Back at the beginning

Heading back down the Thorpe locks - no time to sit in the chair today

We are now back in West Stockwith basin after a return trip that was much less fraught than the journey up the canal.
It had its moments though – like when we got firmly wedged in Shireoaks Top Lock and had to be helped out by two passing CRT workers. Despite this we had one of our 'go for it' sessions on that first day down from the canal summit and pushed on through 33 locks before we stopped beyond Worksop. (Sorry old Worksop is not a place you want to stop.)

Wedged in Shireoeaks lock by a hidden log

The cause of our 'wedgie' in Shireoaks was a semi-submerged log which got wedged between the lock side and the boat. The sides of the lock taper in so as we dropped down in the emptying lock, we jammed up completely. Flushing water through and much revving and rope tugging saw us out eventually.
On our way down the lock flight we had previously watched as a posh looking old granny carefully cleared up her dog poo then left the bag at the side of the towpath. I assumed she would pick it up on her return but, no, we saw her walk on away from the canal. Why do people do this? We are not the only ones to wonder as we discovered later when we saw a notice taped to a tree. So we added our own notice in an effort to grass her up!

We grass up the mystery dog poo bag dumper

The canal and Worksop are not best friends at the moment

An easier run the next day took us through the sticky tight bends at Ranby, the Forest Locks and down into Retford. The canal water is so clear here that you can spot fish without difficulty and on the stretch into Retford there were literally hundreds – roach, perch and and some substantial looking pike more than two feet long.
An overnight stop 'n shop at the Aldi moorings in Retford and we pressed on into what had been the weedy nightmare zone of our trip up. The next mile had taken us two hours but on the return run, more water depth and a lot of weed boat work saw us through it in half an hour. Only as we neared Drakeholes Tunnel did the weed start to return.

The marooned gatehouses in a field at Drakeholes

Just before the tunnel you pass the ornate Old Man Bridge, named after the now badly worn carving of an old man's head on the parapet. This bridge leads into the substantial grounds of Wiseton Hall and park. This is the home of Richard Budge, nicknamed 'King Coal' after he bought large parts of the privatised coal industry, but who was declared bankrupt last year after his various coal-related enterprises went bust.
We overnighted by the tunnel and discovered  up on the road a curious pair of gatehouses which apparently once were yet another entrance to the Park, presumably running parallel with the canal and then over Old Man Bridge. Now they are marooned in a field.
Finally, we plodded through an unpleasant though not impenetrable line of weed back to the Basin. Tomorrow it is down the Trent for us and into Keadby to head further 'oop north.

Stepping back in time

What lies beyond the old east portal of the Norwood Tunnel?

The railways killed the Chesterfield Canal, just like they killed off most others. But what speeded its demise was the collapse of the Norwood Tunnel. This magnificent 2900 yard long tunnel was a masterpiece of canal engineering but finally collapsed in 1907, cutting the last ten miles into Chesterfield from the rest of the canal.

The remains of the tunnel run under this field

Now the canal has been restored back to the eastern tunnel portal and for five miles out of Chesterfield at the western end. But what about the bit in the middle? We went to have an explore.
The Cuckoo Way footpath follows its old route so we weren't quite in the same exploring league as Dr Livingstone looking for the source of the Nile. All the same, our walk had its moments.
The first mile was easy, an even field of rough pastureland shows in its humps and slumps the line of the old tunnel. But after that the footpath veers around the edges of private gardens and then arrives in a maze of paths and tracks across former spoil tips. The one we want should head toward the M1 motorway but could we find it? No - the Cuckoo Way markers had vanished and we took several wrong turns before finally tracking along the edge of a copse – and discovering, hidden among the trees, the stunning sight of the collapsed tunnel, now just a deep open cutting in the middle of the woods.

Hidden in the woods, a long section of caved in tunnel 

The new route will take the canal under the M1 here

From here the route was clear and we walked under the motorway via a farmer's underpass that is intended to be the route of the new canal. Then across a field and into the trees where, suddenly, there was the bricked up western portal of the tunnel and the overgrown but still clearly evident line of the canal.

Bricked up but still complete, the old west portal

If the Chesterfield's eastern flight of double and triple staircase locks were a masterpiece of canal engineering then what we were about to see the remnants of on the western side left them in the shade. The Norwood locks brought the canal down from the tunnel in a tightly structured run of quadruple and two triple staircases – 13 locks in a quarter of a mile – with huge side pounds to hold the water suplies needed for them.

Magnificent side pound for the Norwood Locks

One of the staircase lock chambers still intact

Remarkably, the lock chambers and side pounds are all still there and the Canal Trust's aim is to bring them back to life. But will they be able to? All now sit among the grounds of very exclusive looking houses with electric gates and expensive cars. Will they be happy to see canal boats chuffing past the end of their tennis courts? Hmmm.

Following the old towpath 

Seadog Brian gets a lift home

Anyway, the canal's course is still clear and in water for another mile and we followed its tree-enclosed towpath until the water disappeared, the nettles took over and Seadog Brian went on strike and demanded lunch and a ride in the backpack.
It had been a fascinating walk – seeing the old canal there, like the almost complete skeleton of some ancient dinosaur gave us all a feeling that it could – and should – be brought back to life.

Find out more about the restoration and history of the canal here here

At last it can be told...

The crew pose at the top of the final locks

Finally we have a 3G signal so here's a bit of fleshing out of the story so far. You left us an exhausted and demoralised couple, moored in Retford after days of struggle against clinging blanket weed. If it hadn't been for the fact we had agreed to meet with daughter Olivia and partner Nick we would probably have turned round and headed back.
"It will get better" they all said. And it did – though there were still patches that didn't. But first, with crew coming aboard we had to re-stock the galley, which wasn't hard since we were moored right outside Aldi and off-loaded the trolley contents straight through the side hatch into the cupboards and fridge.

Stocking up from Retford's canalside Aldi

From Retford the canal heads out into the country and soon contorts itself through some of Brindley's notorious contour following double twists through Ranby, a village whose inhabitants must be deaf from the constant roar of the adjacent A1. We missed the 'mooring outside the village hall' and with the light fading tied up in the traditional deep-boat-in-a-shallow-canal fashion – on ropes and pins about four feet from the bank.

A typical mooring for a deep draughted boat like ours

After the four Forest locks the next day things did improve and we meandered past the impressive grounds of a Victorian mansion pile before closing on the unimpressive Worksop, a town that sadly shows its decaying and decrepit side to the canal  - and boasts the horribly awkward Town Lock too.
Again, though, things improved and the far side of the lock was tidy Worksop. We moored for lunch and found ourselves opposite Worksop cricket ground with a grandstand view of some pretty decent quality cricket from Harry's roof!

Not so memorable - Worksop's nasty Town Lock

Grandstand view for Worksop CC match

The end of day two saw us in Rhodesia – honest. The African country was named after Cecil Rhodes who founded it; the Nottinghamshire one is a little ex-mining village named after the boss of the collery firm, Preston Rhodes. We  dug into another rough mooring at the canal's edge and prepared for the final assault up 26 locks the next day.

Climbing through the Thorpe locks in dappled sunlight

It proved to be a doddle. A delightful doddle in glorious sunshine. Maybe a bit too much sunshine, but who's complaining. After the three Shireoaks locks the canal left the world behind and disappeared into tree-filled countryside where the dappled sunlit shone onto a unique trail of single, double and treble locks up the climb to the summit. Was it hard going? No, not really; just a steady haul.
Remarkably we were the only boat on the flight until we crossed with another coming down. The towpath, though, was alive with walkers, runners, anglers, cyclists and strolling families. It was great to see – and great as well not to see any traces of vandalism or graffiti on a stretch that runs close to some pretty run-down and deprived areas.

End of the line, the final winding hole with its feeder stream

From the top lock it's about two miles to the final winding hole at Kiveton, whose now dis-used quarries supplied the stone to rebuild the Houses of Parliament 150 years ago, barging it down the canal to West Stockwith and then sending it round the coast to the Thames by Humber Keels.
We moored just by the picturesque winding hole which also feeds the canal with water. You can go on a couple of hundred yards to the old Norwood Tunnel portal but we said thanks but no thanks. It looked too weedy to enjoy a 200 yard reverse back.
We celebrated our success with a brisk mile's walk to The Beehive in nearby Harthill for a few drinks and some exceptionally large Sunday dinners.
Next day the plan was to walk the dinners off with some Time Team style detective work tracing the route of the old canal.

We finally made it

In case you think that we are trapped, incommunicado, in a Sargasso Sea of blanket weed somewhere on the Chesterfield Canal, this is a brief blog to report that we did finally make it to the head of the navigation. Things did improve markedly once we were past Retford and the Forest Locks (though there were still a few sticky patches) and the final day's assault on the 26 locks up through Shireoaks and Turnerwood were stunning.
We had a fascinating afternoon's walk along the route of the old canal, tracking the remains of the tunnel and then following the skeletal remains of the Norwood locks down the other side.
And today we have come right back down through 33 locks to find ourselves the other side of Worksop. But, as ever, there's precious little 3G signal (we cruised the last mile, phone in hand to find somewhere to moor with a rudimentary signal) so photos and a more in depth review will have to wait.

Heaven and hell

A motley collection of rubbish from around the prop

Hereabouts is Puritan country – you know the non-conformist, Methodist, Pilgrim Fathers, hellfire and brimstone religionists who preached that toil and suffering in this world is all part of the rocky road to paradise.
Well, if they had been boaters this would have been their local canal and it would have suited them perfectly. It feels like the road to perdition but everyone you meet tells you to keep right right on to the end because canalling paradise awaits.
All I can say is, that it better had be because we couldn't have been toiling and suffering any more than we have been today. In nine hours we have travelled nine miles and three locks to reach Retford. Two of those miles alone took nearly an hour and the rest were rarely pleasant.
Weed and more weed was the problem – and despite passing two weed cutting boats. It's not just the weed but the shallow, silty bottom of the canal. As we crawled along we churned a frothing mush of silt and weed behind us, which is turn dragged up any rubbish that happened to be in it and spun it round our prop – endless roots and bits of branch, industrial quantities of weed and a sizeable length of heavy duty Bowden cable with an unidentifiable lump of metal attached to it. The weed is that half rotted blanket weed which rises to the surface with a delightful cesspit odour.
Yes, there are stretches that are deeper and cleaner but then the weed and sludge wraps you in its grasp again and from Clayworth pretty much all the way to the edge of Retford it was horrible.

Beautiful views 

And natural, river-like edges

But even the weed cutters can't keep the enemy at bay

All of which is a tragedy for the canal is delightful. It runs almost entirely along a countryside route that blends lush hedges and trees with distant views and the canal's almost entirely natural edges, full of wildflowers and reeds give it the feel more of being a river than man made. A feeling emphasised by the zillions of fish to be seen swimming through the unusually clear water.
But is that enough? If it wasn't for mule headed determination and the repeated talk of the paradise that awaits in the final flight of locks we would certainly have turned round by now. We're deep draughted and I make allowances for that wherever we boat but today was hell. Heaven better be waiting!
Of course, the analogy does break down doesn't it. Heaven is a one-way trip but after our glimpse of the pearly gates we have to go through this hell again.

At last – back onto a 'proper' canal

Passing one of several disused brickworks on the Chesterfield

We are moored in the middle of nowhere but, at last, after many days of frustration, we have a perfect 3G signal so I can blog without having to stand on the roof or climb a high bank and wave vaguely around in the hope of capturing a spare waveband from the ether.
If I look into the distance the reason we have a signal is standing high on the horizon - a tall phone mast. But we've been near those before and still scored a blank. So forget 4G and wi-fi on trains, just give us 3G - or even 2G - on the canals.
But enough of that. Since disappearing into the void on the River Witham, we've travelled to Lincoln and left the boat in Brayford Pool (where you can eat any food you like so long as it's from a multi-branch chain outlet: how depressing), visited family, returned and headed via the Fossdyke (I never cease to wonder that the Romans dug this out 2000 years ago) and Torksey down the River Trent to West Stockwith and the start of the Chesterfield Canal.

Yet another Trent-side power station

I'm not a great fan of power stations so the Trent is not my favourite river - there's not much else to see from a boat. Gainsborough is the only Trent-side town but most boaters whizz through at high speed, carried by the tide. They're not missing much,  as we discovered later when returning by bus, it's a desperate dump, saved only by the wonderful medieval Gainsborough Old Hall which is well worth a visit, especially thanks to the clever interactive audio-visual headset guides. The rest of the town is empty shops, poor people, too-young mums and squalor. Even immigrants seem to have given it a miss.

Under Gainsborough Bridge at high speed

I've been making a habit of ballsing up my turns and lock entries on tidal rivers – Harry is a big, heavy boat and hard to turn is my excuse. We came down to West Stockwith on a fast ebbing tide, turned to stem it (at least I know the jargon) and then drove hard for the lock. I though we were in but the push of the tide caught the stern and banged us hard into the lock wall. Null points again!
We parked up for a few days at West Stockwith while I replaced our exhausted old batteries with a new set of deep-cycle AGMs. I hope they last – they cost enough! It's a lovely little village of charming hotch-potchy old houses strung along the river: a port since the times of those clever Romans again as the River Idle which they used an inland navigation joins the Trent here too.
Modern commuters have passed the village by as it's too far from major towns or big rail links so it has the quiet, sleepy backwater air of a provincial French village.
The Chesterfield is said to be a glorious canal but gets few visitors. After that entry from the Trent there's 50 odd locks in its 40 miles... and then you turn round and go back again.

Churning through the dreaded Chesterfield weed

It's also notorious for weeds – as we found out today, taking two hours to churn through three miles of the stuff before giving up for the night.
Blame the sunshine – it makes the stuff grow. Hmmm. I think I'll keep the sun and deal with the weeds.

Along the Witham via the forties and fifties

The wonderful Kinema in the Woods

Boating along the River Witham is like stepping back in time. And not just because the 3G phone and internet connection is rubbish. No, as one local boater put it, Lincolnshire is a friendly, safe sort of place – a bit like most of Britain was back when when we were young.
But the past is not always what you expect. It certainly wasn't at Langrick Bridge, our first mooring after Boston. There's not much to Langrick Bridge except a friendly little boatyard and shop – and an American roadhouse bar and grill. We didn't so much see that as hear it. There's no mistaking the deep throaty roar of a V8 so I climbed the bank from the moorings and discovered the 'Witham and Blues Bar & Grill' and outside it a collection of hot rods and performance motors to make any car enthusiast drool.

Americana at Witham & Blues roadhouse

Now that's what I call a car engine

Next stop for us after Langrick was supposed to be Kirkstead Bridge, a mile walk from Woodhall Spa, but the moorings were full so we went on to Southrey where there are moorings – and pubs – each side. Take your pick. We picked the north side for the village (actually just a handful of houses) and Riverside Inn – a slightly sleepy but very friendly pub with good value pub grub.

Sculpture celebrating the Water Rail Way at Southrey

Nicholson's Guide remarks that the village has a 'little white wooden church built by the villagers in 1898 and clearly cherished.' Sadly, now it looks like an advert for a bad upvc double glazing company with its plastic windows and plastic t&g effect cladding. Oh dear, oh dear.
Along this bank of the river runs the Water Rail Way, a tarmac cycle and footpath along the route of the old rail line from Lincoln to Woodhall Spa.
Next morning we headed back to Woodhall Spa. This is a delightful oddity of a place, part holiday centre for caravanners in the numerous sites, part genteel retirement village. It was a spa town, though the old spa baths have long been empty and derelict. These days its chief claim to fame is as the wartime base for the legendary 617 Squadron - the Dambusters who operated from the now vanished Woodhall Spa airfield (though not for the dam busting raid itself).
The village square has a fine memorial garden with two large memorials to members of the squadron who lost their lives in WW2 and in later actions. The WW2 theme is everywhere in the Spa, from other memorials to a cafe to books and memorabilia.
The other great attraction is the Kinema in the Woods. Opened in the 1920s this lovely little cinema has two screens and its own Compton theatre organ in the main one. But it was Screen Two (or Kinema Two, to be precise) that we went to to see the excellent Jersey Boys, the Clint Eastwood directed tale of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.
It's a super little place beautifully painted with scenes of rural Lincolnshire in trompe l’oeil style. And - like everywhere round here - it's the way cinemas used to be: no noisy audience members, no mobile phones going off, just appreciative watchers. Mostly of pensionable age..which is maybe why we had an intermission. For a wee break as much as an ice cream break.
Now we are at the isolated mooring in Fiskerton Fen nature reserve hoping that this evening, as we did on our last visit, we will see owls patrolling the banksides.