The times they are a-changing

Keep straight on!

Whittlesey today is a friendly, somewhat rough edged little town but a wander round the market square reveals that it once saw more prosperous days. There are some fine Georgian houses, a sizeable hotel - now Wetherspoons - and behind these is the large, handsome church with its fine spire.
Like so many similar fenland towns which have the same worn-at-the-elbows look about them, agriculture brought its wealth. It still does, but the towns have outlived their contribution – today's mega-farms send their spuds and onions direct by truck to factories like the giant McCains chips plant we passed on the way in; farmers live in huge new-build houses (there's a massive one near Benwick where we are now), and drive huge and hugely expensive tractors and loaders. And, of course, the other change is the presence now of foreign languages from the European farmworkers. What do the old, private fen folk make of that I wonder?
At Whittlesey we spent two relaxing days at the edge of the superb playing fields which boast skate park, five a side pitch, football pitches and picnic tables as well as riverside walks. Well, they were relaxing days except in the mornings when Seadog Brian and me took our constitutional through the undergrowth of litter left by the town's youth. Sadly, they prefer to use the grass than the multiplicity of litter bins.

That object in the distance is a litter bin, lads

What's the answer? The world seems to be awash with litter these days. Maybe ignorant people have always dropped their litter and it's just that there's now so much more disposable stuff they can throw down.
Anyway once out of the town we were into the open fen countryside where the waterways cut straight lines through the flat acres of dark soil between steeply banked sides that keep the views a secret. Oh to be in the Typhoon Eurofighter roaring across the sky above us and see the whole landscape of the fens flashing past below.
Beyond Whittlesey there's barely a bend of note in the waterway – but fortunately none of the paralysing weed either. Since our last visit even more wind turbines reared up into the air and over the high bank we spotted at least one more 'solar farm'.
We were shadowed for a mile or more by a kingfisher which would watch us approach from its perch on a reed, let us get close enough almost to photograph it then flash away ahead and wait for us to get near again. And so it went on as he taunted the camera with what seemed almost deliberate cheek.
Finally we turned off the main "Through Route" to head towards our old moorings at Ramsey, passing an eel fisherman just packing his traps away. At the junction, an old pumping station which someone had begun to turn into a property and moorings had sunk back into abandonment and ruin but further on, past the ultra-low farm bridge that is helpfully not marked on the guide book, the mobile home that we'd watched morph into a timber-clad structure with miscellaneous outbuildings had now been replaced by a sizeable permanent house.

At the new moorings in Benwick

Then we were in Benwick, a forgettable hamlet from the road but delightful from the water. The river bends 90 degrees between trees under a large, picturesque footbridge (just rebuilt) and arrives at a brand new public mooring.
Yes, a purpose built public mooring in the Middle Level – as rare a feature as a fenland hill. We're moored there tonight so a big thank you to all those who made it happen. Let's hope it's the first of a few more.

Into the Middle Level

Wrong way round

What is wrong with this picture? Knowledgeable navigators of the Middle Level will spot that though we are locking down into the Level, we are actually facing the opposite way.
That's because water levels on the Level are low and Stanground Lock is rather shallow and we are deep drafted so we had to turn round  and reverse in. That would put our deep stern over the deepest section of the lock. Then we reverse out and spin back round. Simple!
Or not. First of all turning to reverse in was not at all easy in a howling crosswind and when we got in and the lock was emptied we found ourselves sitting at a jaunty angle on the bottom. Hmmm. This didn't auger well for our chances of making any headway along the Level itself.
Try again, this time with me on the roof keeping the boat in the centre of the lock which apparently has a curved base, hence the grounding. We stayed afloat and I reversed out – then spent the next ten minutes painstakingly grinding the boat round the right way in a shallow channel only a couple of feet wider than we were.
But we got round, paid our fiver for a key to open the sanitation station and lock pen, and set off with me cautiously hugging the centre of the channel and trickling along. No problems at all, though, until we reached the notoriously narrow and sharp 90deg turn in the middle of Whittlesey when we grounded again. Fortunately a mixture of poleing and pushing got us off and we are now moored up for the night, having scoffed our way through Fen sized portions of fish and chips.
 First impressions are that the Fens are as flat as ever, as windswept as ever, a little tidier and cleaner but otherwise pretty much as they were five years ago. Aside from a few more wind turbines - half of which weren't turning on a very windy day (why?) – and another of those huge solar farms on the edge of Whittlesey, built by the same firm who built the one we passed back near Wellingborough. It can power 900 local homes.

FOOTNOTE
We might have been stuck yesterday but at least we were not as high and dry as this poor bugger washed up onto Peterborough embankment during the winter floods and now well and truly becalmed.
Perhaps he will be turned into a piece of urban art?

Left, right and centre

Getting hauled off the shoal with Brian supervising

The past few days we hadn't seen a single boat out on the water but at Alwalton Lock, as we headed down from Wansford, we met one waiting to come in as we locked our way down. He gave us a warning: "There's a big shoal just past the lock, you need to keep to the left."
We came out of the lock and fifty yards down, where the weir stream entered from the right, three red buoys bobbed in mid river. Go left, he'd said – but that was through barely a boat's width between boat and bank. Surely not? The boss was not convinced: "he must be confused - he must have passed to the left of them coming up. The weir will be washing the shoal toward that far bank. We need to keep to the right"
"But he said 'left'," said I. "I ought to go left."
Unfortunately at that precise moment neither of us could remember the rules of the river regarding coloured buoys. I hesitated ... and we got ourselves well and truly stuck in mid-stream.
Fortunately, the boat who had warned us had seen our plight and reversed back down but it still took 20 minutes of serious pulling and revving to get us free and we were beginning to contemplate being stuck there for the foreseeable future!
The moral of the tale? Know your river rules – and don't have a boat with two captains. I was at the helm so I should have made the decision for better or worse.
Curiously, though, there had been warnings at every Nene lock about a pretty minor shoal at an earlier part of the river and about a fallen tree blocking half the waterway but not a mention about this major shoaling which was blocking virtually the whole river. Odd.
And odder still that the boat which rescued us had belonged to friends of ours: they had just sold it and it was being delivered to its new owners on the canals.
After all that we were glad to find the sanctuary of deep water floating moorings at Nene Valley Park for an evening of walking and bird spotting.

Moored in the delightful Nene Valley Park

Letting the train take the strain

Leaving the boat behind to take the train

Before Doctor Beeching wielded his axe, a steam railway line ran pretty much the route that we've been travelling by boat, from Blisworth through Northampton to Irthlingborough, Oundle and finally Peterborough.
And then it all vanished, until a bunch of enthusiasts with the assistance of the local councils created the Nene Valley Railway which runs via four stations to Peterborough where it terminates at the edge of the 'Railworld' centre.
So we left Harry moored by the NVR's base at Wansford and spent most of the day travelling on the steam railway. First of all we headed into Peterborough itself, the line crossing and re-crossing the winding river as we headed across the wide, flat expanses of water meadows and flood plain with those evocative clouds of smoke drifting back outside the windows from the little tank engine pulling us.
For someone who grew up as a child spotting numbers in the great age of steam, a steam railway always brings back fond memories of that distant youth. The carriages with their varnished wood surfaces, quaint toilets, sliding doors into private compartments and the clackety-clack over the track fishplates.

Last surviving example of the tracked hovercraft rail venture

Railworld (an otherwise rather forgettably scrappy place) was dominated by another memory from my youth, the sole surviving example of the tracked hovercraft or mag-lev railway which BBC Tomorrow's World I recall championing as the future of transport. It combined two British inventions, hovercraft and the linear induction motor, to create an ultra high-speed railway running along a concrete track. Sadly, like so many great sixties projects it all came to naught.
A stroll around Peterborough revealed a city a little smarter than I recall, especially the central piazza with its water features. Architecturally it's nowt special, though with low, dull buildings rather like the low, dull fens that surround it.
Homeward on the train we stopped at the excellent Ferry Meadows Country Park on the edge of the city where we would moor the next night, then went past Wansford to travel through the line's tunnel which emerges at the Yarwell terminus.
Then back to Wansford for a look around. It's well worth a visit for even the casually interested. There's an old mail sorting coach from the days when the GPO sorted the post as the train ran, a cafe, secondhand bookshop for the rail, bus or tram geek and all sorts of engines and associated hardware.

And the train even has a bar!

From internot to internet

Moored tonight at Wansford Station

 For the last two days we've been in a communciation black hole. Apart from the occasional feeble signal – usually found only by standing on the roof and holding the phone at arms length to the skies – 3G was reduced to 0G for virtually the whole time.
I suppose I could understand it when we were meandering through the rural depths of the Nene valley but last night I was standing on Wansford Bridge in the middle of the village getting barely a single 'blob' of signal.
So it's catch-up time. The stretch of river from Wadenhoe to Wansford shows the Nene at its most delightful. It's wider and deeper, largely countrified, though passing small, quiet villages of honey stone houses.
The locks still havae a few tricks up their sleeves though. 'Self-filling' locks are a commonplace on the river: water pours - thunders sometimes - over the closed top gates. We got caught out by this at Wadenhoe lock: as I opened the bottom guillotine the rushing water from the top gates slowly forced the boat out and the boss could barely hold it on the centre line. The boat also twisted across the lock, leaving me stranded on the lockside. As the guillotine opened, the nose started forcing itself through so no chance of shutting the gate again to regroup. Fortunately we managed to get the other centre line over to me and with the boat held with both ropes I finally got on board. Front and back ropes on vicious locks like this in future then.

Lilford Hall standing massively by the river

After Wadenhoe comes the enchantingly set Lilford lock, shaded by trees and with a large lockside house sporting Union Jack and Stars&Stripes. A handsome arched stone river bridge marks the arrival of Lilford Hall, the grandest house on the Nene. It is a magnificent building, though on a misty morning seemed daunting and austere. It must have made a scary sight to some novice young servant in days gone by. The hall had close links with the USA – Robert Browne whose teachings influenced the Pilgrim Fathers lived there for many years – but lay empty for 50 years after WWII until being bought by the Micklewright family who are engaged in a major restoration programme.
The river now swerves past Oundle which has kept itself at a distance from the vagaries of the Nene's floods. Two Barnwell locks sandwich Oundle Marina but the closest spot to the town is actually Ashton Lock, a mile or two further where there's a delightful backwater for mooring just 20 minutes walk across water meadows and footpaths to the town centre.
Oundle is even more affluent now than it was five years back. The town's shops tell the tale: an artisan baker and cake shop, local greengrocer and butcher, several coffee shops and restaurants, two or three of those curious places that sell pointless household and garden accessories...and of course a sizeable Waitrose.

Elephant grass – the crop that keeps on giving

Many of the fields beyond Oundle are planted with elephant grass which was being harvested as we passed. Its ten feet tall stems are used to produce biomass fuel. It's a remarkable crop: a perennial that re-grows for 15-20 years and needs no pesticides. The perfect crop for a farmer!
A couple more of the energy sapping manual locks and we were at Fotheringhay whose castle has a significant place in British history: the Yorkist king Richard III, loser of the Wars of the Roses, was born here and Mary Queen of Scots was executed here. Memorials to both are at the base of the castle mound. It's a haunting place whose hilltop affords a dominating view in every direction.

Memorial to Richard III and Queen Mary at Fotheringhay

Stunning views from the top of the castle hill

The river is widening now, with scarcely a hamlet intruding into the countryside around - until one reaches Yarwell Mill and its ugly caravans! Quite a contrast round the next bend, though, where a stylish development of modern houses has spread further along the riverside since our last trip.
We spent last night moored in a familiar mooring, roped to trees on a steep bank at Wansford. It's a scramble to get off the boat here - especially at night escorting the dog to its toilet - but a good spot in this elegant little village with its striking, multi-arched old river bridge. A handy mix of shops for the boater too – a convenience store cum post office, a couple of pubs, the posh Haycock Inn hotel, a bistro. Oh and a Vivienne Westwood boutique.
Today we followed the long, gentle curve of the river round to an Environment Agency 48 hour pontoon mooring hard by Wansford Station, home base of the Nene Valley Steam Railway. A trip to Peterborough by steam train tomorrow beckons.

A short day and a long lunch

Temptation calls!

Who could resist an invitation like this? Not us for sure. The King's Head at Wadenhoe is a well known boating waterhole on the Nene, offering decent moorings to visitors at the end of its large garden.
The village of Wadenhoe is worth a stop even without the pub – and for those who don't fancy a pub then there are very pleasant bosky moorings a few hundred yards upriver as well.
You arrive at Wadenhoe after a run through wide, flat countryside that is more lakes than land thanks to the many worked out gravel quarries that have now morphed into sailing centres and nature reserves. Then, as the river curves through two long sweeps of a giant 'S' Wadenhoe church appears in view in the distance, a mile or more away on top of a sudden steep hill that climbs away from the left hand bank.
It's a sturdy church with a chunky tower rather than the spires of the surrounding villages. Even under the grey sky of a 'high pollution warning' day, it's an impressively dominant sight.

High on the hill, Wadenhoe Church

The village lies at the base of the hill. It's more hamlet than village; just two or three narrow streets of warm stone cottages and, among them, some bigger houses and dutifully inconspicuous new builds. It's the sort of village Miss Marple could live in; where one expects the squire to arrive at the pub for lunch in his Lagonda.
If the place feels pickled in aspic, that's because it is. The Manor of Wadenhoe dates back virtually to William the Conqueror but having passed through various Earls, Dukes, Barons and mere commoners (albeit very wealthy ones) the last owners were childless so set up the Wadenhoe Trust with the aim of preserving the natural beauty of the village as part of the national heritage and – importantly – to try to ensure that the social character of the village as a live and continuing local community was preserved. In other words not just become a place for wealthy commuters and second homers.
The Trust owns 1000 acres of land and most of the village: in recent years it has converted old farm buildings to small business units, built social rented housing for local people and converted a barn into a tea rooms cum farm and gift shop.
It also owns the pub where we went for lunch. It's a big, stone and oak frame building, split into cosy areas. It looks and feels as though it hasn't changed in years. It certainly has, though. It's a bit of a gastro-pub with a sizeable menu of interesting dishes but a range of decent range of micro-brewery beers too. Mrs Harry had one of the interesting dishes – duck breast with various additions – but I'm afraid I opted for good old cod and chips. Then we topped off with sticky toffee puddings and spent the afternoon walking off our meals with some not-too-vigorous strolls around the church and village.

Sun and sand

Sun and sandpapering at Thrapston

"What a beautiful day - the hottest yet I think," exclaimed the Boss, "what shall we do now?". We were tied up at the moorings in Thrapston having just returned from a stroll round the quaint little town to top up on supplies.
"I don't know – carry on down the river?" I mused.
"No, I don't think so," came the reply.
"Well let's just stay here and drink beer in the sun," I suggested.
"No, definitely not. We should be taking the opportunity of the weather to sand down and re-varnish our dog-box."
"Followed by fish 'n chips tonight?" I queried, eager for some distant reward to an afternoon of work.
"Certainly not. I'm doing cauliflower cheese to help us with our seven a day."
And so it was that we spent the afternoon playing with sand - of the sandpaper variety - and stripping back the badly worn varnish on the roofbox followed by the first of a good many new coats.
Of course the Boss was right: it was perfect weather for the job and it was a job that did badly need

doing. Despite being less than a year old the much vaunted Le Tonkinois varnish was, blunty, completely knackered! A very poor result from four or five coats of carefully applied varnish.
So, only a short cruise today; little more than a mile or two from Denford down to Thrapston. But first we had a stroll around the pretty little village. These sleepy honey-stone villages have a timeless quality that always makes me feel I'm stepping back in time. I half expect to see an Austin Seven pottering out of a driveway or a Mary Poppins look-alike nanny with some neatly turned out youngsters.
But the illusion soon vanished in affluent Denford where Range Rovers and personal plates are the order of the day and a modest house will cost you pushing half a million.

Fancy a mooring?

Back on the boat we cruised under the A14 – reflecting the number of times we've driven over the river, looked down expectantly and seen only empty waterway. If only we could somehow be up there looking down at ourselves now!
Beyond the road are the deserted, crumbling moorings of what was Mill Marina (never more than a collection of scaffold pole and plank moorings in my knowledge). It closed a few years ago, I think there were plans for developing the site, but a new sign now announces 'Leasehold Moorings for sale'. A quick check on the internet reveals that the site is owned by major marina operators, Tingdene.  Also that there are just twelve moorings on offer and that leasehold prices start at £34,950 +£375 p.a. service charge - though it doesn't say how long the lease is for. Hmmm. You'd have to be a pretty keen Nene boater to be tempted by that one!
Beyond here the entry to Thrapston takes in two of the river's trickiest bridge. First is the narrow arched, dog-leg road bridge which is tricky enough downstream in a modest river flow and must be ruddy scary when the river is running fast. Get through that and ahead is the lowest bridge on the river, a Bailey style footbridge that even today skimmed only inches above our short 'titch' exhaust stack. I wonder why they don't raise the bridge? It really doesn't look costly - it's just a steel structure on blocks either side. Maybe that would just take the fun away.