it's one thing to crusie in the rain but when we are on a new stretch, we want to be able to see it all. By the time we turn onto the W&B the rain has eased and we plough a lonely furrow through the still black waters. Trees and bushes continue to shed their rainfall. It does all feel so lush and even the moss on grimy walls is glistening brightly.

There are both cyclists and runners constantly. Not joggers. These are runners. You can just tell.

Just an hour or so later, we arrive at Bournville and decide to have a look at Cadbury's World.