Signs of things to come

Setting out when it seemed the overnight rain had finally finished, we did the 3 miles to Adderley and came down this flight of five locks. In three of them we crossed with a boat coming up, which cuts the work in half.

This flight is preparatory to the Audlem flight of fifteen, which we hope to do tomorrow, and where you feel you are really coming down towards the Cheshire plain. Appropriately, we passed these as we descended.

Cheshire is, for us, the black and white county and we expect to see a great many more Fresians. In the same field was this flock of gulls (I take it). It’s a bit worrying to see them gathered in this way. Even if it wasn’t a worm-fest, I suspect it’s a sign of significant wetness, and the forecast for Sunday is currently pretty appalling.

But, for now, we’ve tied up in a spot that is sunny and remote – so remote that there’s no mobile signal, and I can’t see any TV aerials on the few houses within sight. But it’s sunny and calm and peaceful, and we are about to enjoy a magnificent fritada prepared by my best beloved.

After that we shall have to go for a walk into the village to work it off, and to see whether I can find some sort of wifi signal to post this. If you’re reading it on Friday, you’ll know I succeeded.

Obligatory

Somehow it seems necessary, whenever we travel this stretch of the Shroppie, to take yet more photos of the same landmarks. It's strange, because it's not as though any of them are likely to have changed appearance. There's the odd High Bridge (Bridge 39) in Grub Street cutting, north of Norbury Junction.

For those who haven't seen countless pictures of this bridge on boaters' blogs, that's a telegraph pole mounted on the mezzanine.

It appears to serve no purpose whatsoever, apart from that of whimsy. Unlike the Anchor Inn, whose purpose is clear, but whose existence is a mystery, given its isolation and tiny facilities.

They still advertise a Gift Shop, but I've yet to see any evidence that one actually exists. Perhaps it's one way to keep the trade coming.

No longer getting any trade by way of the canal is the factory whose wharf used to see a lot of chocolate floating away to Bourneville.

It now just seems to provide shelter for the occasional boat, while the Knighton factory behind just makes milk powder. What they need reserved moorings for is anybody's guess.

A little further on is Woodseaves Cutting, boasting both another single track with passing places and a bridge competing for height with the "High Bridge" above.

When that finally comes to an end, we reach the last of the obligatory photo-opportunities – Tyrley locks. These are notable on three accounts. First, in the sunshine they are wonderfully picturesque, especially the cottages at the top lock of the five.

Secondly, the beckoning view from the top…

gives no hint of what awaits in the bottom pound of the four. Pity the boater who decides to pull across to the towpath side, to pass another boat or to work the lock. Grounding at that point is one of the few certainties of the inland waterways. Thirdly, should you be coming the other way, it is wise to take no liberties with the bywash of the bottom lock. It can catch you most horribly.

Apart from all that, the Tyrley flight is a joy, and ends with another delight.

I've never really understood fishing, in the form in which it is practised by most of the fishermen we pass. And they are not even uniform in what they'd like from the passing boater (apart from getting off their canal). Some want you to cut the engine, some like you to churn up the bottom. There's really no telling.

One well-understood obligation, however, is to cut your speed when passing moored boats – an obvious courtesy. It only grates a little when you get this:

On several sections of today's leg the moorings seemed to go on for miles and miles. Not that we were really in a hurry, of course. But we did want to cram in a day and a half's travel while the sun was shining. Tomorrow is looking distinctly wetter.

Leg

Cloudy and grey it was today, but at least it didn't rain until we were ready to tie up tonight. This was the first leg of our journey entirely on the Shroppie. I had a good idea of how far we could get today, and it worked out pretty well, taking into account the interruptions.

First was a stop in Brewood. Ostensibly for shopping for a few essentials but, on a morning like this, we didn't like to turn down the idea of coffee and cake at "the mess bistro". I thought I'd better put that in inverted commas, in case you thought I was getting careless with my capitals. We also remembered the bakers down Stafford Street, who do an extremely good ham salad baton. The person serving me (let's call her Annie) said she was the fastest sandwich-maker in the West (Midlands), and counted it a point of honour to get ours prepared before the snack being heated in the oven by a colleague was ready for another customer!

Back on Erin Mae we headed off for the only lock on the southern stretch of the Shroppie, at Wheaton Aston. It was the happiest of all sights as we approached – another boat emerging so we didn't have to work the top gates.

We had business here as well – filling up the water tank and then, just through the bridge which the sharp-eyed will spot in the photo, filling up the diesel tank at Turner's, who believe they sell the cheapest fuel of anywhere on the network. They're probably right.

After that there was not much to do on this leg, except watch the clouds getting cloudier and the greyness getting greyer, and the cars rushing somewhere as we crossed the aqueduct over the M5, Watling Street. Not many boats to avoid in the narrow bits or under the bridges. I did spot three Tolkien-named boats, but they were already on my list. And then I saw something to make up for having missed snapping the dahlias the other day.

My best beloved assures me they were marigolds, not dahlias, but I just thought they were a bright and cheerful interjection. Meanwhile she also asked me to capture (not literally, you understand) this goose who clearly had nearly given up.

One eye, pointing backwards but looking sideways, making sure I wasn't a threat. One body that looks as though it could have succeeded at the contortionist world championships. And all supported on one leg. Why do they do that?

Single track with passing places

We want to be in Audlem by Sunday evening, and the CanaPlan website says that means between 3 and 4 hours travelling a day. We were therefore prepared for a bit of a hard grind, but today's cruising has been delightful. We didn't get up early, but that was just as well, as we were passed in both directions by a stream of boats – mostly a mixture of hirers and old working boats. By the time we were on the move, it was a real pleasure to be out and about.

To get to Autherley Junction we had to pass through a very narrow mile, reminiscent of those more remote roads in Scotland or the Lake District.

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I still remember the trepidation with which we first traversed this section, five years ago. Now we're pretty blasé! But still glad of the occasional passing paces, even if they weren't needed this time.

We reached Autherley Junction in a couple of hours, turned neatly around its acute angle and moved from the Staffs and Worcs canal to the Shropshire Union.

The Shroppie itself has a couple of "single-track" sections in this stretch, but the main challenges of that sort lie further north. We tied up in the sunshine just south of Brewood at one of our favourite stopping places.

In all it had taken 3½ hours, which was good going, and quicker than CanalPlan had estimated. By time the ensuing sit-down had turned into something a bit longer, the clear skies meant a chill was creeping into the air. So it was time for a cuppa, with a piece of toast and honey. Well, all work and no play…

Conviction

As we came up the first lock of the day, two moored boaters about 50 yards ahead saw us coming and scrambled. The second of the two seemed to take longer to sort out his ropes, but off he went just as we were opening the top gate.  Grrr!

We caught him up at the first lock in Penkridge – presumably his mate was in transit. It appeared we would be in for quite a wait, so instead we tied up and walked down into the town. We always walk back past the old prison, and on this occasion (a) we had an idea for a couple of deserving occupants, and (b) my best beloved was reminded that she's never done a prison visit in her life (like most people, probably).

Guess what else is in the middle of Penkridge!

Last night we watched a programme in which various participants were so horrified by the effects of diet and lifestyle on their bodies that they were shocked into some radical beneficial changes. It was very impressive – but Jasper's was calling! The first part of our purchase was mostly OK – two ham salad granary rolls (though the presenters would have suggested an alternative to the ham, and Dr Atkins might have said something about the bread). They were delicious. So was the second part of our purchase, but in this case the presenters would have definitely raised some corporate eyebrows. Two buns, no doubt containing enormous amounts of all the wrong things, went extremely well with a cuppa when we finally moored up at Calf Heath.

The dastardly deed was done, unrepentedly. It probably wasn't quite bad enough to get us incarcerated back in Penkridge for the night.

Dahlias

But no picture. I'd forgotten the wonderful garden we pass coming down towards Acton Trussell, though my best beloved hadn't. As we cruised by the riot of autumn glory I thought – that would make a nice one for the blog. However, all thoughts of the photo were immediately obliterated by the sight of a Countrywide Cruisers hirer coming at top speed round the corner.

Danger averted, I tried to pull in, to walk back along the towpath for a piccy, but it was too shallow to get near the bank. We were grounded and had to carefully manoeuvre off again. By the time we were at a point where I could have got us in safely, it would have been a quarter-mile hike back to the garden, and I was no longer in the mood.

Now you know I make enormous sacrifices for this blog, to satisfy the extraordinary demands of its discerning readership, but on this occasion I'm afraid I just have to present my apologies!

Not Goldberry

As we started out towards Great Haywood Junction this morning, I thought for a moment I had an addition to my list of Tolkien-themed boat names.

River Daughter reminded me immediately of Goldberry – Tom Bombadil's companion. Alas, it was not to be. Later research showed that she was known as "River-woman's daughter". Goldberry has her own honourable entry in the list, but no additional alias, I'm afraid.

After picking up water and getting a pump-out we came down through Tixall Wide,

impressed as ever by this tribute to the family through whose land the canal passed, and of whose estate the only remaining visible relic is the gatehouse (still hireable, apparently, for functions).

Speaking of relics, the Wide was playing host to a rather nice wooden launch,

not that the white satellite dish did a great deal for its lines. Also out and about (and not at all relic-like) was the Stafford Boating Club.

They were on their annual mystery cruise. It would be more of a mystery, said one member, if they didn't cruise to the same place every year!

We left them enjoying themselves, though it seemed the gazebos might be needed more as protection from the rain than from the sun. But we did find ourselves in some afternoon shine as we tied up at Radford Bank, opposite a tidy garden.

Tixall Wide might be Goldberry country, but Radford Bank certainly is not, with the A34 rushing over the bridge a few yards away. However, it's very convenient for a quick walk down to the local Aldi.