Tunnels and Turbines

Weedon Bec Bridge

Morning Jotters,

I felt it was my duty to type one last underwhelming utterance of complete and utter drivel. And here it is. This is Captain Carl, by the way. At your service, dear reader. I’ve been instructed, under pain of having a rubber band flicked at me, not to rant about anything. It’ll be difficult, but I’ll try...

A Summers Day on the Grand Union at Brockhall

Cor blimey, it wasn’t half hot and sunny on Friday. A real scorcher it was. Do you know, summer and Christmas are my two most favourite days of the year! Now, some of you will know that I spend a lot of the time in a world of my own, aimlessly wondering about things. For instance, I’ve just wondered whether this should be a new paragraph. And only this morning I was wondering why things marked “universal fitting” never fit. Another thing I wondered about earlier this week was the news about the World Health Organisation’s plan to rebrand monkey pox. They feel that it is racist and discriminatory and say that the current outbreak should be called hMPXVB.1; I imagine that chickens everywhere are following this story with interest.

Buckby Flight.  Last lock

Last Lock 

And now I’ll change tack and regale you with a recent boating experience. Last Monday we had to negotiate the Braunston tunnel. Completed in 1796 its over one mile long. Within its confines there are occasional unexpected kinks and bends. These slight impediments are where you invariably meet oncoming boats. Passing craft at these places can sometimes be awkward, as there are only inches to spare between two boats and the tunnel walls. So, in order have a clear run through, we decided to navigate it late in the evening. We set off at around 8.00 pm. On approaching the subterranean channel we noticed tendrils of smoke drifting from the Stygian darkness of the tunnel entrance. Having never seen smoke drifting out of a canal tunnel before, I immediately amended my disposition from mere apprehension to a more appropriate state of perturbed foreboding. Feeling as though we has somehow found our way onto the River Styx, and were about to enter the underworld, I steered the boat cautiously into the gaping mouth of the tunnel with Linda keeping a temporary watch in the bows.

Deckchairs out in the shade.

The smoke turned out to be exhaust fumes. The whole length of the tunnel was filled with the stuff. We were soon engulfed within a claustrophobic blackness with just our tunnel light and internal boat lights for company. I looked ahead, expecting to see a faint glimmer of daylight at the far end, but there was nothing but an absolute, unbroken darkness. All we could see was the mouldering brickwork of the tunnel a few yards ahead where our tunnel light pierced the gloom. I looked back, but by now the entrance had been swallowed up by the inky blackness. We’d been traversing this realm of Hades for about ten minutes when we saw a faint light slowly emerging through the smog ahead of us. I uttered the famous Victor Meldrew quote “I don’t believe it” (there may have been an expletive added) and resigned myself to having to pass an oncoming boat. To my relief it wasn’t Charon the ferryman, but just another narrowboat. As ordained in the stars, we met at a kink in the tunnel. A minute or so after we’d passed each other I looked back, but the other boat was no longer visible.

A wet morning at Gayton Junction

I kept straining my eyes trying to catch a sign of daylight at tunnel’s end, but there was absolute nothingness; a complete absence of light. I found it more and more difficult to keep a steady course, as there was nothing to aim for, just the dripping brickwork picked out by the tunnel light. Occasionally we passed under a ventilation shaft, and looking back would see a patch of dim light on the murky water. Within seconds this , too, was engulfed by the blackness. Just as I was abandoning hope of ever seeing daylight again, the tiniest hint of grey began to appear through the murk. A few minutes later, and with a great feeling of relief, we eventually sailed out into late evening sunshine and fresh air. Mooring up at the first opportunity we went below for a well earned drink, and tried not to think of the return journey we’d have to do later this year.

Sunday Lunch at The Wharf

We’ve bought and been given some useless things during our boating years. For example, a man in a boat in a lock once asked me if I ever got anything caught on my prop (propeller, or “screw” - no laughter please!). Now, it so happens that we do get things caught from time to time. Things like carrier bags, carpets, bits of old fishing tackle and so on. Sometimes a fouled prop has to be cleared by hand via the weed hatch. Not a pleasant job. Anyway, when I answered yes, he offered me what he called a prop-mate. Apparently it was a sort of blade on a wooden handle that would clear anything off a propeller without the owner getting his or her hands wet. When he insisted that he didn’t want any payment I agreed to take it off his hands. Well, you should have seen it – it was a massive thing. A sort of shovel lashed to a two inch thick, six foot long, spear. There was no way it would ever fit down the weed hatch, and it couldn’t be used any other way. We carried it around for about ten years and then left it at Sutton Wharf, where another boater took it from us.

Braunston - Three Bridges

Early in our boating career we bought an expensive wind turbine, complete with 2 metre stainless steel mounting pole. The accompanying blurb gave all sorts of impressive figures regarding wind speeds and high outputs. There is no word to describe its performance. Pitiful, dismal, paltry, crap don’t come close. It was so appallingly woeful that I almost felt sorry for it. We gave it away in the end. It was either that or use it as an anchor. Apologies, dear reader, I’m almost ranting again.

The Stop House, Braunston

Well, that’s about it, I’ll say goodbye for now. The longest day is just around the corner and the Lady Aberlour is going into dry dock for a new top coat. We’re going home to moan about the cost of everything, like all good pensioners everywhere

Love from
The Floating Chandlers

Northampton Arm is 200 years old.  Mural at Gayton Junction

PS a penguin went into a pub. As he was drinking his pint, the peanuts said that his tie was really smart. When the penguin went to the loo, the condom machine told him that he should take the tie off ‘cos it was awful. The penguin went back to the bar and told that Landlord what the peanuts and condom machine had said to him. The Landlord told him that the peanuts were complimentary but the condom machine was out of order.

A Crocketed Spire

Meadow Mooring

Morning Jotters

Are you feeling a bit flat after the excitement of the Platy Jube, as one very annoying presenter referred to it? I loved every minute of the coverage, although we never did find the jubilee bunting. I had to make do with one string of red and yellow flags and some colour changing solar lights, which do look rather pretty when they switch on at dusk. The boating world has exploded into action following the festivities - I think it may be half term, and from our mooring just below Hillmorton Locks on Friday evening, we counted a bakers dozen of hire boats leaving Rugby for the bright lights of a weekend in Braunston. We timed our arrival so that the majority of them had left town by the time we arrived this morning, and we slipped into our favourite mooring spot by bridge 89. Carl used chain and rope to stop us banging about and Tricky wandered up to the next boat to see if they had any ‘Magic Water’. The lambs, that were gambolling in the field the last time we moored here, have moved on to pastures new and I miss their antics. The crocketed spire of All Saints Church stands guard over the canals and I take just one more photo to add to the many that I have taken over the last 14 years. The church is called the Cathedral of the Canals and it’s easy to see why.

Cathedral of the Canals

This week we have travelled from Alvecote on the Coventry Canal, up the locks at Atherstone, made the turn at Hawksbury onto the North Oxford and enjoyed a slow chug through Rugby and up the 3 locks at Hillmorton. My windlass has hardly been out of its holster all week! We’ve moored in all of our usual spots along the way, revisited the nice cafe in Atherstone for coffee and browsed around Tescos superstore in Rugby for strawberries and a new wireless mouse because I'm fed up of looking for the battery cover for the old one. It’s so annoying when the batteries keep falling out (as the usherette said to the courting couple) Carl was dubious - the packet had been ripped open and sellotaped up so he was sure that the little Bluetooth widget would be missing. I stumbled across it (the widget) quite by accident, hidden under the battery cover and we were amazed when I plugged it in and the cursor started blinking away merrily. It feels like a real victory when you buy a new gadget and it actually works first time!!

Atherstone Locks

I’m still recovering from a very frustrating phone call to the Canal and River Trust on Wednesday. I wouldn’t normally bother ringing them, as it usually ends up with me needing to lie down in a darkened room for an hour. I couldn’t avoid it this time as we had passed a motorbike, upside down in the canal. I was thinking that it would be leaking all sorts of noxious fluids into the water. I rang the number and listened to a long list of options, trying to decide if I should do the ‘star, star’ thing I had heard about on some consumer affairs program. I decided to play fair and pick a location from the list of options and chose ‘East Midlands' before I really thought about it. Surprisingly, the phone was answered quite quickly. ‘Result!’ I thought but after trying to describe my location to someone who was obviously still in their pyjamas and watching Trisha or Kilroy or whatever passes for entertainment these days, it became clear that I had chosen the wrong area. There was a click and I was passed through to ‘London and the South East’. No! No! No! Even I know that Coventry won’t come under that heading! But it was too late. A very nice lady, who had obviously combed her hair and only had half an eye on ‘Homes under the Hammer’ while she talked to me, located Coventry on her Waterways map and told me to select ‘West Midlands’ when I got back to the menu. No - she couldn’t put me through! Finally, I spoke to a very cheery chappie with a broad Brummy accent, it was music to my ears. I hope he was as good as his word and passed the details of the abandoned Suzuki to the ‘Local Team’ to deal with. (Hopeful face emoji). I remember the days when I used to enjoy talking to people on the phone, now it’s mostly a chore and I think I must find out how to use Twitter, as that seems to be a lot less of hassle.

Tricky looking for the Magic Water

I have spent a bit of time this week going back over some of my old ‘Jottings’ and thinking about the wonderful times Carl and I have had on our travels. I have really enjoyed writing about our adventures, but all things must come to an end and I think the time has come to put down my keyboard and retire. Thanks to everyone who has supported and encouraged me, including Carl who is very patient with me and never makes a fuss when I use up all the battery and need the inverter on (if you live in a house with mains electricity, then that last sentence will mean nothing to you!)

Signing off with much love and hugs

Linda and Carl xx

Early Morning Peek through the Hedge

Atherstone Locks - Steep Steps

Braunston Bridge

Bye Bye Everybody

Where is Mawsynram ?

Wychnor River Mooring

Morning Jotters

Did you miss me last week? I’m sorry to say that my creative juices deserted me but I’m back this week, all juiced up and raring to flow (wink wink emoji).

Fradley Giraffe

It’s been hissing down since the early hours and Tricky likes to go out for a sniff at about 5am, which can be quite nice on a summers morning but aggravating when it’s shivery cold inside the boat and reminiscent of a wet day in Mawsynram (pronounced Cherrapunji) when you step out onto the tow-path. We lit the stove, made a brew and switched on the dongle to catch up with the Jubilee Concert that we missed on Saturday evening. In spite of all Carl’s aerial twiddling and retuning, our TV reception was very poor, it was pixelating and blocking so we settled down with a DVD box set of ‘Mum’ (Lesley Manville) and a bar of Marks and Spencer’s finest chocolate. I’d accidentally bought milk instead of plain, but we ate it anyway.

Stenson Lock

I digress as usual, back to this morning - there we were, sipping our tea, when I heard an ominous drip, drip, drip - one of the boat windows was leaking like a sieve. The water was running down the wall by my chair and the curtains and carpet were sopping wet. We mopped up, drank our tea and put a towel down to catch the drips and went back to bed for a couple of hours, to get over the damp start. It rained for most of the morning, the first proper rain we’ve had for a while and it is much needed to top up the waterways. Finally, the rain stopped and now the cabin is toasty and dry, the wet curtains are in a bucket ready for wash day tomorrow. Carl is outside now with the Creeping Crack repair solution, doing a temporary lash up to keep out the water until we get to the boatyard for a permanent fix. We did manage to watch the highlights of the Jubilee Concert eventually, we pulled the boat back a few feet and Hey Presto! We had a watchable TV signal.

Oxeye Daisy

It’s been a slow chug for us since we last spoke, up the Trent and Mersey Canal to Fradley then turning left at the White Swan onto the Coventry Canal. We do this journey often but it’s always different depending on the season. We never get tired of watching spring give way to summer along the canal. The creamy white elderflower has arrived and the dog rose and honeysuckle weave in and out of the lush greenness of the hedgerows. The verges are vivid with Foxgloves and Oxeye Daisy, clumps of Flag Iris line the canal in bursts of yellow, crowding out the native Sedge and Rushes. A flash of scintillating blue catches our eye and we spot a Kingfisher, darting along the dark water. Our old friend the Swallow, is once more skimming and swooping around us as we chug along reminding us that summer is just around the corner.

Waiting to go in at Wychnor

There’s nothing finer than a late evening cruise so when the motorbikes began roaring into Fradley on Wednesday evening, we decided to up sticks and move to a quieter spot. There had been a long procession of boats passing through Fradley all day but all was quiet as we came up through the Junction Lock and I swung the little footbridge out of the way so Carl could get on the water point and fill our tank. It was a warm evening and I made cheese on toast to eat as we chugged along. We didn’t go far and were soon tucked up by bridge 90 ready to hit the Co-op first thing on Thursday morning. It’s a bit of a walk from the canal and the sun was warm as we followed the footpath through the edge of the sprawling housing estate. We spotted a nice little cafe in the parade of shops and sat outside at a shady table and ordered brunch. It was very busy and we waited an age for the food to arrive but it was well worth it - pancakes with yoghurt and fruit for me and a small breakfast for Carl. Tricky was her usual morose self, ignoring everyone who stopped to say hello but she is as good as gold, sitting patiently in the pushchair for the walk home. I expect Tricky to become TikTok famous any day now, so many people look and smile when they see her riding along like the Queen of Sheba!

Flag Iris

We blew the swan horn as we got close to Bill and Ruth’s house later that day. They were engrossed in the TV coverage from Buckingham Palace and, not wanting to miss the fly past, they invited us in for refreshments and to watch the thrilling spectacle of the Lancaster flying up the Mall – it was especially thrilling when viewed on their cinema sized TV screen. We had a couple of hours non stop chattering before we reluctantly set off again to see if we could get fuelled up at the boatyard in Streethay. We had rung them the day before and were told they would be closed which was a bit disappointing as we are moving south where fuel gets more expensive. We were very pleased to find a fuel boat moored up along the way, and he was considerably cheaper than Streethay would have been. We pulled alongside and began filling up, and I noticed that his covers were down - they are usually rolled up so you can see what they’re selling – it wasn't a problem until he couldn’t get to the dial to see how much fuel we had taken. He popped up, looking worried, to say that he had accidentally reset the dial. Oh no! After a bit of deliberation (luckily Carl knew roughly how much fuel the tank would take) we agreed on £80. We set off again and found that Streethay was, after all, open, but they were 40p litre dearer so I suppose we’ll never know which was the best option. The chap from the fuel boat came peddling after us to say that he had managed to work it out and we’d had 78 litres so our guess was fairly accurate. I refuse to be cynical and think that he might have plucked that figure out of thin air, he seemed like such a nice chap.

Brunch in Fradley

I must close now and have a look at this keyboard. It was by my chair, ready for action today and I suspect that it got water in the works as every time I type an ‘I’ it inserts an = sign with it. Li=ke thi=s (It’s taken me a long time to write this epistle - so many words have an ‘i’ in!!!)

Take care everyone - be back next week with more Tales from The Towpath

Love from

The Chandlers Afloat

Ps. We saw the most delightful Post Box Topper in Branston, it did make me smile.

Branston Post Box Topper

Pps Mawsynram (pronounced Cherrapunji) is a village in NE India which is the wettest place in the world according to Google

Branston Water Park

Chilly morning

Burton, Dallow Lane Lock

Tricky looking vacant

Coffee at Swarkestone Garden Centre