Festival

Nantwich was as sunny as last year, when we were first surprised by this town. A visit to the market, coffee and a supermarket trip took up the morning, and by then we'd finally decided to head south and make for the Avon via Tewkesbury. So after a late lunch we set off down the Shroppie and, what with some queues up the Hack Green locks,

reached Audlem about 6.30.

It was immediately apparent that something was afoot – large numbers of boats and visitors that not even the bank holiday could really account for, and the sound of music. Turned out that Audlem has an annual arts and music festival, and we found ourselves right in the middle of it.

To our surprise, we found a space just long enough for Erin Mae (well, nearly) at the end of the 5 day moorings opposite the Bridge Inn.

A stroll into the village in the evening sun furnished a couple of pictures of the Grade 1 listed parish church,

and a festival programme.

We took in about 5 minutes of a reasonably talented folk blues singer in the Lord C, but the crowded pub was not affording him the courtesy of much attention (big contrast with the crowds at the Swanage blues festival in March). And then the venison pie we'd bought in Nantwich market began to call us home.

Not sure what the forecast is for tomorrow, but today was like you might imagine a Saturday in May to be. So, while the pie was cooking, I took the accordion into the cratch and softly played "As I roved out…". (Softly, in part because it's a sad song, and in part so as not to offend Audlem's very cultured visitors this weekend with my as yet untutored playing.) And I also wanted the accordion to suggest the second part of "Martin's Farewell to the Montgomery Canal". When it's done, I'll see if I can put it up on this blog.

…and now to the Llangollen

Farewell, that is. This was the first canal we experienced in borrowed NB Jireh,  9 or 10 years ago. That was a glorious August week of wall to wall sunshine. This has been 20 days of very different conditions, but memorable for all sorts of different reasons – meeting up with family and friends,  repeated trips across the aqueducts, getting to know Chirk, exploring the navigable section of the Montgomery, the folk session in the Navigation.

We found Hurleston today much as it was when we started up the Llangollen – blowing a hoolie to make transitions and turns difficult. But lock-keepers Martin and Richard helped us down cheerfully, and the view back up the locks as we left showed something of what the meteorologists are promising us for tomorrow.

But the question is not yet settled – where will we go now? Down the Shroppie, on to Tewkesbury and back up the Avon to Stratford? Or across to Middlewich and an exploration of the Macclesfield and the Peak Forest canals. Hm…

Another day…

Two arms and a leg

We were running a bit low on diesel, and the price at Ellesmere marina was steep. So on the way back east yesterday we called in at Whixall marina down the arm of the Llangollen known as the Prees branch. I think this is one of the oddest places we've so far come across.

It starts with a couple of awkward lift bridges, and trickles down for about a mile through the middle of nowhere until it suddenly terminates at the marina.

We scratched our heads trying to think who would moor here. The lift bridges are a real pain, and negotiating them is a non-negotiable if you want to go anywhere.

Even odder, there was no one around and the offices were all shut up. This was Tuesday, early afternoon, so why they were closed is a mystery. We left them to it, knowing we could fuel up further along. Unfortunately, this turned out (today) to be at the Viking boatyard at Whitchurch – helpful people but the prices were as bad as Ellesmere's.

Rather than do yet another lift bridge, we decided to take the turning just before it, and go down the Whitchurch arm. This is so short there was no time for a picture and, more to the point, the wind was blowing hard enough to make manoeuvering quite a challenge. We managed to wind Erin Mae and then reverse down the final 40 yards to tie up right at the end of the section, without damage to ourselves or others. Nicholson's guide said Whitchurch was worth a visit, so after a late recovery routine (homemade bread / homemade soup), we headed off into town.

The guide was right – it was a long haul. But the path avoids the roads…

and  passes this garden in the Jubilee Park.

Once in the centre it was intriguing to see the architectural styles (corporate image?) of the different banks. HSBC and Barclays…

NatWest…

The Tudor style we noted in Cheshire last year was much in evidence – here it's not only the pounds that are stretching.

The parish church, St Alkmund's, at the top of the High Street, is more recent, celebrating this year its 300th anniversary, with a difficult-to-photograph banner in the entrance ("Jesus Christ, the same yesterday (1713), today (2013), and forever (2313, 2613…", or words to that effect).

We finished with a quick visit to Tesco, and legged it back to the boat again in the evening sunshine.

Farewell to the Monty

At the Edinburgh Folk Club in the early 70s I met some of those who would form the band Silly Wizard. One of the tracks on their album Caledonia's Hardy Sons is "Jack Cunningham's Farewell to Benbecula". I never remembered to ask, but I imagine Jack was the father of Phil and John, or perhaps some other relative. The idea of a tune that is a farewell is well established in Scottish folklore and, for me, resonates also with the Portuguese music known as Fado, which echoes the sense of loss and nostalgia never far from the Portuguese seafaring heart.

So tonight, sitting in Ellesmere launderette, waiting for the sheets to tumble dry, I began to pen a Farewell to the Montgomery. A tune was there, in the head, waiting to be committed to paper, and fortunately we had a pencil and a little pad of sticky notes. It's a challenge – trying to evoke a sense of this canal on the English / Welsh border, and make it a farewell without making it too Scottish. Make it happy-sad to reflect both the joy of the canal snd the sadness of leaving. Perhaps tomorrow evening, in some remote part of Whixall, the accordion will come out and help me to finalise it.

More at Maesbury

Well, we did moor at Maesbury! Walking past the final winding hole, you come to the end of the navigable section, and a barrier across the water under the bridge.

Down to the next bridge, and things are clearly happening.

It's the Montgomery restoration section of the Shropshire Union society hard at work to put this bit of the Monty under water, which they hope to do by the end of the summer.

They laughed when they saw the camera, and told me to take a picture of the bloke in the dump-truck. Which I did.

Turned out he was an Air Vice Marshall, having a relaxing break from whatever AVMs do! Further down the path, the size of the restoration task became even more apparent.

There's a plaque on one of the bridges, commemorating one of the men who worked tirelessly to make the restoration of the Monty a reality. The wording was along the lines of "he moved mountains". You can see why and how, and be grateful.

The weekend continued well. Last night we went, with our friends Roger and Mirjana, to the home of John and Hilary whom we'd met at the session at the Navigation Inn on Friday. Enjoyed a great plate of spaghetti, and a great deal of music with melodeons, guitars, accordion and one or two other instruments. Thanks for your hospitality, folks. A brilliant time. Hope the visit to the guitar festival went well today, John.

This morning, as a prelude to lunch at the Navigation, we strolled up the road to see "the flatpack church", the parish church of St John the Baptist.

Rumour is that it was ordered from Harrods, some time in the 1930s, in an era when they would supply anything! Just down the road we found this…

and wondered whether Harrods had thrown in a church hall as an extra!

So we returned to the Navigation, and I am happy to report that the food, like the music, is definitely better than the brickwork. We also found ourselves on a table next to IWA trustee Alan Platt and friends, and that led to some interesting and helpful conversation.

Tonight we've come north and tomorrow we must say our farewell to the Monty. It's been a delightful few days.

Maesbury Marsh Music

Not "marsh music", you understand. The village is called Maesbury Marsh, and the music in the Navigation Inn was very much better than its brickwork (see yesterday's post).

There were traditional English tunes on 3 melodeons, Irish jigs from fiddle and flutes. Along with obligatory drinking songs and seafaring tales were some classy mining songs written by the singer himself (Alan  Stan, on the left below). I contributed a couple of items, and even managed to give the new accordion an airing with this very tolerant group. They really weren't quite as depressed as the photos make everybody look. Think of it as deep reflection and the corporate pain of shared social injustices, coupled with the effect of taking pictures indoors without a flash!

And then we got an invitation to go tonight for food and more music to the home of the couple who organise the session, along with our melodeon-playing boating friends Roger and Mirjana.

So far, a very good weekend.

Gently to Gronwyn bridge, Gronwen wharf

Even when roads are not far away, the Monty has the feel of being miles from anywhere.

You cruise along, often in your own little bubble / time warp, but usually with views through the trees of this fairly flat landscape to some small hill in the distance. It's unusual to meet other boats – the only two today passed us, going north, before we were out of bed! 

The lock-keeper told us yesterday that restrictions on going down onto the Monty are not so much because of the Llangollen losing water (which is what I'd imagined) and more because the Monty itself does not know what to do with a lot of water coming from above.

Conditions mean you travel slowly and, anyway, today our destination is not far and there's unlikely to be any pressure on mooring space. So we pushed on past Maesbury Marsh, under the lift bridge…

and winded at Gronwen wharf, which is as far as you can navigate. It seems it's Gronwen for the wharf, but Gronwyn for the bridge just beyond.

So now we are tied up, facing the right way for the return journey – but that's not till Sunday.

There's a folk session tonight in the Navigation Inn, and the prospect of something good from their excellent menu at some point during the weekend.

Hope both are better than the brickwork!