In reverse

Gang of boys on their way to school, drinking cans of fizzy sugar and talking loudly. I said "Morning, lads" as I wound my windlass. Suddenly, they were all polite and respectful with "Good morning!" chorused in return. I wonder if they would be as proud of what they accomplished that day as I already was. We'd followed advice about where to moor overnight, and only on checking the guide later did we realise it would take us four hours to get to the next winding hole and back – we have to be in Great Haywood by Tuesday evening. So a plan was hatched – start early, reverse into the lock behind us and go down it backwards, reverse through a curved couple of hundred yards of cut, reverse through the bridge and between the moored boats to Penkridge winding hole, execute an exact x-point manoeuvre to end up facing the right way. Boats are not renowned for being steerable in reverse, but it was all accomplished perfectly, without so much as a single contact with the bridge or another boat. We were well chuffed! Thought we'd earned our breakfast.

That was when we found we'd committed one of the cardinal sins of boating, and run out of water. Pride dashed in an instant! No way were we reversing to the water point – where's the next one? Several hours. Not sure whether humility was banished or increased when we eventually found the reason for the lack of water – one of us had accidentally flicked the water pump switch when coming down the steps into the boat. Doh! Normal cuppa service resumed.

Single traders

Even on a Sunday evening, Penkridge does not seem a particularly peaceful place, bisected as it is by the A449, and with the M6 just off to one side. But it is called a village, and most of the shops are single traders – of national chains we noticed just a Co-op and three banks. Only the pubs were open as we strolled around, but we saw lots of fascinating emporia should we have time tomorrow – craft and knitting shops, a pottery outlet, a hardware shop advertising "Jampot covers are now in stock", and Jaspers the bakers which we know will have a queue of customers out of the door around lunch time. My best beloved comes on both sides from shop-keeping blood, in places where certain types of shop-keeper are "highly respected pillars of the community" (certainly true of her mum and dad).

On our way to Penkridge we encountered in quick succession five traditional narrowboat barges – long beasts with a small cabin for accommodation at the stern, and the rest given over to space for whatever is being carried. We had opportunity for only the briefest of conversations, but it seemed the first was still trading on the canals, operated by a single-hander, while the others certainly could have been. We don't really know whether these last were liveaboards, or simply people who love their boats but melt into the rest of society Monday to Friday. We got to thinking later that both the single trader in Penkridge and the person who makes his living on the cut share a particular sort of individuality – going their own way, distinct from how most people do things. So it was also nice, as we wandered back to the boat, to bump into a Christian group for young people in the church hall. Here were some others differently marked, finding something special to live out, to take joy in and to share.

Wind and Worcs

Warm it was, but breezy with it. With a start delayed by the England / Scotland rugby match and a visit to Great Haywood to collect a package from the Post Office, we filled up with diesel and set out for a four day cruise down the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal, generally abbreviated to the Staffs and Worcs. Now "Staffs" is obvious, but how on earth do you say "Worcs"? Works? Wawks? Wuss? I can see  moment coming when, in conversation with another boater, I'll want to refer to this canal by its abbreviation. Does anyone know what the favoured pronunciation is?

Anyway, we got down from the marina to the junction, preparing to turn right under the bridge into the Staffs and Wuss, only to find an Anglo Welsh boat backing out – Anglo Welsh have a boatyard and hire centre right on the junction. They wanted to turn away from us and head off down the Trent & Mersey, but couldn't work out how to get their nose in the right direction and clear the other moored boats. The wind wasn't helping. It was about 20 minutes later that they found themselves facing the wrong way, on our side of the junction, and decided just to wave us past.

We got down to Tixall Wide – the furthest we'd been so far on the Staffs and Wawks – and decided to tie up for lunch in a space we were passing. I stopped in a hurry, and tried my own bit of reversing towards the bank. That was when the wind took over, and blew the front of the boat right across the cut. It didn't seem particularly strong, but a boat has a large side surface area and no keel. So it was our turn to block all traffic, while tug-of-war technique with the centre line and some help from some nearby boaters eventually got us out of everyone's way.

It's no wonder wind becomes a metaphor for fashionable ideas that power through a nation or group, exercising control for good or ill. For me, the point is to recognise it so as to make a proper judgment and not just be swept along with the debris. The old boaters used the wind to help them turn in the winding holes. Harnessing the wind for good – that's a skill worth having, wherever you may be on the Staffs and Works. All is quiet this evening at Bridge 96 by Wildwood.

Read the map!

You don't need the Nicholson's guide to come down the four locks in Stone, which we did first thing yesterday. So we continued on our way with it still on the shelf, and got to Aston lock rather quicker than expected. Coming round the corner at a gentle pace appropriate for passing the moored boats that occupied our interest, I suddenly found myself also passing Bruce holding Sanity Again on the centre line while Sheila was with the other windlass-workers around the lock – they were themselves second in line to go down. So with hurried apologies for what may have seemed like a lack of manners, but was really a lack of attention, I stopped (glad I was going so slow) and got a bit of practice in going in reverse in the right direction without damaging anyone's paintwork.

While we awaited our turns I was able to ask Bruce about Erin Mae's own paintwork. I don't think she's had any polish or other attention for quite a while, and steel body and paintwork (car or boat) has never been in my comfort range of "things I can do". So, as with everything, it was good to get some advice. One thing to get it, of course, another to follow the instructions.

It's a bit like my wrist, which is still pretty painful. Taking the pills at the right time to dull the pain enough so you can do what the physio tells you – all a bit of a challenge. Working around 60 locks over the last 11 days doesn't seem to have substituted properly for those exercises where you allow the weight of a hammer to turn your wrist over – ouch! Today, back in Christchurch, Tom the physio told me I should expect it to be taking this time (thanks, Tom!). So I'll go see what the doctor says about the pills. In regard to the body, as to life in general, it seems that following the maker's instructions is no bad thing. Then maybe we can do some more boating in this Indian summer the gurus are prophesying.

Singlehanded

Yesterday we met a singlehanded boater and went through a lift bridge with him. He showed us the answer to last Monday's question. You leave your boat untied, take the centre rope with you, and draw the boat towards the bridge. Once it's open, you can either pull the boat through from the bank, or climb back on board, drive through and climb back onto the bridge from the other side, in order to lower it again. We were well impressed – though we had to imagine the last part of the operation as we were following through and closed the bridge ourselves.

Today we've done a long run as I want to keep my physio appointment in Bournemouth on Tuesday. Some of it in the rain, some of it back through the depressing first couple of miles of the Caldon, some of it pleasant in the sun later on. At the top lock of the Meaford flight above Stone, we met a guy selling some of his art work to supplement his disability allowance. He'd sold one piece today, which had made it worthwhile. He helped with the lock, and then volunteered to go on down and set the second one for us – said he was getting bored waiting for a sale, and that the exercise would also be good for his disability, but it was also typical of the general attitude we've encountered on the cut. When I thanked him, his response was that I would do the same for him some time. True enough. Another singlehander we met today told us of a long cruise (I forget the details) when he'd had to do only three locks himself.

Most singlehanders I've known seem to flourish best when the right company is just around the corner. Some of them have been the most helpful people you could wish to meet.

And another…

Popped into the Hollybush last night for pudding, and found ourselves sitting next to several members of the Stoke-on-Trent Boat Club, including a number involved in the Caldon and Uttoxeter Canal Societies, the local IWA rep, and a trustee of the Beatrice charity we blogged about a couple of days ago. Ken, Jane, John, Neil, Kath, Jim whose mate designed the floating windlass and Tony, who's building his own boat from scratch. More than 200 years of boating between them, they reckoned – and their boats go through the Froghall tunnel! We listened to some great stories, had a lot of questions answered, got some good tips and a contact or two.

Great crack! Thanks, guys. And the apple pie and the frangipan tart were pretty good as well.

Chance encounters

The Churnet is Staffordshire's "hidden" valley. So hidden, said an elderly man we met today, that "when Jerry wanted to bomb the copper factory in Froghall, he couldn't find it." Bolton's made the first transatlantic cable (said our informant), and that was a nice link to Valencia on the coast of Kerry, which was our holiday spot three years ago. We walked down to the tea rooms at the railway station in Froghall only to find that, like the flint mill yesterday, opening is restricted to weekends once the school holidays end. But the walk took us through Froghall wharf and basin, at the junction with the old Uttoxeter canal, brilliantly restored and a treat in the morning sun. There, among the ubiquitous ducks (and occasional goose or swan) was a shag. Our bird book says they can occasionally be found on inland water, and here was the evidence.

Froghall is the end of the line. On the way back, we chatted to three walkers clambering on to the towpath after something of a diversion, we gathered. They watched as we came up the next lock, and then joined us on board for the next part of the journey. A cruiser stern is not everyone's cup of tea, but for this it was ideal. One after another, Rebecca, Pete and Viv tried their hand at the tiller, with no great calamities, and we suddenly spotted the Consall Forge Pottery. By mutual consent we stopped (mooring up a communal affair and no mean feat) and, as chance would have it, Nigel Williams (the potter) arrived at just that moment and opened up. He took time to talk about his approach to his craft and the glazes he uses. We bought a couple of mugs for the Erin Mae, and a new salt pig for home – all very satisfying.

Pete, Viv and Rebecca got off at Consall Forge, though we ran into them again returning from a late lunch at a pub in Cheddleton. Really good to meet you, guys – hope you got home all right! Meanwhile we've moored up outside the Hollybush at Denford. Pudding calls again!