passage along this canal now if the going was this hard.
We then came to the first draw bridge, next to the imaginatively entitled Draw Bridge Pub and I jumped off and worked out the over-simple instructions on the control panel. I inserted the BW key and press the ‘0pen’ button and immediately
traffic lights changed, traffic stopped, barriers dropped and the bridge smartly raised and Dave chugged through. Pressing the ‘Close’ button the procedure was promptly reversed and traffic flowed again and I tried to remove the key but it wouldn’t come out. Passers by suggested WD40 while a group of shaven headed and topless brown lads in the pub garden shouted that I had to raise the bridge and lower it and the key would be released. A bemused and tortured Dave (hot sun and passing an open pub) was treading water waiting for me wondering what I was doing so I press the ‘close’ button and the barriers came down to the consternation of the car drivers and then I pressed ‘open’ and up they came again and out came the key. Legging it after Dave I said thanks to the lads and a old chap further down said that they would know all about keys since they represented the local crimewave!
After this mildly embarrassing event the view from the quiet stern of Brighton that afternoon was interesting with much natural drama and the enterprises of man to occupy me as we meandered along the sun dappled cut. A mother duck’s quacking drew my attention as she and two baby ducklings were panicking down our port side while the source of her concern, three more babies were busily paddling like manic clockwork toys in the opposite direction, on the starboard side, in an attempt to overtake us and find their mum. By the time they had given up the fight they were a hundred metres apart from their mum who searched the waterside where she last saw them. The their collective cheeping and quacking resolved the issue as they converged to a happy conclusion as we slipped around the bend. On emerging from a bridge hole in the quiet of a engine ticking over a great "RUFF!" startled me and I looked left to see a grotesque face staring out of a garden’s foliage that made me look twice until I identified it as an archetypal British Bull Dog who seeing that he had got the desired result of his surprise that I swear he had a big shit eating grin on his face animated by a panting tongue. Where the suburbs encrusted the bank on a few stretches of the canal it was fascinating to see how each owner of a garden that backed onto the canal had either utilised and enhanced their additional feature of their plot or had turned their back on it with improvised fencing and rubbish. These seemingly isolated little paradises, hidden below the view of the modest semi to whom they belonged, but facing the towpath, mostly suffered from entropy with slowly collapsing landing stages, wonky steps, rusty barbeques and uncertain seating. As a kid living in a similar home but minus the canal I always fancied the idea of a waterway at the end of the garden and loved it when the garden flooded in heavy rain. But I could see you can get bored with the familiar as many of these improvement were created years ago, improvised or on the cheap and the makers are probably elderly now. Or on the other hand it might be the prospect of a lippy gang of kids on the towpath these days, being antisocial while you are enjoying a convivial pint of beer while cooling your feet that could put you off the idea.
The most astonishing view of the afternoon was the sudden appearance in open countryside near Dickens Heath of a raw new housing development of immense size. First came the houses in a rural retro style of manor house, farmhouse, artisans cottage, all with chimneys, spreading south to the horizon and then came a colossal symmetrical apartment complex eight floors high with a huge staircase waterfall down the centre. It looked as if it had lifted straight out of the centre of a major city as I stared around at the drowsy pasture land that accommodate it, then in a blink it disappeared behind the trees and it was back to counting the bridges until we got to No. 19 where the Bluebell Cider House resided.

While enjoying a weak but refreshing Theakstons ale in the shade of the pub I watched a young slim couple come and sit at an adjacent table in the full evening sun. I watched as they were brought an embarrassingly large platter of grilled meats and a large mixing bowl of chips and maxi sausages by a perspiring member of staff "Mmmmmm’", my stomach and I thought , "They will have trouble polishing that lot off",

But to my mounting disbelief, the staff member was back with a identical load and laid it before the dapper young man who after calling for tomato ketchup set to with a relish, matched chunk for chunk by his girlfriend. After Dave had returned from a satisfying visit to the ‘facilities’ we polished off our pints while still watching the couple surreptitiously trying to figure out why they had so obscenely over-ordered – what would have Bob Geldoff said? Dave intimated that he would finish off what was left but I admonished him saying that I had already slaved over a stove to make that evening’s meal and I wasn’t having him ruin his appetite. We got up to go but once out in the lane, Dave was nowhere to be seen so I wandered back to the boats. He walk down a moment later looking satisfied and it was agreed that at this point I would take over on Nuneaton so we set off for Lapworth Top Lock.

I pulled away from the bank and through a bridge hole to where the canal went into a sharp 90 degree right bend. Having just familiarised the forthcoming route in the Nicholson Guide, I entered the bend only to be confronted by a leafy branch reaching far further out across the canal than normal, still on the turn I couldn’t avoid it and then I felt the boat ride up on an obstruction so I kept on going trying to steer out and away and not get aground. The leaves enveloped us but while dealing with that I saw that another was sweeping fast over the boat and this one meant business! By now I should have gone into reverse as the bows stubbornly refused to swing to port and away from the trees but I carried on trying to pull out hang onto the chimney and stuff on the cabin roof while enraged screams behind told me that Dave was getting similar dose of flora and fauna. Then we were clear and the only damage was the lost of my new hat and a very pissed off Dave who told me later that he had been told off by a woman from her waterside garden for his bad language. I wonder who he could have been shouting at? We didn’t have to wait long before the next balls up when steering under the new commodious bridge hole under the M42, complete with thundering traffic, I ran us firmly aground near the towpath side in a section that looked clean and ten foot deep. They say that if you have a big enough lever and a fulcrum you could move the world so I selected the stoutest and longest length of timber from the motor’s hold and inserted it between the concrete edge and the boat and pulled while Dave did the usual with the motor and in a fog of exhaust the ol’girl slipped free. After that Fate got bored and went away leaving us to finish the day’s journey in relative peace or so we thought…. We reached Lapworth Top Lock as dusk turned to night and breasted up close to the lock gate with the intention of being first through in the morning. Dave prepared the boats for a quick getaway while I got the dinner on – a recipe from Steve Haywood’s canal book ‘Fruit Flies Like A Banana’ – organic shin of beef in beer with new potatoes and sweet cabbage . Boy! Were we hungry, at least I was, since Dave had admitted swiping some chips and giant sausages from the glutted couple at the Bluebell. Stomach rumbling, I looked for the stew I had thought I had brought with me but my fruitless search was, er… fruitless – no stew and I now could see it sitting on the shelf my fridge at home forgotten in the rush to get out of the house. Fate had shown his ace card, one played at the start of the day but only having an effect at the end. "You are winding me up aren’t you?", Dave said in menacing tones. "No, no, really, it’s not here, I must I left it at home." At this juncture, the air blue with bad language Dave stomped off to the motor’s cabin leaving me to see what was in the cupboard to compliment the potatoes and cabbage I did have. I had to laugh because the cupboard was bare except a single tin of corn beef and some of the sashays of condiments snitched from various pubs. Someone must have taken offence at my gentle poke at it’s previous diverse and dubious sell-by-date contents in my last report and binned the lot. So I can tell you that with the fried contents of the corn beef can it was the nicest meal I’ve eaten for ages and Dave grudgingly agreed too. Incidentally I ate the stew last night with potatoes and cabbage and didn’t enjoy it as much as the one at Lapworth…. Early one morning Just as the day was dawning I heard a young man saying "Where’s my bloody tea?" "Here’s your tea – Twinnings Breakfast with milk and one sugar – Ok?" And I handed Dave the mug while I supped my strong but indifferent instant coffee (incidentally Dave forgot to pack his Peruvian ‘Rocket Fuel’ blend despite there being a cone filter on board) Also disappointingly, nobody asked Dave what there was for breakfast so he no reason to tell them his considered sadistic response of: “The Lapworth Flight!” We had anyway decided to get moving at around 6-30am to meet Steve Morgan and Nick Wolfe walking up the flight but Steve arrived just as we cast off and Nuneaton was first into the lock. Immediately there was a problem with a large green branch that contrived its self to get stuck under the top gate preventing it closing. We all had a go until the mighty branch was freed and the first lock was emptied. Nick had arrived by at that point and a loose flexible system developed of getting the powered and unpowered boats individually down the staircase in good order. As you might know I’m not widely travelled on the system and it was my first experience of the famous Lapworth Locks so I was quite taken aback by their dilapidated nature. Now combined with a variety of boatmen’s tricks of getting ahead like raising a lower paddle to draw the butty into the lock and strapping in the top gate alarmed me as the old woodwork of the gates didn’t look as if they were up to it. (the whole lot need replacing soon! BW?). This was combined by the fact that all the bollards had been removed from the lock sides so there was no way of stopping the butty other that with your own strength or the strapping in method which takes a lot of practice to perfect. After a few attempts at this method I gave up since in my hands there was potential for disaster given the rickety state of the locks and the fact that the gates hand rails had been positioned as to make it difficult to loop a line over the post in many cases probably to stop buggers like us trying it on. So after Dave took over from Nick on the motor Steve, Nick and I took it very ‘easy does it’ with the bow hauling, without the fancy tricks and the locks slipped pass one by one until we were at the bottom of the flight. Without a pause we turned onto the GU at Lapworth Junction, putting a few dents into Brighton’s buckby can and chimney due to a close look at the bridge hole. Sighing, I made preparations for brunch. It was like turning off of a mud track on to a smooth main road and off we shot only having to stop when the water stopped squirting out of the side of the motor due to a blocked gearbox heat exchanger. So we ate lunch in the shade on the towpath while the engine had a little afternoon nap then did the business in the engine room. In the incandescent sunlight, highlighting the wasps as they lazily whirred about, we had to repeat the lark with the 4” x 2” to lever the motor off an obstruction and then perspiring we set off again Despite the quality and magnificence of the infrastructure of the Hatton flight and the fact we could breast up, it all seemed a lot more pressured and paced to get down the flight. So it was a case of gritting our teeth and tumble down the stairs without thinking too much and after 2 hours and 7 minutes we exited the last gates. (Left:Roger Hutchinson steers the pair down the Hatton Flight) Then it was a quick trot up to Warwick Parkway station and after suffering the worst that Central Trains could inflict on me under the term ‘Public Transport on a Friday Evening’, was home two hours later feeling strangely fatigued. but please to have played my part in this charming water relay race. Now all together sing:- “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun....” Dave Davies continues the report......... Friday 14th July: Roger, Steve and Nick left me at the bottom of Hatton at 5.30pm, while I tied up and went on a reccy to see if there were any better moorings nearer the Cape of Good Hope pub There weren’t and it was a good 20 minute walk up there but well worth it for a fine selection of real ales and good grub at reasonable prices. Nick returned around 7.30pm, we had a meal, another pint and a chat to some boaters before wending our weary way back down the towpath to bed. (9 miles 37 locks in 11 hours.)

Saturday 15th July: I was banging on Nick’s cabin side at 7am to no response, so I got the kettle on, cleaned the brasses, did the engine checks and was starting Nuneaton’s engine when Nick with friends/volunteer crew for the day, Vikki and Tim turned up. We let go at 8.15 with a nice easy (or so we thought) lock-free start to the day. Coming out of that bridge on the nasty turn in Warwick by Tescos, I was suddenly aware of Nick shouting “Stop! Stop!” so pulling over, I soon realised that the butty’s ‘elum had jumped out of it’s sockets – probably on going over a Tesco’s shopping trolley. Fortunately/unforunately this had happened to me on several trips, (I declined to tell the crew that it had taken anywhere from 30mins to 3 hours to sort!) and I was able to advise a suitable strategy. With the long pole through the tiller hole, poking about in the water with the cabin shaft and lots of lifting, straining and swearing we managed to get the elum re-seated on the second attempt in about 15 minutes - What a relief! Our next hazard was the Kate Boats hire base, so I throttled back to tickover and kept my eyes peeled. Unbelievably, a hire boats back end swung out about 10 yards in front of me. With outraged curses, I banged Nuneaton into full reverse, already realising it was too late. “We’ll have his bloody windows out!” I thought, closing my eyes. Bang! I oped my eyes to see us glace off into a private boat moored on the nearside “Bloody Hell, I’ll have his windows out an’all!” I cried. Remarkable there was no damage done, so giving the inept buffoons on the hire boat a right good glaring and an apology to the other boat, we resumed, getting through Radford Locks by 10.55am and already baking sunshine. At least there was a cooling breeze. Vicki turned out to be a tireless lock wheeler, with Tim learning the butty, while Nick took over the motor duties at Stockton Locks, where we paused at the Boat Inn to buy “pints to go” at 3.15pm. Through Calcut Locks by 4.15pm, we marvelled at the vastness of the new marina, before running into more and more traffic. 5pm saw us at Napton Junction and an unlikely amount of boats tied up on bends and unwilling to give us precedence at bridge ‘oles. Added to this lines of moored boats practically all the way to Braunston Turn made for slow progress.

I rang Mark Collins who has his boat at Braunston Marina and spends most weekends there, and as I had hoped said he’d meet us at Braunston Bottom lock, help us through to the Admiral Nelson where we would stop for a pint. Well we stopped for three, thinking we had only two locks and an hour or so to get to our destination of Buckby. A recipe for disaster.....

This is the trouble when you relax – there will be problems! We could not close the bottom gate of the top lock – there was something big in the water blocking it. We tried flushing the paddles, prodding with poles and rakes until an exasperated Nick tried ringing BW – “there’s no chance of then coming out at this time of night (9pm)” I remarked. Nick’s reply of “but we’re working boats!” was met by somewhat cynical laughter. “I’ll have one last go at flushing it out with the top paddles”, I optimistically ventured and was rewarded by a satisfying thwack! as the reticent gate banged shut. Relieved, we entered Braunston Tunnel at 10pm, emerging into the darkness of the cutting and a beautiful star-lit night. No moorings above Buckby Top Lock, so down one lock, avoiding a boat moored for the night in the lock waiting area, and tied up for 11.40pm. Vicki drove us back to Nick’s car at Hatton, Nick then kindly drove me home where I collapsed into bed. (33miles, 68 locks in 15 hours.)