Western Daily Press - March 07
A Narrow Escape
By Jon Bennett
EVERYONE thought I
was mad when I told
them I was taking my
wife and two young
daughters on a canal boat long
weekend out of season.
“Make sure you take your thermals,”seemed to be the stockresponse.
But my head was filled with
romance borne from too much of The
Wind in the Willows when I was young
and, to be honest, I couldn’t imagine better time to be taking this trip than
in the season of mists and mellow
fruitfulness.
And I was right.
After an easy jaunt up the M5 to
Brewood, just north of Birmingham,
our Shropshire canal experience began
as we were introduced to the Sir
Belin –an eight-berth cruiser that was
to become our home for the following
three days.
As something of a landlubber,the
63ft length of this beautiful vessel was
nearly enough to put me off before
we’d even begun. After all, Iwas the
one expected to become helmsman of
this floating behemoth.
Before we had even left our mooring,
the children had already made
themselves quite at home in their
bunks –the novelty value faroutweighing
the fact that there was little
room for manoeuvre on these, the tiniest
of beds.
Hot and cold running water, a fully
functioning gas cooker and central
heating are just afew of the home
comforts in the narrowboat, although
the lack of mains electricity meant
prudent use of electronic devices. My
initial horror at not being able to
rechargethe laptop or the mobile
phone was soon assuaged with the realisation I was there to recharge my
own batteries.
While my wife put away the provisions
in the small, but beautifully
formed kitchen, I was not only given comprehensive “driving”lesson, but
also taught how to clear the propeller
of leaves, pump out the bilge, and top
up with water.
To my utter relief, the yardman
came with us as far as the first lock at
Wheaton Aston, allowing me to take
the helm for the very first time under
expert tuition.
After the frantic pace of modern living,
it takes a while to get used to the
relaxed pace of life on the canals. Four
miles per hour is flat out, but 2mph is
the accepted normwhen passing
moored vessels or fishermen.
Steering, however, turns out to be
remarkably simple.Just point the
tiller in the opposite direction to the
way you want to go and wait, wait,
wait for the boat to respond.
It is ill-advised to travel at night, so
our first foray into the canal network
was curtailed by diminishing
light. Having rejected the
chance to stay at the designated
mooring posts in favour of some
independent driving practice,it
came as something of a shock to
find ourselves in the middle of
nowherewith onlythe owls for
company. Any feelings of disconcertment
soon gave way to the utter
tranquillity of it all.
Doors bolted and heating on, the Sir Belin was more snug than any hotel room, and no-one, but no-one, knew where we were.
Day two saw us make steady
progress along the Shropshire
Union, experiencing life on the
water to its fullest, appreciating
the embankments and cuttings
that Thomas Telford himself
worked so hard to construct. Passing
under a high bridgeand into
the prodigious Woodseaves Cutting,
it feels as if you’ve entered
Tolkien territory; mosses and
ferns flourish in the misty environment,
the steep 70ft sides untouched
by human hand for many
a long year.
We reached Tyrley Wharf in the
late afternoon and decided to avoid
the flight of five locks.
Instead, we turned our vessel
around ready for the return journey,
moored up and went on foot to
watchother, more experienced
boaters unravel the mysteries of
the Victorian lock system.
WHEN we awoke the following
morning, the
drizzle was descending
on our “caravan on the water”,
but as we had to be in the vicinity
of Brewood by nightfall, it was up
to me to don full waterproofs and
take the helm once again.
Numerous cups of steaming hot
tea and the ubiquitous bacon butty
kept the early chill out, and before
long the sun’s rays were fighting
through the clouds.
My family ventured back out on
deck to help with the steering and
to drink in the scenery on this, our
last day on the water. We stopped
for lunch at the Junction Inn at
Norbury Junction and had a well earned
roast dinner while the children
dispensed with some of their
excess energy in the play area.
It was with sadness that we
moored up for the final time at
Wheaton Aston. Just as we had
come to terms with a carefree life
on the water, and with the smell of
woodsmoke still heavy in our nostrils,
it was time to leave our lovely
boat.
But as WHAuden wrote: “I
have onlyto close my eyes,cross
the iron footbridge to the towpath,
take the barge through the short
brick tunnel and there I stand in
Eden again.”
Exactly.
