A Radstock Ring

It's only a few weeks until End-to-End Ireland. Number of training rides this year so far - one. This will not do. I have been pottering about on my bike as usual but I need to get a few more longer rides under my belt  if we are not going to have a repeat of Lejog (lots of tears and fears). Plus I have somehow managed to acquire another fourteen pounds (weight not money) since that trip. There is definitely a need for some serious training.

Mick turned up on his Cannondale and, easing us into the ride gently, we set off along the Bristol-Bath cycle path. (Sustrans Route 4) which sugueways nicely into the towpath alongside the River Avon. Along the bank, large numbers of people in yellow high viz jackets were doing a fine job, litter picking and repainting benches. I stopped to chat to one of them, mindful of the current hoo-hah about people on benefit being forced to carry out unpaid labour. 'You're not on one of those schemes are you?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No, it's all voluntary. The council advertised at the universities and colleges.'
"Well you're doing a fine job.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'only thing is, there's so many of us, we're running out of litter.'
Mick kindly offered to throw his gum wrapper on the floor to help out, but his offer was politely declined, and we went on our way.

In Bath I briefly led us onto a busy road before realising both lanes were for carrying traffic in the other direction. 'Oops,' I said, heading for the pavement. 'It's more than oops,' said Mick. 'I'll lead, you'll get us killed.' He led us to the bottom of Widcombe flight, and a brief respite from the traffic before we rejoined it again on Bathwick Hill. For speed we cycled to Bathampton on the busy A36, and I was relieved when the turning for the village came up on the left. I waited at the top of the hill for Mick who was a little way behind for a change.
'Ah, were you stood there waiting for me?' he asked.
"Yes,' I said, expecting him to thank me.
'I used to have a dog that did that,' he said.


In Bathampton the cafe, on a little boat on the canal was open. 'For that comment, you can buy me a coffee,' I told him.

After coffee we cycled along to Dundas aqueduct and the start of the Somersetshire Coal Canal. This is also the start of the Colliers Way, a newish Sustrans route, number 24. (Pdf of the Sustrans leaflet here).

We weaved though Monkton Combe, on a similar route to the one I had walked with Yvonne the previous week, passing the home of William Smith at Tucking Mill, the guy who is credited with producing the first geological map of Britain.

At Midford we joined the line of the old Somerset and Dorset Railway. The path started well with a tarmaced section through a short tunnel and past the old Midford Station. This is where the Two Tunnels  Greenway is planned to intersect with the Colliers Way, which will provide a brilliant circular route once finished. The New Somerset and Dorset Railway are working to reopen the old railway route, aiming to provide a much needed rail link for local communities. They have plans to rebuild the station in 50's/60's style and provide a cafe/info point etc. There are no immediate plans to lay track, although presumably it would be possible for the cycle path to run alongside, as it does in Bitton and in Okehampton. I think it's a long term project so no need to worry about it just yet.

Sadly the tarmac soon disappeared and the path got rather muddy. It looks like it's been scraped though so maybe there are plans to tarmac it soon. We passed one of Sustrans' art installations, 'Stone Column' by Jerrry Ortmans.

This piece is formed by seven stacked boulders reflecting the geological strata of the area (Chalk Cretaceous, Forest Marble, Great Oolite, Inferior Oolite, Blue Lias, White Lias, Pennant) to commemorate the pioneering work of William Smith, the 'father of geology' who once lived at nearby Tucking Mill and who worked as a surveyor constructing the canal system in the area.
(Sustrans website)

I rather liked it but Mick was not impressed. 'It's just a pile of rocks,' he said incredulously. 'Bloody hell, everything's "art" these days!' Sorry Mr Ortmans.

Rejoining a quiet road, we climbed up the hill to Wellow and forked off left down through a quiet lane. where we saw not one, but three green woodpeckers in the trees on our right.  At the bottom of the hill we had a choice and took the left turn up to Faulkland. It was a steep climb but I hoped it would be worth it, as Faulkland is where the wonderful Tucker's Grave pub is. We toiled up the hill and then down the road to the pub. Which was shut.



Instead we called into the Faulkland Inn. It's a bit restauranty, in fact the landlady straightaway reached for menus when we walked in. 'We'll just have a drink,' we said, although after half an hour Mick was unable to resist ordering a bowl of delicious, chunky chips. The beer was That Gold Devil from Devilfish Brewery situated just behind the village, and was a nice golden, hoppy beer. I did find it amusing though, when a rep from the brewery called into the pub and ordered half a lager whilst he was waiting for the Landlord.
Whilst we were supping on our drinks I said to Mick I would get the map out to plan the journey home. 'You mean this is planned?' he said. 'I thought we were lost.'
He asked to have a look at the map but I refused. 'I'm planning the route,' I said.
'That's the trouble with you short people,' he replied. 'You're dictatorial.'

It was cold, misty and drizzling up here on the edge of the eastern Mendips. Mick pointed out that this made it more realistic as a training ride as Ireland was likely to be cold, misty and drizzling as well.

The home route was rather hilly, down to Radstock, up to Clandown, steep down to Radford Mill, climb up to Timsbury. Mick decided the litter strewn lay-by outside a sewage works would be a good place to stop.
'I'm not eating here!' I exclaimed. 'It's disgusting.'
'It's not that bad,' he retorted. 'You've obviously never been to Bolivia.' Bolivia, according to Mick, is one vast rubbish tip. His description didn't fill me with an urge to visit.
As it was, we stopped at Timsbury churchyard to eat our sandwiches. 'Your place isn't any better,' he grumbled. 'It's full of dead people.'
'Well I'd rather eat with dead people than with used condoms and litter.'

From here it was a scary whizz along the dual carriageway of the A39 before joining the more peaceful lanes back to Saltford and home. Recovering with a cuppa I looked again at the map.
'Bollocks!' I shouted.
'What now?' said Mick, wearily.
'I've just realised we passed within yards of Stoney Littleton Long Barrow. We missed it! We're going to have to do the ride again.'
I ducked just in time. Mick had thrown his last cheese roll at me.

Our route is here

Walking the Bath Beat Route

I was lazing in bed sipping a cup of tea when I had a text from my friend Yvonne asking me if I fancied going for a walk. 'Sure, when?' I texted back. 'Now.' Crikey. Ok. Forty five minutes later I was at Combe Down, lacing up my boots and pulling on my gloves. Yvonne was right though, it was a lovely day, and too good to waste.

'I've brought an OS map,' I said, mindful of previous walking disasters when we had ventured out together. 'And I've brought two headlights this time.'
'Oh, we won't need those,' Yvonne said confidently. I know this route really well, I walk it all the time.'
The route we were taking was part of the shortest route of the Bath Beat, an annual walk/running event around the Limpley Stoke valley. I decided to err on the side of caution and put them in my rucksack anyway, and we set off.

Two minutes later we were staring down the very steep path which led down the hill to the village of Monkton Combe. Very steep and very, very icy. 'Don't fancy that,' I said. Yvonne agreed. Only Alfie seemed keen, but he obediently turned around with us and trudged up to the road.We were already 'off route' and unsure where we were. Great. A chance to use my beloved map. I reached in my bag to get it.
'Oh, don't worry, I've got us pinpointed,' said Yvonne, waving her iphone4S. Sure enough a pulsating red circle was throbbing on the map on the screen. Holding it in front like a dowsing stick we traced our way down the road until we joined up with our original route.

***Warning: using a phone to navigate may be ok in Bath. But not on top of Scafall Pike. See here***

We followed the bed of the old Somerset Coal Canal to Midford. Authorised by Act of Parliament in 1794 the canal was built to carry coal from the Somersetshire coalfields up to the Kennet and Avon and thence to Bath and beyond. By the 1820's the canal was carrying over 100,000 tons per year. By the end of the century the seams were becoming worked out and the railways had taken over the freight trade. It was closed in 1898 and sold a few years later to the Great Western Railway who promptly built a railway over much of the route. There is lots of information here and here about the SCC. (The former is now the 'unoffical' website but I think it is the better one of the two.)
Partway along we found a tyre hanging from a tree and despite the fact that we have a combined age of nearly 100, the tempation was too much. We took it in turns having a swing, and then spinning eachother around until we were so giddy we fell over in the mud. It was great fun.

Eventually we dragged ourselves away and soon reached the main road at Midford, used it to cross the brook and then turned off immediately onto Midford Lane and then plunged back across fields and woodland.






From here there was a fine view of Midford Castle, a castle folly built in 1775 for Henry Disney Roebuck. I can't find anything much about him except he was from a wealthy family and liked a bit of gambling. For decades the house was owned by writer Isabel Colegate (author of the Shooting Party) and her husband Michael Briggs. In 2007 they sold it to Nicholas Cage, who apparently was very taken with Bath and the local area. (He also bought a place in the Circus in Bath.) He sold it just two years later, apparently to help him deal with an enormous tax bill.










At Monkton Combe there is an annoying climb up the hill and then back down again to circumnavigate the playing fields and swimming pool of the
  posh Monkton Combe public school. Still, it gave us a chance to look at the old lock up dating from around 1776. Having skirted the playing fields we headed back down the hill and then turned left along the road. We were now walking the course of the old Bristol and North Somerset Railway which had superceded the canal in the nineteenth century, until the railway, in its turn, became uneconomical to run and was closed. Monkton Station, sadly now long gone, became Titfield Station for the wonderful 1953 Ealing Comedy The Titfield Thunderbolt




From derelict canals and defunct railways we headed onto a functioning canal, the Kennet and Avon. Alfie was complaining that he was hungry, Yvonne said it served him right as he hadn't eaten his breakfast, but after some truly pitiful looks from him she relented and we stopped at the Angel Cafe for some tea and biscuits. (I know, I know I said I wouldn't come here again, but hey, I never claimed to be consistent. And actually I got a smile from one of the staff today.)

The boats were pretty solidly iced in and nothing was moving. But just after crossing the Dundas aquaduct we came across a narrowboat having a go at icebreaking. It was doing a fine job of ripping all the blacking off its bow, so I assume wherever the crew was trying to get to must have been really important. Or maybe they were just a couple of dickheads, I don't know. There are a lot of them at this end of the K&A. They managed to crash the boat along for about fifty yards before coming to a complete stop in the middle of the canal.


We stood gongoozling and gawping for a while, but then Yvonne suddenly panicked, as she realised that we were short of time to get to the cafe before they stopped serving food so we left the boaters to it. We power-walked the last three miles to Avoncliffe; by the time we got there I thought I was going to throw up on the counter. but we had made it with two and a half minutes to spare and ordered some food.

After we'd eaten and I'd stopped wanting to vomit we set off across the fields to Freshford, passing through Tess's Gate.



 At least at this time of year there were no cows for us to run away from. The New Inn at Freshford looked delightful and I was very pleased when Yvonne made a bee line for it. Oh. Apparently she was just heading for the toilet. Never mind.  It's owned by the Box Steam Brewery and I made a mental note to come back soon to sample the beer. Maybe I could work it into a bike ride.

We passed Freshford Mill, a large and controversial housing development. Progress at the site seems to be at about the pace of an arthritic tortoise, it seems the developers may have gone bust. The final loop took us over the hill near Limpley Stoke. Next to one of the farms was a collection of huts and an old petrol pump, presumably a relic from World War Two.
We only had one more challenge - the very steep descent and ascent of Monkton Combe Valley. Alfie was getting weary. He kept lying down, evidently hoping one of us would relent and carry him, but we remained hard hearted. The path was slippery and we found a couple of stout sticks to aid the descent.









On reaching the car I turned to Yvonne. 'This doesn't seem right,' I said.
'What?'
'No crawling through barbed wire. No running away from cows. No staggering around in the dark. It was, as our walks go, pretty uneventful.'
'You're right,' she said. 'Maybe we're getting better at this.'
Possibly. Or maybe it was just a fluke. We'll find out next time.

To Bradford and back. (Not that one, the on-Avon one)

Since Christmas I have been suffering from an evil cough, but finally it abated enough for me to venture out on my bike for the first ride of 2012. The original plan was a loop through Radstock in east Mendip but there is a monster hill on the route so at the last minute I decided on a completely flat cycle and towpath 25 mile route from Keynsham to Bradford-on-Avon and back. As it was a little while since I last rode my bike any distance, I decided that would probably be enough for me.
My friend Adrian was accompanying me. He turned up with his bike looking very professional. Adrian cycles sportives for fun.
Uh oh. (Small internal panic.)
'Erm, Adrian, I'm not very fast,' I warned him.
'That's fine,' he said.

We shot off along the lanes to Saltford and got onto the Bristol Bath cycle path. This is also Sustrans Route 4 which starts in Fishguard and ends in London. In an effort to show I was not completely useless I set a good pace even though it was nearly killing me. I tried not to allow my gasps for breath to become audible, although he must have noticed that my face was now an interesting shade of puce.

Mercifully at Bath we joined the path alongside the River Avon for a short stretch which necessitated  slowing down and gave me a chance to catch my breath.
'I thought you said you were slow,' Adrian said.
'Well, you know, one has to try,'  I gasped, trying to sound casual.


Very soon though we were forced off onto the road as the towpath was closed. The river is also closed to boaters, I hear, because of concerns about the safety of Victoria Bridge. This bridge was the first one designed

 The Bridge of Oich -
if you look closely you can see my bike...

by James Dredge. Dredge was a brewer from Bath who designed the bridge in 1836 to a revolutionary new design, which he used in other bridges all over the country. That the bridge has been allowed to deteriorate to the stage where is it about to fall down is a disgrace. Apparently the last time it was properly looked at was in the nineteen-fifties. Dredge also built the Bridge of Oich which we passed on our Lejog a couple of years ago. In contrast, that bridge has been restored and looks fabulous. I hope the Bath one receives similar treatment in the near future.

On the road we opted for a belt down the A36 through traffic road from Twerton to Widcombe  where, with some relief, we got off the road and joined the towpath at the start of the Bath end of the Kennet and Avon Canal. This was not Route 4, as was evident when we had to haul our bikes up a flight of steps and cross the road to rejoin the towpath on the other side  

Widcombe flight, Bath

at the entrance to Sidney Gardens. Back on the towpath it was nice and quiet, although a bit puddly. Adrian had brought his mountain bike, a good choice. I only have one bike - my Dawes Horizon - but we managed to bump along ok until we reached Dundas Aqueduct and stopped for a cup of tea.

The cafe just down the spur of the Somerset Coal Canal is nice enough, but why are the staff always so miserable? Every time I have been here it's the same, you can barely get a word or a smile out of them, it's quite noticable. I don't think I will patronise them again. Still, a nice cup of tea before the final push on to Bradford-on-Avon, a stretch along the Limpley Stoke Valley and which was pleasant and uneventful, aside from the dead badger we saw floating in the canal. Yeuch.

In contrast, the people at the Lock Inn Cafe are always friendly. I went in to order our sandwiches, and as we had forgotten bike locks Adrian stayed outside with the bikes. Oh no! On the counter was a beer pump. It was Wadworth's Boundary. I was tempted, I had not tried this one before. Such a shame not to. I ordered us a half each. It was a new barrel and needed pulling through, so I had already sat down when the proprietor brought them over.

Adrian looked at the beer in dismay. 'What's that?' he asked.
'Um, beer. Haven't tried this one before,' I said lamely.
'I didn't want to drink today,' he said.
So I had to force them both down. Which wasn't too much of a trial, admittedly.

Bradford on Avon

After we left the cafe and headed back down the towpath I told Adrian that I had detected a key difference in our cycling styles.
'What's that?' he said.
'You cycle to get fit. I cycle to get to the pub.'
Adrian agreed that this was indeed so.

It turned out Ade also had to get back home for an important phonecall so we belted back along the towpath getting pretty muddy in the process. By the time we headed back through Bath I was exhausted and my legs were aching. This was not good. I need to up my training if I'm going to cycle Ireland's End to End in April as I plan.
'Time for a cup of tea?' I asked hopefully.
'No, not really, we'd best get on,' he said.
Aaargh. We made good time though so thankfully could stop for a quick coffee at the Bird in Hand in Saltford before the last leg back to Keynsham. Twenty-five flat miles and I was done in! As soon as Adrian left I went and lay down on the bed for a jolly good nap.

Re-cycle sculpture on Kennet and Avon

Reading to Beale Park

Turf sided lock

I had to go home for a couple of days, by the time I caught up with Mick he was heading into Reading. I had parked at the end of the town and cycled back along the towpath to meet him, just outside the town. He was just coming through Garston Lock, one of the two remaining turf sided locks on the canal. These have vegetation rather than brick walls, almost all the locks at this end of the navigation were once turf sided, now only Garston and Monkey Marsh remain. As the boat roof drew level with the side, I stepped on the roof and deposited my bike before demanding a cup of tea.

The canal to Reading was much nicer than I had expected, mainly river fed through meadows, we were not really aware of the proximity of Reading itself until we were right in the town. At county lock we had to wait at the traffic lights. Yes, traffic lights on the canal! The lights control boat traffic through "brewery gut".At one time Simonds Brewery buildings stood on both sides of the channel, forcing the River Kennet to flow fast and furious downstream. In order to maintain steerage boats would have to belt downstream and there were occasions when collisions occured with boats coming the other way. The brewery has long been demolished, and Reading town centre looked very different to the last time I boated along here, circa 1991. Now we were right in the centre of "The Oracle" shopping centre, and the place was full of people out enjoying lunch in the sunshine.

We passed the only surviving building of the once great Huntley and Palmers biscuit company. Estrablished in Reading, in 1900 this was the largest biscuit manufacturer in the world, and employed a local workforce of 5000. Reading was known as "Biscuit Town". The building that survived was the old social club, although now it has been turned into (what else?) flats. Still, at least it wasn't flattened along with the others, to be replaced by shops and restaurants. From beer and biscuits to shopping and services. Like most places in the Uk, Reading no longer makes anything at all really.

Blakes Lock is the official end of the Kennet and Avon navigation. From now on we were under the care of  the Environment Agency rather than BW, the lock is unique in being the only EA lock not actuall on the River Thames. We needed to buy a licence but there was no-one at the lock. As we started to turn the huge wheels that open the paddles on the lock, a chap crossed the lock wearing blue overalls and a PFD around his neck. (Personal Floatation Device), bouyancy aid to you and me. Aha, I thought, this must be the lock keeper and I went to ask him about licences. He laughed.
"I'm not the lock keeper," he said. "I'm an electrician. I have to wear this because I'm crossing the lock. Health and safety." Ah yes. Of course.

Once through Blakes Lock it was not long before we saw the Thames up ahead. Gosh it looked big. As we approached, a boat shot downtream past the entrance from which we were about to emerge.
"Bloody hell! I'll go on lookout," I said, making my way to the front of the boat. "Blast on the horn! What's the signal for 'out of the way we're coming across'?"
"Three long blasts, two short ones," Mick said.
I looked at him, impressed. "Really?"
"No, I've no idea, I made that up."

Anyway, we blasted the horn a lot and then made a run for it across the river to the right hand side and turned left.

The Thames was glorious. And wide. We thoroughly enjoyed our passage up through Caversham Lock, how nice to have the lock worked for you. Things did not go quite so smoothly at Mapledurham lock however. As we approached the lock a buoy was tethered midstream.
"What does it mean?" said Mick? "Left or right?"
"Dunno, um go left," I said, just as Mick steered right of the buoy and glided onto a sandbank where we stuck fast.
"Bollocks!" he exclaimed.
We tried forward and reverse but didn't move an inch. Then Mick had a go with the pole which simply sank into the soft mud.
"Shit, shit, shit."
A couple of women were walking down the path in the far side. "Hey, do you fancy pulling me off?" shouted Mick.
God he's embarrassing.

Eventually we managed, by both standing on the bow and pushing hard on a pole to float the boat off. By then the current had pulled the front round and we found ourselves floating back downstream.
"No worries," I said. "I'll turn round here in this inlet."
I then proceeded to miss the inlet as I tried to turn and we continued downstream, now sideways on.
"Let me do it," said Mick irritably. He grabbed the tiller and we finally managed to turn around and head back upstream towards the lock, this time passing on the left hand side of the marker buoy.

If the lock keeper had noticed our antics he gave no sign of it, passing comment about the weather.
"Wife's been on the phone," he said. "Torrential rain in Reading at the moment, yet here there's nothing!"
We nodded politely, too shaken by our ordeal to think of anything to say.

Love a glass of wine on in the Thames!

"Dunno about you, but I could do with a pint after that," said Mick.
We moored up outside Beale Park and I took the opportunity for a quick dip in the Thames to cool off before we headed into Pangbourne for a pint.

Three men out of their boat

Whilst we were in the George Hotel a group of three men came in, whom Mick recognised as having seen rowing a skiff on the river an hour or so earlier.
"Hey its the three men in a boat!" he exclaimed.
"You recognise us?" they said, evidently gratified.
We nodded. "But where is Montemerency?"
"Couldn't manage a dog as well," they groaned. "It's been bloody hard work." Turned out they had only managed one nights camping before bailing out and booking into the hotel.

Provisions for today....

Still we enjoyed a few beers before Mick and I trotted back down the now very dark towpath to get some well earned zeds.

Great Bedwyn to Newbury

After a soaking first thing, the weather picked up as we headed east towards Hungerford. We did have to perform a duckling rescue at one lock, where a duckling at got swept down the side sluice. Its mother was quacking frantically by the side of the lock and the duckling was paddling upstream frantically, but getting nowhere. Gallantly we jumped in and scooped up the duckling, delivering it to mum on the other side. My sympathy for the mother's anxiety abated however when, after throwing them a bit of duck food, I noticed that she was grabbling it all, leaving nothing for the poor chick.

"That one is a crap mum," I observed.

We have noticed whilst boating that some birds are distinctly more family orientated than others. Last year one duck, whom we nicknamed "supermum" managed to rear nine ducklings without losing one. When we watched her we realised that she always made sure the youngsters had food before she ate any herself. Other, less family orientated parents grab everything they can and leave the chicks to fend for themselves.

Anyway, crap mum or not, we felt we had done our bit. I stuck my soaking boots on the back to dry out and we pressed on. 

At Hungerford Marsh, the lock is awkward, having a swing bridge across the top of it. The bridge has to be opened before using the lock. Mick went on to deal with the lock whilst I secured the boat. The lock was against us so Mick closed the bottom gates, opened the paddles and, whilst the lock was filling, wandered off. When I got up to the lock I realised that the bottom gate had swung fully open and the water was rushing through, creating mini whirlpools beneath the paddles. Ooops! Luckily the pound above the lock was long and full. I yelled for Mick and we reset the lock again. 

"I remember this one, now," said Mick ruefully. "I had the same trouble last time, and I was on my own. I had to prop the gate shut with a pole."

The Rose of Hungerford passed us at Hungerford Wharf. This is a trip boat for the K&A Trust and was the boat that the Queen travelled down Caen Hill aboard for the official re-opening of the canal on 8th August 1990, 180 years after its first opening. 

 By the time we reached Newbury it was nine o'clock and we were pretty bushed. There was no room at West Mills so we wearily made our way through the swing bridge and tied up above Newbury Lock for the night.

Honey Street to Great Bedwyn

The party had gone on long into the night at the Barge Inn and at the campsite next door. This morning all was quiet save for a few early birds who were packing up their gear. I watched them as they moved about gingerly, as if any sudden movement or loud noise would have made their head explode. It had obviously been a good night.

Yesterday at Devizes we had stopped for a chat with a family from New Zealand, a young couple with their uncle and aunt,  who were heading up the same way as us. At Wootton Rivers we cam upon them again. Here are the last four locks that take the canal up to the summit pound, and they were waiting for the first one to fill as we approached. 

"They're indulging me, " said the uncle as we sat on the back of the boats whilst the others took care of filling the lock. "I wanted to go through the tunnel. Who knows when I'll get another chance?"

It meant they were on a tight schedule as, due to low water, these locks were closed at three in the afternoon. "I'm sure we'll make it," he said optimistically. 

We have been surprised by how many visitors we come across from New Zealand, Australia and North America on the canal system, it  seems to be an increasingly popular holiday destination. And everyone we spoke to told us how much they loved it. 

With all hands to the lock we made good time up the flight and then pressed on to Bruce Tunnel. Its only a dinky one, lengthwise, by canal standards, a mere 502 yards long, but it takes a good few minutes to navigate through, and I could see why he was keen to do it. We took photos of them exiting the tunnel behind us to email off to them, sharing email addresses as they executed a turn at the winding hole above the Crofton flight which takes the canal down to Great Bedwyn south of Savernake Forest.

The first couple of locks were uneventful. Then pandemonium broke out. We were coming through the third lock when a chap rushed up to the lock. 

"We're all on the bottom down there!" he said. ""When you've come through I'll have to let another lockful of water down." 

The wife of the chap at the lock asked frantically where her husband was. "We're tipping right over!" she said. We went to help her hold a rope. 

"He's letting more water down to try and float you off," I explained.

The woman from the other widebeam came along the towpath. 

"Its those two down there," she said grimly. ""They've been at that lock for half an hour, they don't know what they're doing. My husband has gone to have a word."

We looked down the canal to the next lock where a smallish narrowboat had just gone into the lock. A man on the bank was gesticulating and we and could hear a lot of shouting going on. After a while he came storming back.

"Bloody idiots!" he exclaimed. "They haven't a clue what they're doing. They've opened the bottom and the top paddles at the same time. This, of course, had the effect of allowing the water simply to wash though the lock. No wonder they were grounded. 

"We only stopped for a cup of tea," the chap groaned. "Now we're going to be here until tomorrow."

"We'd better tell them to wait," I said, heart sinking. We can't let them go on or we'll have to waste another lockful of water. Mick gingerly edged the boat along the very low pound, scraping along the bottom the whole time. At the lock the culprits were still faffing about. They were a couple in their sixties. He was clearly ex-army, it stood out a mile. He was shouting and blustering, the way men do when they have made a cock up but can't admit it. She was looking weary, but in a way that showed she was used to this sort of thing. They had picked the hire boat up in Devizes and clearly had no idea whatsoever what they were doing.

"Do we have to share locks with bloody Colonel Blimp?" I hissed to Mick.

He nodded glumly. "Yes I think we do, we can't risk them going alone. The whole effing canal will be empty, he's a complete disaster area."

The worst thing was, although he clearly had no idea what he was doing, "the colonel" refused to listen to anybody else. As soon as one of us tried to show him anything he would  say, "yes, yes I know I know," before going on to completely fuck it up. Even worse, he would insist from charging around the lock, shouting and waving his arms about like a demented hippo.

And so, together we limped down the canal to Great Bedwyn where we moored both boats up for the night. Great Bedwyn only has two pubs so it was hardly surprising that we ran into the two of them later in the evening. 

"Oh hi," said Mrs Blimp, clearly delighted to see us. "Thank you so much for your help today. I don't know how we would have managed without you!"

"Oh that's ok,"I said. "It's difficult the first time you go boating isn't it."

"Oh it's not the first time," she said. "Last year we did the Warwickshire ring."

I looked at her in disbelief. 

"And um, any plans for next year?"

"We thought we might try the Thames."

I made a mental note to look out for them on news at ten.

Devizes to Honey Street

When we arrived at the bottom of the flight last night there had been another boat waiting to lock up. They looked a bit horrified when we said we wanted to set off at eight o'clock, we eventually agreed on eight-thirty. As it was, we weren't quite ready at eight-thirty anyway, as we realised at the last minute that we had forgotten to load up our bikes which were tied to a post on the towpath. 

But we were still the first pair of boats up the flight when we set off with John and Carolyn on their narrowboat, Chalico. We made good progress halfway up the flight but then got held up by British Waterways who were doing running repairs to one of the paddles  on the lock.  This blew our schedule out of the water (as it were). I wondered whether John and Carolyn were secretly thinking, "Hah, that'll teach you, with your damn early start, huh?" If they were, they were far too nice to let on though.

The people on a hire boat on the other side of the stoppage were getting a little worked up, as they were behind schedule, we could hear some rather bad language so we retreated and put the kettle on. Boating is like that, there are often unexpected stoppages and hold-ups, just when you are thinking you are making good progress. If you like rushing about, or indeed actually getting somewhere, boating is probably not the best pastime. With boating its all about the journey.

Three quarters of an hour later we were on the move again and we finally found ourselves wearily arriving at Devizes wharf at half past two, having waved goodbye to our new acquaintances at the top of the flight. We popped into Devizes for some provisions.


If you ask me, Devizes is very under-rated. Its a lovely market town and, unlike many town centres, it still has plenty of independent shops, despite the presence of several supermarkets in town. it has two independent bookshops. We stopped at Walter Rose and Sons, an excellent butcher/deli and stocked up on meats and cheeses for the journey.

Back on board, by the time we had filled up the water tank and what not, it was a) gone four o'clock and b) tipping with rain. At least now we were at the start of the "long pound", a fifteen mile stretch with no  locks and just a couple of swing bridges, so we put up the hood on the boat and pressed on through the rain. And rain. And rain. We put the hood out and peered out glumly as we pottered along.

Honey Street is a small settlement by the canal, focused around The Barge pub. For some years now it has been the focus for crop circle hunters and one or two crop circle creators. This "phenomenon" has nothing to do with alien forces or the supernatural. It's down to a group of "trustafarians", upper middle class drop-outs with too much time on their hands, and no way of using that Oxbridge degree. So they compete to come up with the most complex designs, some of which, it must be said, are quite beautiful.

Anyway, today was the summer solstice and so the pub was brimming with space cadets, all out of their heads. No sooner had we moored up then a woman staggered over to ask for a light. When I produced one she flung her arms around me in delight, declaring that she loved me, the world and just about everything else.

"Not sure I can cope with too much of this," muttered Mick.
So after a quick pint we retreated to the safety of the boat, opened a bottle of wine and both fell asleep before drinking a drop. It  had been a long day.

Bradford on Avon to Devizes

The section of the canal around Bradford on Avon is always busy and this morning was no exception. By nine o'clock when we set off there was already two boats moored by the lock. By the time we had waited for them o go up and another one to come down, it was over an hour before us and our companions in the rental boat had cleaed the lock. We gave them a wave as we headed off.

"Ask for your money back!" I called out as we motored away. I hope he did.

The section of canal through Hilperton and Trowbridge is not that salubrious and there were so many moored boats it was slow going. (It is not good form to go too fast past moored boats, the resulting wash can pull out mooring pins, cause nasty bumps and make people on board spill their cornflakes . Or worse. I know because some years ago my boat was sunk on the K&A just below Bradford lock. A narrowboat had gone past very fast pushing my wooden boat onto the bank and making a hole in the hull. Some witnesses thought it was a boat that belonged to the Royal Navy and used by their personnel for holidays, but I had no proof. Still, at least I can claim to be probably the owner of the only boat on the canal system to be sunk by the Navy!)

Once past Hilperton the landscape began to change to open fields. At Semington two locks continues the gradual climb of the canal .On the left was a bricked up side bridge marking the spot where the Wilts and Berks Canal used to join with the K&A. The canal was abandoned in 1914 by an Act of Parliament. There is an active restoration group (here and here) who have gained considerable support in their efforts to re-open the canal. Considering that quite a lot of Swindon and the M4 have been built on it, I have a great deal of admiration for their determination and commitment.

Emptying the toilet

This is what the toilet smelt of - not!

Further on at Semington are the next five locks. There is also a "sanitary station" where we stopped to perform the gruesome task of emptying the toilet.
We wished Vince was with us to volunteer. (previous post).


After a quick beer stop at the pub opposite we pressed on to Devizes and locked up the first seven to the bottom of the Caen Hill flight. We were both feeling pretty weary which was a bit of a worry as at eight o'clock the next morning we were due to start the long climb of twenty-two locks which separated us from Devizes Wharf two miles up the hill.