Tuesday dawned fine and after enjoyable negotiations with Edie, I was dropped off at the museum and hit the boat dock running at the crack of ten. On ‘Kildare’ was a new playmate; Tony Greenwood from Sevenoaks on his first cruise with FoP. After checking that he was as mad as the rest of us without actually being dangerous, I stowed my gear. The usual stuff; wet gear, dry gear, coaling gear, falling-in gear, plunder from the dressing-up box, camera, ‘phone, windlass, cuddly toy…. The first trip of the season is always tricky, with uncertain weather and my even less reliable memory. We’d had a couple of false starts earlier; pocket watch, spare glasses, medication, false ID… You, the less cerebrally challenged, are yelling at the page, “make a list!” and I will, honest, if I remember, and if I can remember where I put it.

Brian and George were fettling bilge-pumps on ‘President’, Dave was shopping, and Bob was performing more electrotrickery somewhere (makes a change from building rudders). After watering-up and various, we disconnected the mains lead (always a good idea) and poled ‘Kildare’ over to join ‘President’ at the Castle Ironworks dock. By now, steam pressure was rising and there was just time to enjoy a portion of the best fish and chips for miles around before tackling the abominable lift-bridge. After twenty minutes grappling with this marvel of friction, we let go at 12.40, strapped round the entrance, and were on our way.

Twenty minutes later we hit our first problem; at Tipton, Factory locks had dry pounds and the bottom gate of the middle lock was definitely out of kilter. Even ‘Kildare’ got stuck in the top lock. Oh, and it was raining. We finally got clear at 14.30. As we struggled along the New Main Line, I reflected ( I couldn’t see through the rain) on the situation thirty years ago, when I started cruising on the canals. There would be mattresses in the bridge’oles on the Walsall and the Wyrley and Essington, the entire system was neglected and moribund, but on the New Main Line you felt that if you had a big enough engine you could water-ski.

Not so now; Bob was planning to leave us in Brum to catch a train at New Street but we were now so far behind he elected to get off at Bromford Bridge to walk to Sandwell Station. This done, we spent almost an hour getting off the bottom again!

We got stuck again at Winson Green Island and might have become despondent, but then Brian fell in and we knew our luck had changed. With Pat cutting an elegant figure steering Kildare, we sailed majestically through the city centre with its wine bars, pubs and fancy apartments, past Gas Street Basin to moor at The Mailbox, directly under the BBC studios. We did this quietly on Captain Stott’s orders, so as not to disturb Shefali’s weather forecast on “Midlands Today”, or maybe in case we attracted their attention and I made a complete hash of the manoeuvre; right angle turn, breast up, then reverse onto station. With a twist. Outside the posh Italian restaurant, just at the critical position, lay a gondola. The real deal; a hundred grand plus, black, gorgeous and ….fragile. The owner of the gaff left his tagliatelle pronto to admire my boat-handling. I never knew Italians were so pale-skinned, though he did colour up a bit once we were in reverse.

We tied up at 19.00 and after ablutions, enjoyed an excellent repast at ‘Bar Estillo’. In spite of the high rent environs this was good value, fresh cooked grub. Recommended.

9 miles 3 locks, 6½ hours 3 moving boats.

Wednesday.

Up at 06.15. Let go 07.15. Through the leafy southern approaches to the city, past the University, through bridge 84 at 08.30, looking forward to breakfast. Clunk. Or whatever noise a steam engine makes when it comes to an enforced, sudden, complete stop.

Apparently, ‘President’ had picked up something at this very same bridge some years before. Well, we’d done it again, and how. After an unsuccessful broddle with the boat hook, I was dispatched to the weed-hatch and spent a fun time with the bolt-cutters until my hands went numb. Tony took over and became the hero of the hour (and a half), nibbling away until 10.00 when we finally extracted four feet of heavy gauge fencing. We breakfasted in high spirits; today’s obstacle overcome, and set off again at 11.00.

Ten minutes later we were using ‘Kildare’ as a battering ram to push ‘President’ through an obstructed railway bridge, before the sun came out and I made a 4-course meal of Kings Norton Junction. Then we got stuck in the guillotine lock but put this behind us and progressed in sun and showers, taking lunch in Brandwood tunnel.

Bridge 8 is an electric lift-bridge with barriers. Very high-tech and swish until ‘Kildare’ stuck fast with 4ft still underneath. The traffic waited patiently (!?) while we rehearsed the back-up run and ram technique.

When travelling slowly you notice things. Along this section towards Earlswood we saw some strange boxes on the trees lining this pleasantly wooded canal 15”x 6”x 2” with a thin slit on the bottom and a metal trimmed top. What creatures are they for?

We continued uneventfully in gentle sunshine past woods, new developments and even a new bridge, past Earlswood Motor Yacht Club with ‘Vulcan’ moored outside, to tie up by 1800 at bridge 25 for dinner at the ‘Wharf Tavern’.

15 miles 0 locks, 10.75 hours 6 moving boats

Thursday.

We had a lie in and let go at 08.20 in total cloud. Before long we came upon BW doing some wonderful towpath repairs; membrane, crushed and rolled hardcore, the works. No dredging, of course. There was bright orange fencing, signs saying the towpath was closed, but no posted diversion. So Brian, who was lock-wheeling, pushed the trusty old bicycle through a convenient gap in the fencing and went off in search of the lift bridge. We then started the descent of the Lapworth flight; the first four staggered, then from No 6 (yesterday’s guillotine was No 1), close together.

Narrow locks close together means one thing; bowhauling. Pulling ‘Kildare’ through on a long line using a pulley block attached to the mast, so that by hooking the loop at one end over a suitable object, the horse (me) pulling at the other end enjoys a 2:1 ratio for an easier start, until a bobbin in the line jams in the pulley to give a direct pull. As the boat passes the loop, it pulls the line free, ready for the next lock. Simple and elegant, as long as there is a “suitable object”. These were commonly small iron hooks set in the lockside copings on the towpath side, beyond the gate and pointing in the direction of travel, so as to give a firm anchor when the line is under tension, yet allowing it to fall free easily as required when the boat has passed. Very few survive, (none at Lapworth) through the vicissitudes of time and wear and tear, and vandalism both casual and corporate. So many pieces of lockside furniture have disappeared, having no apparent current utility, robbing waterways of their individuality, and us of artefacts with historical interest and often, with our peculiar hobby, usefulness. All in the name of progress, standardisation, and tidiness. No doubt the HSE would worry that folk might trip over these hooks, being a full inch in height, and fall into the lock; not that that would be such a potential tragedy if gates were left open on leaving locks. [Sound of Roger getting off soapbox]. So the modern horse has to cast around for suitable anchors; exposed brick edges, beam-ends, paddle spindles etc., with often hilarious results for the onlookers as the line falls off prematurely, or not at all.

In this way we flew down the flight. 11.45 lock 14 for breakfast, 12.45 helm unshipped in lock 16, 14.00 watered up at lock 19 before turning left at Kingswood Junction to enter the Grand Union at 14.45.

The sun finally broke through and we watched four buzzards riding the thermals as we enjoyed a well-earned bacon sandwich near Rowington. Shortly after, the alarm went up. ‘Kildare’ was in danger of sinking after a coupling had come undone under the bathroom sink. The pump, sensing that a tap was open, was emptying our recently topped up tanks into the boat. Half an hour later Brian and I added a new skill to our CV’s; Plastic Plumbing. In the dark. With the inverter still on. OK so we weren’t sinking really, but the bilge was pretty full.

After emerging damply from Shrewley Tunnel an hour later, we progressed to the Hatton flight and looked for a mooring. I believe we had been (half?) promised one at BW’s yard below lock 43, but no-one was about and everything was locked, so we ended up half in, half out behind the “heritage” boats Scorpio and Malus, tying up at 17.42. We admired the immaculately presented boats, vintage van and environs in the evening sunlight; a bit like Trumpton, nostalgia in aspic.

George, after toiling in the heat of the engine room, had cried off the previous night’s frolics, but was persuaded to join the foray up the hill to the “Waterman”. Sound move. We were greeted by a fuscia- haired beauty who, captivated by his whiskers, waited on us beyond the call of duty, serving excellent food spiced with local information and gossip. The hand-pulled beer was Arkwright’s, as was the pub, Hatton Country World, and half of Warwickshire, he being the descendent of Sir Richard Arkwright of Spinning Frame fame (1732-92). One of the fathers of the industrial revolution, this one time Bolton barber set up the world’s first spinning frame in Preston, in 1768. Not everybody was impressed. In 1779 his large mill near Chorley was destroyed by the mob in protest against the reduced need for labour. (le plus change…). A memorable evening, in great company.

8 miles 21 locks, 9 hours 6 moving boats

Friday.

Up at 07.30. Of course Driver George had risen an hour or two earlier to get up steam. We were enjoying the day which was bright, dry and sunny, taking photographs, drinking tea and chatting, when the Hatton foreman joined us to exchange pleasantries. This done, he launched into a right royal tirade about Brian’s trip through the towpath works. Unswayed by the facts that there was no diversion posted, we had no local road knowledge, Brian had hailed the workmen, and how exactly do you open a lift bridge without a lock-wheeler when you can’t get within 10 feet of the side because it’s so shallow?, he just went on and on. Captain Stott held his temper and was diplomacy personified, at least until jobsworth had gone.

Two swallows wheeled above as we let go at 08.30; how many do make a summer?

These are wide locks so we descended breasted-up and by 10.10 we were enjoying Pat’s smokey bacon and egg sandwiches above lock 28 in glorious sunshine, while in a nearby field a fox appeared carrying a rabbit, trotting towards a copse where no doubt its cubs were awaiting their breakfast. (Previously, at lock 30 I had greeted and been studiously ignored by a hatchet-faced charm school drop-out carrying a custom-made double-eyed 18” long windlass. I didn’t press the point. In the pound below steering nb. K***** was her smiling, chatty partner. Takes all sorts).

We relaxed in our rural idyll until 11.15 when we tackled the final 3 locks. I had been working the near side before and thought I was just being weak and pathetic having such a struggle closing the bottom gates. Now I was on the off side and they flew shut. Why?

We stopped at 12.45 to take on water below lock 24 and while the lunch crew did their stuff, three of us made the short walk up to the ever welcoming Cape of Good Hope to arrange mooring and food for the returning crew next week. ‘President’ of course is a dry boat whilst travelling, but what temptation! Having made such good time thus far, we remained moored for lunch, watching the romance of nature; swallows, dragonflies, pairs of Small Blue and Orange Tip butterflies, duck gang-bangs….

Pausing only at Kate Boats to pick up gas and coal for the ranges, we entered Leamington in hot sun and high spirits, and passed our allotted space for the Bank Holiday Festival by Clemens Street bridge, at 16.00. Now all we had to do was turn around in the nearby winding-hole, moor up and put the fire to bed.

After an hour of stirring mud and getting nowhere fast, we abandoned the attempt and left ‘Kildare’ to wind by pole in the shallow ‘hole and set off towards Radford where we hoped the winding hole would be deeper and wider. Thirty yards later we were stuck fast on debris under bridge 38 in the middle of the channel. Eventually we got free, winded ‘President’ with some shore help and by 18.45 were back at the festival site. We wanted to moor with ‘President’ on the inside so that the public could look in the engine room and as we couldn’t get within six feet at our spot, we tried elsewhere. In fact we tried every inch back to Clemens Street without success; apparently contractors had simply pushed the old coping stones into the cut when repairing the towpath years before, and this had also been the cause of our grounding under the bridge earlier. By this time steam pressure was on the floor, and George’s blood pressure was rising fast in inverse proportion, he having rebuilt the fire twice to fuel these shenanigans. It was 19.45 and we had spent as long turning round, as it had taken to get there from the bottom of Hatton! We finally moored in our original spot with ‘President’ on the outside and staggered so that the engine-‘ole could be viewed from Kildare’s stern.

6 miles 19 locks, 7.5 hours 12 moving boats, Plus 3 miles 0 locks, 3.75 hours

Dave Speer had joined us mid-afternoon ahead of the rest of the next crew, and after tidying the boats and ourselves we went in search of an end-of-cruise hostelry. The “Grand Union” next to Clemens bridge, which serves a six course gastronomic feast was full, and the other cut-side pub was not promising, so we strolled through town to find that saviour of many a ‘President’ crew, Wetherspoon’s. All human life was here on display; the jeunesse providing a fascinating living tableau as we unwound with a curry and a pint. By ten-thirty they had all gone, and moved on to the clubs, leaving us quietly joking and reminiscing on the trip behind us.

Yes the bottom is often too near the top, and progress can be slow, but half the fun is in overcoming the obstacles. The allure of the cut, its other worldliness, the challenge of learning new skills and rediscovering old ones is more. The whole is the fellowship of FoP. I’ve had more fun in the pub after a hard day’s cruising than blind man’s bluff at Spearmint Rhino.

As we walked back to the boat that balmy Friday night, a young wag leant out of his car window and called out: “Shouldn’t you lot be in bed by now?”. Maybe, but to paraphrase Victor Meldrew’s theme song: “Give us half a chance and we can still misbehave.”

Roger Prior,

Totals for trip: 38 miles 43 locks, 33.75 hours (plus…)