The journey

At last, the welding had been completed on our narrow boat, the engine serviced by the fine Tony Redshaw (vintage engine man if e'er there was one) I had finished work for the Easter and we could face the cut. We prepared the boat to live on for the next few days, clocked how to pump out, after discovering we had come into Braunston marina the wrong way. This involved a bit of jiggery-pokery with Leigh winding it 180 and reversing (with no steering) alongside a mature boat. After some wisdom sharing we filled the tank with a bit of red, got a full map of the waterways and set off, left, along the Grand Union Canal. Lock 1 (bottom lock of 6) was tackled, myelf working the paddles of the gates with a windlass, using all my might to force the gates open. Once she was at the same height as the canal in front Leigh steered her through. We moored between locks 1 and 2 for the night contemplating if we should go Leicester way or head back round via Covetry Canal. The sun was beginning to set.


It was a cold and sleepless night with little heat and little room in the 4ft bed. At the dawn chours, I began to stir and took a stroll to collect water at a nearby tap. The recent water leak on board (whilst she was out of the water - go figure...) means that somewhere there is a break in the pipework, or even the water tank itself. Recent investigations seem to suggest that although shoddy the plumbing is, all viewable joins are connected, the water tank seems to be in ok condition, maybe it is the water pump. The fuse has blown, so we will start from there.

We met a lovely boater in Braunston Chandlery (a fantastic shop for all your boating delights) who told me about her modified boat to fit the motorbike on board. It involved inserting a 5foot section into the bow end of the boat, which is level with the tow path, allowing them to push the bike directly from the ground onto the boat without fuss. Genius. After purchasing some water purification tablets (the first fill up with the hose pipe was a light green and full of icicles) and a headlight in foresight for the tunnel, we set off.

The locks were well spaced and there were kindly passers by, older couples and groups who instructed me and lent a heave-ho. Then came Braunston Tunnel.


We had done a tunnel with instruction by Dorian, but goodness me one not 2042 yards! It was a birth, 65foot of steel running through a tunnel under the hills, with drips, and trickles of juices falling from the roof, the sound of the chugging Lister engine, Leigh maneuvering us through the darkness towards what seemed to be a 40Watt lightbulb a mile in the distance.


We did it with half held breath and were born into a bright woodland area just before Welton Wharf. We moored for the night and Leigh set about getting the kelly kettle going whilst I hung a dream catcher in the woods. We have cleaned and cleaned the sides inside the boat, wiped the windows over inside and out, but still the dust and gravel from the shot blasting (from back in the builders yard) is still there, looks like it'll be a while till we are squeaky clean.

We took the next leg towards Crick heading up the Leicester section of the Grand Union. After encountering more moody marina workers (seems to be a usual) we gathered more water and didn't hang around. We passed Watford Gap services and encountered the backend of industrial units an eyesore with no understanding of the environment and their littering impacts.


Next on the journey came Watford Locks, where we both realised that preparation is key. We ended up a little swept up in the que and began the challenge of the 6 locks, 4 of which are a staircase with no rest in between. Thankfully, there was a lock keeper to help who was understanding of our position as novices, whilst the other chauvinistic lock keeper went away. I now knows that the system of these locks is constructed by ponds, off to the side of the locks, which fill up the locks when working the red paddles. Then ensuring that there is a free lock in front, working the white paddles as usual, fills up the lock from the one in front. This was a pattern until you enter a pound (areas between locks) where you can moor, say like us where another boat was coming down past us.


I have now got a real feel for the locks, mooring up, knots and steering the boat forward. There is still so much to learn, and the curve is pretty vertical. But with the help from Leigh, they are getting strides ahead. Who else would I ever want to do such a journey with? No-one but lovely Leigh.

After this it was a straight run through Crick tunnel, easy by now. Then we moored outside Crick Marina, for free from the 1st April. We left the boat there for a couple of days to check in on Ailed as the sweet Yma was looking after her. Oi! had a few days of work to earn the pennies to pay for the next leg.

After arranging with the lovely Tim to take care of Delia, we returned to Crick on a Friday. Leigh set off on the boat alone whilst I drove the car to Yelvertoft in anticipation of getting back to it when we leave the boat again. Crick, you see didn't have a bus stop, society hasn't a use for them. Yelvertoft, another P.O.S.H. village up the road did however (it took allday to get to the bus stop... but that is another story). I thumbed a ride and jumped on the boat with sloshing water carriers and we set about doing 10miles gliding through countryside leaving a gentle ripple in our wake.


We moored after a succession of reeds filled the rail against the towpath. And this was where we met Pat near North Kilworth. She is a role model for young women if ever there was one. I aspire to her wisdom. She, like us, is opting out somewhat. She is 72, looks about 52, has the grounding effect of a stone. She talked for near on an hour. I was in awe. She doesn't live in a marina, but on the tow path alone with her greyhound. We learnt a thing or two about BW, their crafty ways of squeezing money out of you. We pondered on Delia and her future possible antics of bringing in half dead mice, climbing 80ft trees...


We left on high spirits for Foxton Locks where Pat advised us that BW had taken over from a lovely chap the ownership of his pub (which doesn't deserve a mention), making it out to be authentic canal enthused. However he's taken on the real boaters pub over the water which spits on the BW one. Going down to the bottom of the locks take the pub on the left, the lady behind the bar is lovely and the food is all homemade, to the point that the pub owner came to discuss his beef stake chilli with Leigh. Foxton Locks await us, as the day we were meant to do it I began the ritual of flow and once my love, Leigh, is feeling all the better we will be on the move again.