Hedgerow Jottings: Carl's Running Up That Hill

Early Start

Hello again, its Carl here from the rural idyll of the South Oxford canal.
Well, that's almost it, dear readers, summer is officially over and it's the first of September already. How is this possible? The days are flying gleefully away and taking no prisoners. Where does the time go? Into the bottomless chasm of history, I suppose. The weather is changing, too. There is a definite feel of autumn in the air. Whether the weather will get wetter is anyone's guess. On a happier note, the sun is shining and I had a boiled egg for breakfast. I like boiled eggs. When I got a smart phone earlier this year the first thing I did was to set up an egg timer on it. Yes, I do like a nice boiled egg, particularly when it's with a slice of brown bread and butter.

Napton Bottom Lock

After the Bank Holiday madness, we left our mooring just after seven am last Tuesday and chugged along for a couple of hours, enjoying the coolness of the early morning. We squeezed into a mooring spot just below the locks at Napton and this is where we halted for the rest of another very hot day. Supplies were running a bit low so Linda wrote me a list and off I strode up the hill to the village store. I had forgotten the list, but managed to remember most of the items contained therein. Twenty minutes later I was back at the boat. Two minutes later I was marching back up the hill, like one of the Duke of York's minions, to collect the bread that I'd remembered to buy but forgotten to pack into my rucksack. One last trudge downwards and the cupboards were full again. We can laugh about it now!
We kept the boat fairly cool during the morning but by late afternoon it was stifling. A cloud appeared overhead that was as large as a hippo and blotted out the sun for a while. Despite some rain falling and a few claps of half-hearted thunder around tea time, the temperature onboard stubbornly refused to drop below 30 degrees centigrade until late evening.
Linda undertook her usual lock-wheeling duties on Wednesday, and we went up the Napton flight without incident. The next pair of locks is at Marston Doles and the exit from the top lock is quite tricky - the boater has to come out of the lock and immediately swing around a fairly tight, right-hand bend, which can be problematic. Interestingly for us, there was a narrowboat floating around right where we needed to be, effectively blocking our exit. Consequently, we advised him to reverse back and pull in onto the tow-path side. We could then be on our way, and the lock would be his. After some shunting backwards and forwards, arm waving and remonstrations between the crew and their Captain, the narrowboat suddenly surged backwards at a rate of knots and rammed "Southern Star", a narrowboat that was innocently moored nearby.(Carl hasn't really captured the horrific thrashing of water as reverse gear was engaged and the throttle banged down hard. At first the boat didn't go anywhere and then when it finally gained momentum, it flew backwards and smacked hard into the other boat. The smart Alec on the tiller didn't think much of my kind words of advice as we finally passed by.) We'd had enough of locks for the day after that, so we moored at one of our favourite spots on this canal, bridge 125. A really quiet, rural setting. Of course, when everyone's life has been "improved beyond measure" by HS2, this beautifully serene haven of pastoral beauty, peace and tranquillity will no longer be on our "nice places to moor" list.

Ducks enjoy the hot weather

The next day dawned (is there any other way?) sunny and warm. 'Twas a pleasant cruise through to the (dwindling) services at Fenny Compton and on to Claydon top bridge. We walked Tricky along the very narrow tow-path towards the locks later that afternoon and met a cyclist,who appeared out of nowhere and began ringing his bell for us to get out of his way. When I looked round to see what the fuss was about, poor Tricky was under his pedals and still the cyclist insisted on riding through us, ringing his bell loudly, obviously expecting the world and his wife to instantly get out of his way. There were angry words spoken by us and muttered abuse from the cyclist until he got by and he rode off, swearing at us under his breath. Arrogant git. Which is what I shouted after him. "Get off and walk round, you arrogant git". I'm happy to say that this sort of unpleasantness is very rare. I hope it stays rare.

As so often happens, night followed day and another day followed the preceding night. And so it was this time. We were up early on the Friday, ready to descend the Claydon flight. Claydon top lock is notorious for not being notorious. It is also infamous for losing water from the pound overnight. And so it had - the pound was nearly dry. So Linda opened the top and bottom paddles to let some water through to begin filling it again. While I stayed with the boat, Linda walked down towards the next lock and met two CRT men coming the other way. They took over the job of refilling the pound. Apparently they come here at seven am every day to refill this stretch. There is nothing further to report here, so we will fast forward to later in the day.

Cropredy Lock

Later in the day we found ourselves moored at Cropedy. A lovely village, this. It is the site of the annual Fairport Cropedy Convention, you know. There wasn't a festival while we were there, though. We treated ourselves to a meal and drinks at The Red Lion; cod, chips and peas. I would have preferred baked beans instead of peas, but apparently "that just isn't done". I have to admit that the fish and chips were excellent, and Linda washed hers down with a bucketful of gin and got a bit giggly – well, it was her birthday, so that was alright.

Birthday Girl

And now, dear readers, I want to share what I have been wondering about this week. Yes, you've guessed: songs. I was wondering about song titles. Aren't they unusual sometimes? Songs like "The Old Grey Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be", or "We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful". How about "If You Don't Believe I Love You, Just Ask My Wife". They're just odd. One of my favourites is "Dogs Can Grow Beards All Over".

And there, dear readers, is where I must leave things today.

Love from

The Floating Chandlers

P.S. We watch quite a few DVDs on the boat during the rainy season. While watching one the other night I started to wonder about the advances in television over the years. You know, black and white to colour, tiny screens only watchable with the curtains drawn to the huge screen sizes available today. All they need to do now is get the speech to match the speaker's lips and make cars move smoothly across the screen rather than jerking across in a series of fast judders.

PPS I deliberately haven't ranted this week as I'm spoilt for choice. I just want to say that, given the right kind of continual, supportive nursing, and a huge dollop of forgiveness, some MPs could eventually become useful members of society.