Appendices - Trip Reports 2008.

THE VIEW FROM BRIGHTON’S TILLER AND BIG FRYING PAN.
By Roger Hutchinson.

Wendover to Foxton, Leicester Riverside Festival, Foxton Canal Festival and then to Braunston. From the 30th May to the 22nd June 2008.

Late on Saturday May 30th, the crew assembled at the end of the Wendover arm and unclothed the boats and got them ready for the trip to Leicester. Dave Davies was skipper with new members Barry Adams and Steve Smith crewing while I chose the role of quartermaster and cook as I’m not so reliable in a physically active role these days. Active member Alan Cummings gave Barry a lift to the boats and stayed to help get them down to the junction on a canal more suitable for canoes due to the depth!
There seemed to be a problem with the starter motor and alternator as the batteries weren’t charging so we found that each day we needed to transfer the heavy awkward greasy thing into the engine hold then fiddling with a screwdriver to get the starter motor to engage with the engine and start it, then back again with the battery so we would have some kind of a light in tunnels on the butty. This would tell on all our backs by the end of the week. Barry erected
his tent for the first time in decades in the cratch of Nuneaton and due to his generosity this is where it will be used from now on to expand our on board accommodation.
The Sunday dawned overcast but we were soon underway and taking it steadily we meshed together as a team and with the clock ticking, strove to get ahead through a drably lit landscape. It seemed that online mooring is a very popular hobby for many weekend boaters, so snail-like progress was made on tick-over with the only reading matter other than the boat’s names (7 with Kingfisher and 9 with Dragonfly and counting) were notices to SLOW DOWN! We stopped
at Simpson near Milton Keynes for the night but it wasn’t memorable except for a meal – a Steve Haywood recipe of Shin of Beef in – guess – beer, that didn’t touch the sides and nothing was left for the ducks.
The enactment of the morning ritual of ‘hump the battery’ soon had us poodling along amongst the moored boats and flat countryside under a yellow sky that threatened a wet. We stopped in Stoke Bruerne and borrowed David Blagrove’s battery charger which we plugged into the Museum shop for an hour during which we had to stand guard against the frail gongoozlers tripping over the extension lead that snaked across the towpath (H&S!) He also gave us some useful large square blocks of wood and as a light shower swept across us, we bade farewell and made for Blisworth Tunnel.
Tunnels are a fact of life on our canals, a way of getting from A to B to suit the purse of the builder of the canal. For me, I love them like passing through a Heathrow terminal to travel by economy jet – a necessary evil.
Blisworth Tunnel is at the current top (within my experience) of the charts for being nasty and by far the wettest and busiest in traffic. With only my small LED torch (the headlamp on
Brighton has electrical faults) propped up on the centre of the coiled backend rope dimly illuminating a part of the roof above & in front of me. Despite being able to hear the sound of advancing torrents, this gave early visual warning of the deluges coming my way so I could get my head down and brace myself for the inescapable tumult of freezing water from high above. The Blisworth Tunnel trip boats were in operation and you could see the woeful faces of the passengers, mostly thinking "what am I doing here?" Of course, within their brightly lit cabin they could see even less of the passing tunnel walls than can be seen on a London Underground train. So in this cacophonous black hell the last thing you wish to glimpse as boats blunder past each other is the spectre of a gurning face miming hysterical laugher, illuminated by a hand held torch pointing upwards. But it does help to keep boredom at bay!
Graham, our chair, arranged for us to pick up another fully charged battery at the boatyard in Blisworth which was achieved despite us being singled out. The threatened rain arrived Monday night when we moored in Bugbrooke and since it was Barry’s last night we went to have a good meal in the new Wharf Inn on Steve’s recommendation. I think most pub meals are insultingly overpriced and usually substandard – like the Foxton Locks Inn for instance, but the Wharf fare was excellent.
I awoke early in the cratch on my air mattress to see the rain fall beyond the shelter of my black PVC cave and discovered a big wet patch by my head caused by a drip from above. It was deliciously cosy but disconcerting to know that the morning promised Buckby Locks, followed by the Watford flight and that meant getting up. Sadly Barry had to leave us to get back to Kent but stoically helped us to the top of Buckby before departing. We slumped into a trance as the rain fell and the team dynamic changed. The sodden countryside slid by only to be confronted by Watford where it took two and half hours to get both the boats through the single lock flight up to the summit, it was grim but we kept our humour. By the time we got to Yelvertoft we were wet through and unappreciative of the view so we moored up. With the ranges alight since morning to dry our clothes, we headed to the Knightly Arms where we met up with Dave’s brother Richard, who had driven Dave’s partner Teri to join us. I moved into the Adam's Tent and was surprised briefly by the comfort of the camp bed.
The next day the sun came out in all it's glory and turned the sullen landscape into a magical garden with almost unnatural hills wearing hats of trees and delicately dressed with little puffs of lambs, lumps of cows and posing nags. Through this winded a deserted contoured canal, lined with yellow irises, between which we proceeded and each of us giving thanks for being there to experience it. Gliders were towed high in the sky by an labouring aeroplane from the Husbands Bosworth airfield and it was one of these slim silent soaring gliders that caught my eye while at the tiller. Watching the pilot turn the sailplane to catch the thermals rising from the hillside far below, I spotted a black dot, far higher than the glider, shoot erratically across the sky absolutely silently. It could have been one of these new stealth jets as this large unpopulated rural area was a flight practice
zone. But the hairs on my neck rose as I watched it, chilled and mesmerised, manoeuvring at such speed out of sight that defied my understanding of our current technological abilities. The sun went in and the little lambs went baaaa baaaa as they gambolled along side us and life went on….

The bottom of Foxton Locks was the day’s objective and we achieve getting the pair down in a smart time and we moored outside the pub Bridge 61 by teatime. Sitting outside by the boats we consumed the local beer and entertained ourselves with a gramophone recital of records that made our side of the canal a lot more vital and fun than that of the Foxton Lock Inn.

The trip into Leicester in the bright sunshine was again delightful but as we approached Kilby Bridge the clouds blew over emphasising the increasingly urban landscape

Three hours later as dusk fell, we moored up just above King's Lock with a couple of other boats. We sallied forth into the village, calling in at the Black Horse to sample their ‘Summer Lightning’ and then with sharpened appetites we sampled the take-away options and quickly to bed.
Long after sun up but still only 7.00 am, we were awoken by Tony, the owner of the tea rooms, demanding our order for a free early breakfast (it’s
our local knowledge!). Thus sated, we endeavoured to give the boats a spruce up with some paint and polish before heading the last three miles into Leicester. We moored up away from the main stage up on the bank, so we could converse with visitors without shouting and also gain the shade of overhanging trees. I walked half a mile home for the usual comforts and facilities as did Steve.
The Amazing Leicester Riverside Festival

Saturday’s weather forecast was on the button with rain starting just as the event formally opened at 12 noon, much to the organisers dismay (Leics IWA and Leicester City Council) but it was soon over and it brightened up and the crowds - they did come! The normal quiet deserted waters of the Mile Straight thronged with boats of all kinds and many city residents had their first narrow boat trip aboard the three very busy trip boats. Graham and Linda Scothern came to join the fun and the public pressed upon us so there was little time to draw breath. The footfall on the new exhibition/interpretation panels/banners arranged on the fore end of Brighton, was very gratifying and we were constantly refilling the NBT leaflet dispenser.

As circumstances had denied us the time to decorate Nuneaton we didn’t join the decorated boats parade of shiny boats (a boat with bowls of pansies on the roof won, although how that fitted in with the theme of ‘Leicester’ I don’t know!) so it was a lucky escape for the NBT’s integrity. Bunting! Bah!
The sun made a big appearance on Sunday and the crowds did come again, many for a second visit, who said it was the best thing they had ever been to in Leicester and as one who had been involved in most festivals in the city for 27 years I had to totally agree. With just two of us to give a talk in the cabin it was another day where the hours just flew by in an orgy of enjoyment of selling the concept of the NBT and the heritage of the waterways to the punters.
After Ian from NB May Bee had lent us a battery and telling us that he had a spare alternator to replace our broken one and he would fix it at Foxton the next weekend, we feeling grateful and with sore backs, winded by the castle and headed back upstream to King's Lock and the Black Horse to see if the beer had gone off – thankfully it hadn’t.
The other working boat in attendance was Skylark. Now next year….
Ice Cold in Alice – Foxton Bound

'Tea Rooms Tony' discombobulated me by handing me a coffee while I still lay bleary and shattered in my pit the greenness of the ‘Adams' Tent’. Crikey! Another day at the helm of Brighton, as we made our way back up to Foxton, this was getting to be like real work. Our task on this hottest day of the year so far, was eased by Dave’s mother

dropping other son Richard off to help us through the locks and, when not preoccupied with paddles and gates, keep me company.
We were entertained by filming the more interesting bits with a soundtrack of novelty 78’s that will look quite good once I’ve edited them. Steve’s backside took offence at the saddle of the new bike so he created a huge sausage of towelling and tape that gave us a smile each time as he peddled past to get ahead to the next lock.
The real revelation for me was that as we headed away from Leicester the countryside became more picturesque, the air cleaner, the light and definition sharper and the spirit is uplifted as a result. As Dave said, “You don’t want people to know about how good it is because at the moment it is possible to travel for hours without seeing another boat - just like in the days of commercial carrying.”
We got stuck in Gas Pipe Lock again by entering breasted up, but a chap who had parked up near the bridge for a smoke came and gave a hand and after some patient and persistent effort we managed to single out and get through and Richard got a lift back to Leicester. That first pint at Bridge 61 went down without touching the sides as did the second….

Beggar’s at a Feast – Foxton Canal Festival

I got back to the boats the following Saturday where Tom Stewart and Dave described their oddly quiet day the highlight being when Ian from NB May Bee came to replace the alternator. I had expected the boats to be moored at the bottom of the Inclined Plane but they were still at the temporary mooring of the previous Monday where the general boater’s moored, out of sight of the main site. After an enjoyable evening in the Bridge 61 we made the best of it on Sunday that had ideal weather and we were joined by Steve Smith and had a pleasant and gentle day that in comparison with Leicester was one of quality instead of quantity. We got out the Canal Boat magazines and filled the wheelbarrow with the old tools and these together raised a very respectable amount in donations that was reinvested in a new bow rope, Brasso and Loo Blue amongst other boating improvements and essentials. The boys took the motor for a short run down the Market Harborough Arm to show what a moving working boat looks like while I played records and chatted with the trickle of visitors and other boaters attracted and charmed by the music.

Meanwhile up by the Foxton Canal Museum (top notch place) and by the top lock, it was heaving with people and Dave was quite rightly felt snubbed after seeing the map by the top lock that didn’t show anything the about the NBT or where we were moored, this is despite the NBT being booked in months ago. We expressed our displeasure to each other, lacking the person who should have heard our constructive criticisms. I thought we were treated as beggars at a feast after all our sterling efforts to be there for them and the wholehearted support we as an organisation gave for their event. As it was a joint effort by BW and IWA along with the Foxton Canal Museum people (who were bemused by the decision to leave us there), it’s difficult to see what can be gained by complaining. We have just got to be more assertive at the beginning with these bureaucrats and shiny boat people in the future as it is our right to do so. I also remember spending an afternoon in February drafting a risk assessment to qualify us safe enough to be included in the event and that was never referred to. The funny thing is we would have got more interest on an ordinary weekend. Grumble, grumble….

As it is Dave’s way to mention what other historic working boats were attending these events I say, through gritted teeth - President & Kildare in the bottom arm - Toot! Toot! with the immaculate Aquarius and Owl nearby and Atlas & Leo by the top lock, all stationary for the whole weekend.

Over The Top to Braunston

A short week at home passed quickly before Dave, Steve and I were back for the next stage to get the boats to Braunston. We had a short sensible Friday night in the Bridge 61 before an early start to be the first up the locks the next morning. We needn’t have worried as it started

raining and this is the Leicester Line so unopposed, we got both up in just under two hours with minimal help from the lockkeeper.

After a hearty breakfast at the top, we set forth for Yelvertoft where we reversed the route along the summit pound. But this time it was a warm mysterious world of evolving vistas of muted shades of green and grey and animals high up on the steep pastures, eyed us resentfully through the all enveloping mizzle. A couple of times during the day I looked about seeking

which side the towpath was on as the warm wet spring had got the grasses and other plants a good start so by now the towpath had disappeared completely under a verdant meadow which was also soaking wet to the extent that you would need waders to venture forth! So we saw very few people using the towpath between Leicester and Braunston except near road bridges crossing the canal.
Thinking of breakfast for the next day, I left the boats as soon as we moored up and legged it down the hill into Yelvertoft to get to the village shop before they closed at 6pm. I’m used to city corner shops so I was disappointed to find they had been already closed for five and half hours so the only thing to do was see if the pub was open and luckily, it was.

Later that night in the warmly lit cabin, squeezed around the table we feasted on navrin of lamb while enjoying a selection of music from Dave’s truly massive and diverse music library, 1000’s of hours of enjoyment, - it’s a shame the batteries run out after two hours! We were joined by a comely local female whom we called Miz Spatts who spent some hours ‘sleeping’ with Dave and then with me later, having lost none of her desire for ‘heavy petting’.

An aside about the 'Adams' Tent'

I was really getting the hang of the camp bed in the ‘Adams' Tent’ and fell asleep even before zipping up the sleeping bag. The tent shape is vaguely ridge tent form and held up by tying the guy ropes to the gunwales and cratch, so no

need for poles which are essential for holding up ordinary tents but in this case also for something tell you which way is up when the boat rolls. The new canvas (it’s only been used a couple of times since early 70’s) is dull translucent green that enfolds you completely, hiding the world outside so you have no sense of where the horizon is. This can be quite disorientating so when I was dragged unwilling from a dreamless sleep by an almighty roaring sound that intensified so fast that my mind panicked and urged the body to run away, run away! The lightweight camp bed turned turtle and if there had been much light I

would have taken a look at the grubby floor of shuts as well as collecting some splinters in my knees from them. Trying to regain a vertical stance was hard as the tent billowed about by a cold wind but at last I drew back the flap and got a face full of hard rain and the fierce wind inflated the tent with a soggy gust.
"What jolly good fun all this boating is!", I thought to myself, as feeling returned to my extremities in an uncooperative sleeping bag - a result of struggle to reassemble my means to comfort as the rainstorm tattoo row on the cratch and tensioned side clothes died away. The attentions of Miz Spatts with her insatiable demands was not welcome at the green light of dawn, so it was a fragile (but not insubstantial!) body that negotiated its way out of the hold to get the kettle on and try to look out of the front of its’ head with the help of a cup of strong coffee.
The 'Adams' Tent' is one of those innovations, like the marvellous 'Belton Stairway' which are positive assets to the Trust

It was breathlessly windy with the sun throwing dappled shadows that sped smoothly across the landscape, empathising the contours of the expansive rural landscape. Everything flexible thrashed about manically, shedding insects, leaves, twigs, branches and even trees down around about us. Holding our course in the middle of the canal was a constant battle as we wove a twisted course across the landscape constantly altering our angle to the very fresh south westerly wind. Passing stationary and approaching boats was a tense moment as gusts pushed us playfully about. Even in the deep verdant cutting at Crick Tunnel, we were blown around and the deeper draft of the motor caused it to be stemmed up, holding us up for over 30 minutes.

Finally, without incident, we reached Watford Locks where on the last occasion, two weeks earlier when passing up, the NBT crew had ingratiated themselves with the lockkeepers by being cheerful on a really miserable day and where one member of staff was commiserated with when they told us of how they had just escaped through a toilet window because another member of staff had absently-minded locked them in their little office! (You just can’t get the staff these days!)
But anyway as a result, we positively flowed each boat down that flight with their help and the patience of the waiting queue of boats at the bottom lock. With the very brisk south westerly gale, two hours was very good going indeed.

We were down from the summit but the wind was still treacherous, so after a quick brew of tea and Dave’s mum’s special reserve cake to steer with, we were off.
At Norton Junction where despite the conditions, we steered through 100 degrees starboard without mishap and now we forged ahead directly into the wind itself and then all the way through the tunnel to Braunston’s top lock. At the time, I was getting the spray from the wind defused water from the engine cooling outlet on the motor, right at the back of the butty!
The Admiral Nelson was encountered on the way down and we modestly settled for a single pint each to accompany our progress downwards through the last two locks. To make this small transaction, the Pub reopened briefly then oddly closed again. At the bottom, I stood on the cabin roof squinting into the low evening sun looking for a place to moor but all I could see were triple moored hire boats and private
boats encrusting the towpath.
Then through the next bridge hole we saw the bold BW No Mooring! signs put up along the moorings that had a veritable collection of private boats, inhabited by Sunday Dinner scoffing people who were sluggish in their reaction to move (except for the GPS cruiser who knew the pecking order). Eventually our new friend moved along – a bit, and we just squeezed in. Wind-burnt, hungry, and dog-tired but satisfied having completed the task we had set ourselves without mishap, we secured the boats and made for the carpark
Now all we had to face was a lift-providing wife who hadn’t got the bit about, "we’ll ring when we get there….it will probably be around 5pm" - So after arriving at 5pm she was now at 7.30pm, steam up, ready for a full row…. More next year….
Roger Hutchinson. June 2008.

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