By bus to the boat show

Boats stretched for half a mile along the Town Arm

It's the Open Weekend rally of boats at the Bonded Warehouse in Stourbridge today so we thought we'd go. By bus.
We are moored in pretty Kinver and a weekend in the country mixed with an afternoon at the Stourbridge Town Arm seemed the best of both worlds.

Foden steam lorry with Bonded Warehouse behind

The Grade II Listed Bonded Warehouse dates back to the origins of the canal, being built in 1799. It and the local canal are now run by a Trust after it was saved from demolition and restored in the 1980s. Since then the annual Open Weekend has been a big fund raising event. And on a day so sunny and warm it felt like July not October, the crowds turned out to enjoy themselves – among them C&RT chief exec, Richard Parry.

Richard Parry, boss of C&RT arrives by boat

Joining the boats were colourful traction engines and classic cars and bikes, including a 1930s MG just like the one I bought for £100 and sold for seventy quid, many (very many) years ago. Add at least two zeroes to that price now!

A Foden road roller

And a fab fairground engine from Burrell's of Thetford

Elegant Triumph Roadster complete with dickey seat

MG TA - I owned one just like it a long, long time ago

Mrs B models her new hat

More than he could swallow!

The heron attempts to deal with his luckless victim

That famous line 'nature, red in tooth and claw' was demonstrated in brutal clarity on the canalside today. We opened the doors of the moored boat to find a heron wrestling with a massive carp on the bankside.
Herons are usually the most quick and deadly anglers; diving in, grabbing a small fish, whipping it around and dropping it in head first. Down in one swallow.

This heron had certainly got far more than he could swallow but his efforts over 15 minutes were savage as he picked up the still squirming fish, wrestled it around, threw it down, speared it with his javelin like beak and started over again. All the while his angry, piercing yellow eyes glared at the unfortunate thing – which fortunately after a few minutes was almost certainly dead.

Finally, either fed up with the whole game or trying to think of yet another tactic, he threw it back in the water. Then a cyclist arrived and the heron abandoned his victim and flew off, still hungry.
Fishing seems to have been a prominent feature of the last couple of days; the black pencil lines of those long carbon fibre fishing poles have been drawn across almost every bend, stretched right across the water to dangle maggots in the distant edge. I've given up wondering why they don't fish at the near bank but then I'm no angler. If they did, though, there wouldn't be any need for all those Pickford's truckloads of kit – and what's a bloke's hobby if it doesn't involve the purchase of the latest, most elaborate and expensive kit?

Lots more kit than the heron but not having as much luck

That said most weren't having anything like the luck of the heron – though they were by and large a cheerful bunch, unlike the usual grumpy southern fishermen who'd rather stare at their maggot than speak to a passing boater.
We've been heading 'downhill' since Wolverhampton and the locks are much more frequent – we've done 14 today alone, including the curiously complex three at Bratch (so fiendish it has its own lock-keeper) and a twosome staircase below it. Tonight we are moored just below what was Swindon Ironworks. It only closed 40 years ago but you'd never know it had been there – a neat, clean modern housing estate has taken its noisy, smelly place.

Bratch locks: pretty but pretty complicated

Wandering along

Tixall Wide in the mist with the Gatehouse in the distance

 A few years ago our Canadian friends Gordon and Gerry came over for a boating holiday with us. Gerry was desperate to see a kingfisher so we headed for Tixall 'famous for its kingfishers' according to Nicholson's Guide.
Did she see one? Did she heck!
Well, I'm sorry Gerry but yesterday at Tixall we saw FOUR! One on the canal and three zapping line astern through the River Sow aqueduct like an electric blue squadron of jets. And we even saw another later in the day – as well as one of those dinner plate sized terrapins that have escaped from captivity and made a home in our canals.

Our friends from last night chug into the mist

Tixall Wide was simply delightful yesterday morning. It was one of those perfect autumn mornings; bright, crisply cold and with the mist hovering like a blanket over the water. We waved off into the mist our friends on 'Chug' who'd spent the night tied alongside and meandered our own way along the wandering, contour clinging route of the Staffs & Worcs.

Kingfishers wouldn't pose but this buzzard obliged

This, I am happy to say, is a canal transformed. This time last year I wrote:
"It was a day of almost incessant struggle as we dragged a reluctant Harry from Great Haywood to Gailey. I say dragged because the canal was more a silt filled ditch than a waterway for us in a three foot deep boat."
Not any more; the whole length of it has been dredged and the difference is astonishing. Harry chuffed happily through stretches that had been a torment. And without the agonies of getting stuck in locks, beached on mud banks and ploughing through reeds it was possible to enjoy the wander through gentle countryside, marred only by the gradual encroaching of the noisy M6.

Acton Trussell, weed-free home of the buzz-cut lawn

Before long the slow old road and the fast modern one follow each other relentlessly, the canal even ducking under the M-way at one point. Quirky placenames abound: Acton Trussell, a village that sounds like it should be Miss Marple's homeland but is actually a convention of executive homes competing for closest shaved lawn and whitest Evoque, Penkridge, its unspoiled streets squeezed in between motorway and A-road and Gailey, where the top lock of the canal is celebrated by a curious round tower at the lockside.

Harry gets the bubble bath treatment in a lock

Things aren't so gay in Gailey right now – there's a plan to build a huge road-rail freight interchange within the huge loop of canal between there and Calf Heath. Even before plans are passed, giant earthmovers were clearing part of the site. So much for consultation, eh.

Maybe this boater stayed in the sun too long

The canal wanders round for a few miles here, like a drunk trying to find his way home before settling down to head for urban Wolverhampton. Wise boaters like us moor up for the night in the final mile of pre-Wolves country.

Catching up

That's a nice tug – oh it's attached to something big

We've been doing some catching up so now it's time for the blog to do some catching up too.
From Rugeley we headed down to Fradley Junction and turned right onto the Coventry Canal by the famous 'Mucky Duck' –'The Swan' to non-boaters. Few boats were moving through the Fradley locks – they were all moored up, leaving no space for us so we had to press on.

We just cant seem to keep away from this place

We were only heading three miles down to see our old mates at Streethay Wharf but they were some of the slowest miles yet. Boy, does this stretch of the canal need dredging: it's never been deep but it's a silt soup these days. And not helped by some notorious nasties like the narrow Dutch barge by the A38 bridge which hasn't moved in at least five years – and hasn't had a licence either. It's been there so long nature is starting to reclaim it: trees are growing round it and the canal bottom is building up a mudbank round it. Handy for those of us who do enjoy moving.

It's been here so long, nature is reclaiming it

But it was good to be back at Streethay for a couple of days and see some of the same old faces still there from the days we refitted Harry – Mark and Andy the fabricators, Gareth the joiner and, of course, Tina, Terry and Nick Bellamy.
We went for a meal with Tina and Terry down to The Plough, canalside at nearby Huddlesford. It was a pub which opened up and shut down with depressing regularity in our day but is currently thriving. And, judging by the Range Rover Evoques and flash Audis in carpark (as well as the price of the beer) it's not thanks to us parsimonious pensioner boaters either.
Goodbyes said at Streethay (I'm sure not for too long – we can't keep away) we retraced our route back up the sludgy canal to Fradley and then up the Trent & Mersey once more.

Fendermaker's boat with a see-me-at-work interior

Along the way I admired a fendermaker's boat with a big glassy workroom in it. A bit further on I started to admire a handsome old tug coming round a bend towards us before I realised that it was attached by a long line to a butty it was towing. Which if I didn't stop admiring and start steering I might likely hit. Which wouldn't have been a good thing as it was the famous Saturn, the last horse drawn fly-boat in existence. A fly-boat, in case you don't know, was intended to travel non-stop day and night with teams of crew and horses to deliver perishable or urgent cargo along the canals. This one was being crewed by an old uni friend and his wife – but no time for catching up as we passed with just a wave.
At Great Haywood we left the T&M, swinging left under the narrow bridge that takes us on to the Staffs & Worcs Canal. But we didn't go far - stopping to walk back and take a browse along the trading boats grouped at the canalside. Among them were more old chums, Jo and Keith Lodge of Nb Hadar. They were selling Jo's delightful canal and wildlife cards and Keith's colourful rag rugs – more traditional canal crafts than the next door Pirate Boat's plastic swords and skull and crossbones flags.

Shall I buy a plastic sword or a pirate bandana for Seadog Brian?

Paths crossed and news exchanged for another few months we moved on a short way to the wonderful Tixall Wide – a stretch of canal made to resemble a lake to appease the local nob whose land the canalbuilders' wanted to cross. And good for Lord Nob, it's a terrific spot. And very handy for practising your 180 degree turns.
Then, to end a weekend of catching up, who should hove into sight from the opposite direction but Sue and Paul on Nb tug Chug. We'd met them for the first time back in June at the classic transport rally in Lymm, gone our different ways and spiralled serendipitously back together here four months later.
And and as Mrs B had just cooked a family sized chicken and ham pie and Sue and Paul had some wine that just had to be drunk, we all squeezed round Harry's table and caught up with a summer's worth of news and gossip while reducing a fine pie to crumbs and some bottles to recylables.
That catches up our catching up.

...and finally:

Gives a whole new meaning to the notion of a bath chair

Catching up

That's a nice tug – oh it's attached to something big

We've been doing some catching up so now it's time for the blog to do some catching up too.
From Rugeley we headed down to Fradley Junction and turned right onto the Coventry Canal by the famous 'Mucky Duck' –'The Swan' to non-boaters. Few boats were moving through the Fradley locks – they were all moored up, leaving no space for us so we had to press on.

We just cant seem to keep away from this place

We were only heading three miles down to see our old mates at Streethay Wharf but they were some of the slowest miles yet. Boy, does this stretch of the canal need dredging: it's never been deep but it's a silt soup these days. And not helped by some notorious nasties like the narrow Dutch barge by the A38 bridge which hasn't moved in at least five years – and hasn't had a licence either. It's been there so long nature is starting to reclaim it: trees are growing round it and the canal bottom is building up a mudbank round it. Handy for those of us who do enjoy moving.

It's been here so long, nature is reclaiming it

But it was good to be back at Streethay for a couple of days and see some of the same old faces still there from the days we refitted Harry – Mark and Andy the fabricators, Gareth the joiner and, of course, Tina, Terry and Nick Bellamy.
We went for a meal with Tina and Terry down to The Plough, canalside at nearby Huddlesford. It was a pub which opened up and shut down with depressing regularity in our day but is currently thriving. And, judging by the Range Rover Evoques and flash Audis in carpark (as well as the price of the beer) it's not thanks to us parsimonious pensioner boaters either.
Goodbyes said at Streethay (I'm sure not for too long – we can't keep away) we retraced our route back up the sludgy canal to Fradley and then up the Trent & Mersey once more.

Fendermaker's boat with a see-me-at-work interior

Along the way I admired a fendermaker's boat with a big glassy workroom in it. A bit further on I started to admire a handsome old tug coming round a bend towards us before I realised that it was attached by a long line to a butty it was towing. Which if I didn't stop admiring and start steering I might likely hit. Which wouldn't have been a good thing as it was the famous Saturn, the last horse drawn fly-boat in existence. A fly-boat, in case you don't know, was intended to travel non-stop day and night with teams of crew and horses to deliver perishable or urgent cargo along the canals. This one was being crewed by an old uni friend and his wife – but no time for catching up as we passed with just a wave.
At Great Haywood we left the T&M, swinging left under the narrow bridge that takes us on to the Staffs & Worcs Canal. But we didn't go far - stopping to walk back and take a browse along the trading boats grouped at the canalside. Among them were more old chums, Jo and Keith Lodge of Nb Hadar. They were selling Jo's delightful canal and wildlife cards and Keith's colourful rag rugs – more traditional canal crafts than the next door Pirate Boat's plastic swords and skull and crossbones flags.

Shall I buy a plastic sword or a pirate bandana for Seadog Brian?

Paths crossed and news exchanged for another few months we moved on a short way to the wonderful Tixall Wide – a stretch of canal made to resemble a lake to appease the local nob whose land the canalbuilders' wanted to cross. And good for Lord Nob, it's a terrific spot. And very handy for practising your 180 degree turns.
Then, to end a weekend of catching up, who should hove into sight from the opposite direction but Sue and Paul on Nb tug Chug. We'd met them for the first time back in June at the classic transport rally in Lymm, gone our different ways and spiralled serendipitously back together here four months later.
And and as Mrs B had just cooked a family sized chicken and ham pie and Sue and Paul had some wine that just had to be drunk, we all squeezed round Harry's table and caught up with a summer's worth of news and gossip while reducing a fine pie to crumbs and some bottles to recylables.
And that catches up our catching up.

Taking it easy in the country

Something old; something new

Boating here on the Trent and Mersey is rather like swimming in the shallow end of the local pool compared with the freezing cold North Sea waves of boating back up in the Pennines.
The water is deeper, the locks few and far between; they call four of them a 'flight'. Hah; I remember doing 21 wide ones up at Wigan – now that's what you call a flight.
The countryside is the key, of course. There are no hills to weave through; the canal follows the wide, flat valley of the River Trent. Lucky for Brindley – he had an easy line to follow for his first great canal; his successors had a much tougher job fighting there way through the Pennines.
After a day wandering round the compact and appealing little town of Stone we headed on south into largely empty countryside. Only a couple of villages nudge the canal and you won't find a shop, though you will find a pint or two.
I do miss the grandeur of the big hills, though I'm not sure how much Seadog Brian misses the walks up them. There's little opportunity for more than a towpath stroll here.

A glorious morning in the quiet Trent valley

It's pretty, though, and this morning we woke to glorious sunshine and the cheerful chorus of birds. (Less cheerfully we spotted several poor things, including a goose and a young swan, with severe Angel Wing that has rendered them incapable of flight. It's a vitamin deficiency usually caused by eating too much white bread when young so take note you bread throwers.)

An unfortunate victim of being fed too much white bread

A couple more locks eased us towards Great Haywood, the junction with the Staffs & Worcs. As we neared it the railway drew closer: the lineside trees have been cleared along a sizeable stretch to bring the howling Virgin trains dramatically into view at times – I wonder how many passengers glimpse us pottering along?
After Haywood a second line sweeps in from the west to cross the canal and merge with the other and a Virgin train turned up just in time to have its photo taken above Harry.
There are always interesting boats around this area, one of them 'Maid of Oak' the first all-wood new narrowboat in many years when it was launched ten years ago. I remember talking to its elderly but enthusiastic owners back then for Canal Boat mag. To commission a wooden boat was their passion and it was a fine thing, an intriguing mix of old and new, with its oak planked hull and its hydraulic drive. Sadly, Maid of Oak is up for sale, age and health having taken its toll on the owners. At £65,000 it ain't cheap but it's a lot cheaper than it was back then!

Maid of Oak, the unique new build wooden narrowboat

Tonight we are moored in Rugeley, another town that won't be on anyone's bucket list for a visit. It's a modest little place, a stop-over for boaters because of its three canalside supermarkets and ample moorings and we did our bit to boost the takings of, you've guessed, the local Aldi.
Rugeley's landmark feature is its power station cooling towers which can be seen for miles. Not for much longer. The coal fired power station which can power 500,000 homes, has recently shut down with the loss of 120 jobs and the site will be demolished. This only seven years after it installed a state-of-the-art flue gas desulphurisation system to clean the exhaust gases. Tougher rules on carbon emissions are to blame.
Nuclear power will eventually fill the predicted power generation gap. The words 'frying pan' and 'fire' come to mind.

Move along, nothing to see here

Stoke's bottle kilns are still crumbling away

You know that feeling when you've been on a long and exciting holiday. So much seems to have happened. You almost feel like the world has changed. Then you get home, return to work and quickly discover that nothing very much has happened at all in your absence. The world is actually pretty much as you left it.
Well that's what it feels like to be back on this stretch of the Trent & Mersey. It's five years since we were here (on our old boat, Star) and nothing really seems to have changed. The canalside through Stoke is still a wasteland – the buddleia on the ruined buildings has grown thicker, the acres of rubble are now covered with a thick fuzz of weed - and that's about it.
Back in 2011 I said this about the place: "I always find Stoke a fascinating but sad and sorry place to boat through. Fascinating because there are so many remnants of its old industries - the bottle kilns, the wharves, the ruined brick warehouses. Sad because that's all they are - remnants.
People have told me of cruising through the town when steel furnaces spat fire along the canal and the kilns belched smoke. What a sight that must have been!
All that has gone, the warehouses are deserted ruins, the kilns silent museum pieces and for nearly a mile the canal runs through a wasteland; a bulldozed desert of nothingness."

A sign and wasteland with no past and no future

I would have hoped that by now one or two of the bottle kilns might have been restored; some of the wasteland built on, a few of the warehouses made into apartments but, no. Nothing has changed. The plan to restore the Burslem Port arm remains just a sign on the edge of wasteland.There's no past and no future to be seen.
Even the town centre was an unappetising blend of a modern 'intu' mall, some '70s developments that were looking tired to the point of exhaustion and a few old buildings that had somehow ducked generations of wrecking ball. On the way from the canal we passed two casinos and the HQ of Bet365 in a mile. Says it all, really.

My favourite boatyard: a one-stop shop for all your needs

Trentham Gardens, south of the city, is where the money has migrated to. They were pouring into the 'shopping village' on Saturday, eager to spend. The carpark is about the size of a Heathrow runway so it can soak 'em up. Those that made it past the boutiques, coffee shops and restaurants had expensively restored Italianate gardens to admire too.
After a day of rain yesterday, we woke to sun and nurdled slowly south, passing the Wedgwood factory at Barlaston. Josiah Wedgwood was one of the principal movers behind the creation of the T&M Canal. These days, after going more or less bust and being bought by a private equity firm it is now in the hands of Finnish home goods makers Fiskars. Apparently they plan to expand the limited production still at Barlaston. Here too is the museum where the huge collection of 80,000 items was rescued from being sold off to pay the firm's debts when it went bust. Fiskars plan to turn this into an 'experience' which is how we Brits can discover what it was like to actually make things here.

Coming down through the Meaford locks towards Stone

We've pottered through mild countryside, following the line of the River Trent, and into the archetypal little canal town of Stone where we arrived just in time to miss the end of the local Food & Drink weekend. Which was probably no bad thing for my waistline. Here in Stone, too, nothing seems to have changed, though in this case that's probably for the best.

Return from the north country

Waiting in that lurid orange water to leave The North

I think I can say that we are no longer 'oop north'. I know there's no official boundary between up there and down here but, on a boat, I reckon that the Harecastle Tunnel marks a pretty decent border. After all, one end is called the 'north portal' and the other the 'south portal'. And that's good enough for me.
We left the Macclesfield this morning, having moored overnight just shy of its finish. And what a finish it is: the canal crosses the Trent & Mersey below it on an aqueduct, then swings left to run parallel with it and finally swings right to join it in a watery tee-junction. Whereupon we turned right to head for the tunnel. (And if you're wondering how something that was initially above another canal be level with it half a mile later, well it's because the T&M climbs up two locks between the aqueduct and the junction.)

Clever stuff: the Macca goes over the T&M before they meet

The rusty red water of the T&M was a vivid orange in the morning sunshine. The colour is simply caused by iron oxides in the water but never ceases to amaze all the same.
We were the solitary boat waiting to leave The North and an hour later when we headed into the tunnel we were still first in a queue of one. It's a one-way tunnel, controlled by a keeper at either end. The tunnel is one and three quarter miles long (2926 yards in old money) and takes about 45 minutes to get through.
If you don't get through in 1hr 15min they come looking and that probably sounds flippant but there was a tragic accident a couple of years ago when a boater somehow got knocked off the stern and was killed. Since then safety procedures have tightened up to a degree - the bridge keeper didn't rate our horn and lent me an airhorn for instance - but you ar still on your own in there and need to pay attention.
It's actually the second of three tunnels here. James Brindley, who supervised the whole T&M construction, built the first: it took 11 years and when it opened in 1777 was something akin to the Channel Tunnel in its achievement. It remained a bottleneck on the busy canal so Thomas Telford built a second (in just three years) which opened in 1827. Brindley's gradually sank due to mining subsidence and has long been out of use. And the third tunnel? That was built after the others to carry the local railway line: it too is disused, the railway running on a different route.
I'm not a tunnel enthusiast and the longer and narrower they are, the less I like them. The Harecastle comes on my 'if I have to' list. It's long, narrow, wet in places, noisy because of the echoey nature of the inside of a rocky hill and the exhaust smoke puffing out of the roof from an old engine tends to choke the driver. But armed with a face mask and a head torch (to read the distance markers on the wall and my watch to see how much longer I have to suffer being choked and deafened) we set off.
Actually I have to say that Harrywoman, sitting on the front deck was choked worse than me. The tunnel has large extractor fans at the southern end to suck fumes out – which meant it sucked our exhaust forwards and right past her.

The exciting looking and eco-friendly Westport Visitor Centre

Anyway 45 minutes later we emerged into bright sunshine (proof that we were now in the south) and moored a mile later by Westport Lake. This is a magnificent municipal lake with paths, planting and much wildlife plus an excitingly modern visitor centre whose eco-friendly build includes straw bale walls, a 'living' roof and solar panels.
The lake was originally farmland above mine workings. In the 1880s Port Vale FC played there but when the pitch started to sag they sensibly moved away. Subsidence eventually created a lake which, in the 1970s, was taken over by the Council and turned into the lovely space it now is.
Canal Bridge 128 by the lake also happens to be the point where work on the canal began in 1766. And 250 years later we crossed it en route to the local Aldi. And I can't think of anything profound to say about that.

Hard to believe that Port Vale once played football here

The best £20 I've spent this trip

The higgledy-piggledy Hall bent under the gallery's weight

I've handed over £20 for a lot of things on this trip. Some of them good and some of them – particularly meals in pubs that should have known better – very disappointing. But, without doubt, today's £20 was the best spend of the lot.
It bought us two tickets for Little Moreton Hall, a higgledy-piggledy Tudor masterpiece of a house that must have used most of the local oak forests in its construction 500 years ago.
It was built and gradually extended by the Moreton family, not Earls and Dukes but wealthy and successful local landowners. At least they were for the first hundred years, then they backed the wrong side in the Civil War and lost more or less the lot except for the house.
They and their relatives clung on to that over the centuries, though most of the time they were too poor to live in it and instead rented it out to tenant farmers who took to using the chapel as a coal store and lived in the only two or three rooms that didn't leak.
The coal store notion didn't please one of the final inheritors who was a nun. She – rather understandably – didn't have any immediate family to pass it on to so she found a second cousin (who she'd never met) and offered it to him, though he wasn't allowed to sell it. He started guided tours – sixpence including a cream tea – to try and cover the repair costs but finally gave up and handed it to the National Trust in 1938. Who spent the next forty odd years sorting it out.

Grouped round a central courtyard like a piece of Tudor op-art

What they got was little more than a ruin but because it had never moved out of the family and because they didn't have the money to knock it down and built a Jacobean pile or a Victorian Gothic horror it has remained in its original Tudor, oak-framed guise. Which makes it very, very rare.
All this, and more, we learned from Sue our tour guide. Did I say that the tour was included free?

Original Tudor wall painting and wallpaper were hidden

The house is fascinating; richly timbered, with an original painted and wallpapered wall discovered when later panelling was removed. (Wallpaper was made briefly fashionable by one of George Osborne's Tudor ancestors.) It grew out of an original single storey hall house, upstairs rooms and then lavish bow windows were added as well as extensions all around. The amount of window glass is remarkable: glass was very costly so the Moretons were obviously extremely well off.

Richard Dale made sure his name would last

But it's the extraordinary twists and leans of the old frame that are its charm: it looks like a gingerbread house that has been left in the sun too long.
Apart from the obvious cause – it's 500 years old and built on virtually nothing – the real cause of the problem is that a 'long gallery' was built straight on top of the south wing's roof rafters. I'm sure the carpenter must have sucked his Tudor teeth (if he had any) and warned that the roof 'cannae take it, skipper' but, these galleries were fashionable so he was likely ordered to go ahead anyway.

The knot garden – clipping the hedges takes 80 hours

And, of course, the result is that the whole south wing virtually collapsed under the load. Today it is held up by steelwork cunningly hidden by National Trust craftsmen. But the roofline looks like the aftermath of an earthquake and the floor is not somewhere to stand your snooker table.
Guide Sue told us some of those fabulous factoids which I manage to hold in my brain when everything else goes straight through. Here's one: the original table was made of three long oak boards – one remains and it's a huge single piece of oak that must be 40 x 3 feet. The head of the family sat at the top of the table and was the only one with a chair – everyone else sat on stools or benches. Hence the phrase 'the chairman of the board'. There was also a board at the side of the room for dishes - the side-board. After the meal they turned the main boards over and played, yes, board games. And when actors or musicians came and needed a stage they used the boards so the actors 'trod the boards'. As you can tell, I was not bored by this information.
After a fascinating tour and a turn round the grounds with their exquisite knot garden, we had an equally excellent lunch in the cafe. Another twenty quid very well spent.

Down and nearly out

Looming out of the mist the Gothic ruin of Mow Cop Castle

We are on our final miles of the Macclesfield. Will we be sorry to leave it? Yes. And no.
On the plus side, it offers superb scenery, pleasant towns and the opportunity for fine walks. (Incidentally, given the option, I'd advise tackling it south-to-north as the enticing hills are always ahead of you).
On the minus side, it's shallow, badly needs dredging and, being up in the north west you'll inevitably get more than your fair share of rain. But it's the shallowness that irks and frustrates the most: even normal draughted boats run into problems; we're deep in the water so we were often reduced to less than a crawl.
Some of the bridgeholes are a disgrace – thick with silt and mud. The daft thing is that everyone knows it. Tell them you got stuck at Bridge 20 and local boaters nod knowingly and say: "ah yes, it's a bugger is that one." So why, if everyone knows it, isn't something done? I haven't a clue.
Anyway, rant over. We stopped at the canal's eponymous town (I do like that word). Macclesfield was once one of the biggest weaving towns in the country. It's all gone now of course and though the town sprawls for miles it doesn't offer the casual visitor a lot. The centre is small, lassooed in by a one-way system and has had much of its character smashed out of it in ugly shopping developments. It does have an Aldi though!

Entering the final lock of the handsome Bosley flight

Heading south we reached the only locks on the canal (bar the nominal stop lock at the end). The 12-lock Bosley flight is a handsome construction in hefty stone that drops the canal 120ft in less than a mile. We went down them in 90 minutes, thanks in part to the German hire boaters who'd just come up and, mistakenly but handily for us, left the top gates open behind them.
We moored at the edge of Congleton, second largest town on the canal, and woke up to rain. With no sign of it stopping, we bussed into the town – listening to an entertaining conversation at the bus stop on medical matters between two grannies: 'yes, he had a colonoscopy and a gastroscopy before they operated. And did you know, they glued him closed afterwards.'
Congleton is nice enough. It's seen better days but is trying hard and is a likeable little town. It even has an Aldi - but trying to cross the road to reach it would involve walking 400 yards of safety barrier to the nearest road crossing then 400 yards back. So we didn't. Why do planners assume everyone travels by car?
When the rain finally stopped we dashed (if that's the word) a few miles to a pretty mooring near the National Trust's Little Moreton Hall, which was shut.
Today it wasn't raining, just windy, so we took a walk up Mow Cop, the local hill which boasts a ruined castle at its top. Actually, it's not a real castle but an 18th century summerhouse which has gradually crumbled to Gothic ruin. Easy, in the mist, to imagine bats and vampires around the rocks.

It's a killer to walk let alone run up it in just 6min 50sec

To reach Mow Cop, it's a stiff walk - 1 in 5 and, near the end, 1 in 4 gradients. It took us about 45 minutes. They hold the 'killer mile' run up the same road. The record is just under seven minutes! The view from the top is worth the puffing – even on a misty morning you could see the Welsh hills far away in the west.
Mow Cop is also famous for being the spot where the Primitive Methodists were started at a marathon 14 hour service. It's a wonder anyone had the enthusiasm for Methodism after all that! Near the castle is the Old Man of Mow, a massive jagged rock that, you've guessed, looks a bit like an old man. Apparently the whole of the top of the hill was quarried for rock and the Old Man is all that remains of the old hilltop.

The Old Man of Mow looking rather stony faced

The hilltop also had several coal mines and, seemingly, there is even an old tunnel below it which was part of the transport system to bring the coal down to the canal below.
We walked down via the South Cheshire Way, which goes as far as Grindley Brook on the Llangollen Canal a full 50 miles away. A fabulous sunset tonight rounded off an enjoyable day. Tomorrow will most likely be our last on the Macca. Hopefully it will be a sunny one.

A stunning sunset tonight promises a fine day tomorrow