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.