The Big Boys are Looming

Having glided gently away from my mooring I left suburbia behind and entered open countryside. As if to emphasise the transition I chased a Kingfisher along the cut. Each time the bow neared him he took off screeching, the turquoise strikingly bright on a dull windy morning. I eventually lost track of it. Shame, I was wondering what it would do if a boat came the other way.

Less than two hours later I was mooring up at Warring’s Green opposite the permanently moored boats. Chris called out from the boat opposite, its bow doors adorned by a skull, as was his t-shirt.

I chatted to the biker while his dog Harley raced around.

“See the name of my boat?”

“Dilligaf?” I said questioningly.

“Yeah. People ask what is means. If they are posh I tell them it’s a place in Wales, but it really means, ‘Do I look like I give a fuck.’” Apparently I don’t look posh!

He introduced to his neighbour, Sarah, a nurse. “If I was heading for Oxford I would go the long way round,” she told me. “There are 46 wide locks along the Grand Union and they aren’t fun. Go the other way and they are all narrow locks, it’s much easier.” I had no intention of going back, my fate is sealed, I am going in at the deep end. “If you head down the locks at the weekend you have more chance of joining a boat with a crew.”

The Blue Bell stood a few yards from where I moored so I ventured in.

Despite the rural setting there were reminders I had only just left the city. A Blues flag hung behind the bar celebrating Birmingham City’s recent Cup Final victory, and a guy sat at the bar with Wing Yip blazoned across his back. The Aston office where I worked is a stones throw from the massive Chinese cash and carry.

By the time I left it was pitch black. I never go out

with a torch, but for a change I regretted it. It was so dark I couldn’t find the steps down to the canal towpath, the lights of a passing car proved to be my saviour. Back at the boat Chris and Sarah were there for a chat. Eight hours I had been there, yet I knew my neighbours better than most city folk know theirs.

Sarah slipped her moorings the same time as me, heading off the other way. She was smartly dressed as though she were heading for the office, very different from most boaters who make me look well dressed. I saw one guy wearing a multi coloured jacket made from towels that line most bars in pubs.

I reached another drawbridge, this time manually operated from the non towpath side of the canal. I moored up, took a rope across the bridge, raised the bridge, pulled the boat across and climbed back on, motored though, then climbed off again, over the railing and

lowered the bridge while the front end of the boat drifted across the canal. I suspect bridges are going to be a real pain.

A couple of miles further on I arrived at the first lock going downhill. Having entered the lock I tied the centre rope around a bollard and opened the bottom paddles. The boat drifted back. If the boat is too far back as the water is emptied out the boat can become stuck on the cill (see photo). It’s bad news as it can’t be refloated and requires a crane to lift it out. I panicked and quickly shut the paddles, thankfully in time, then pulled the boat forward. It was the first of a flight of locks, if they all went like this one my nerves would be tested. At the next I used the bow rope rather than the centre rope and looped it around the hand rail on the bottom gate. Success, much easier

to handle, especially as the rope is right beside me. From there on I got into a smooth rhythm through the locks.

Small bridges passed over the flight of locks, made of two halves with a gap down the middle. They were made in such a way to allow the rope from the horse to the boat to be passed through without detaching it. They should have used diesel engines, it’s much easier.

I let Martin and Cari pass on their boat as they were quicker through the locks than me. At the bottom I caught up for a chat. They sell jewellery from their boat and I had already met them in Birmingham. They too are heading down the Oxford Canal, our paths will cross again.

At Kingwood Junction I turned onto the Grand Union Canal, a wide motorway of a canal compared with those I had travelled along, a motorway with no traffic. The boat running on the same rev count moved faster and smoother through the water, a sure sign the it was deeper too. I moored up for the night before the canal plummeted down through the Hatton flight into Warwick. I took a walk through the locks to access them before I negotiated my way through a set of wide locks. They looked daunting. It will take me all day to cover the two miles into town through the 21 locks.