Sunday 13^th March 2005

Hilary, Herbie (golden retriever) and I arrived at Wrenbury Mill at 2:30pm, too late for food in the two pubs by the marina. We dined on pretzels while waiting for our handover session for the Narrowboat named "Fulmar". Out through the electrically-operated lift bridge and we were on our way, chugging passed fields and negotiating 3 locks before we tied up at Willey Moor Lock, by the inn of the same name.

I trudged around the fields behind the inn with Herbie, looking for a path across the fields to the Blue Bell Inn which is given high praise in the Good Pub Guide. Found the route, passing a speed boat named "Bossy Bitch" on a trailor, but didn’t get all of the way to the pub due to recalcitrant dog who seemed eager to return to the comfort of his bed on the boat.

Dined on a lethally-hot chicken piri piri from M&S and then popped into the Willey Moor Lock Inn. Cluttered with whimsical teapots and staff eager to shut early on a Sunday evening, we returned to the boat after a quick drink and watched TV.

Monday 14th March 2005

Four locks to pass through, going uphill, and then the staircase lock at Grindley Brook which was causing some confusion and consternation amongst fellow boaters. Three locks with four sets of gates, each lock emptying directly into the one below. In peak season it can take 3 hours to get through this challenge. The internet café @ Bridge 29 provided a modern counterpoint to the 200 year old technology of the lock system. We chugged around the U-turn where the canal "makes as if to call at the old Shropshire market town of Whitchurch, but then seems to think better of it" without stopping and jumped off the boat on 4 occasions to open lift bridges where farm tracks cross the canal.

We stopped at bridge 43, Platt Lane and walked up to the Waggoners Inn, which turned out to be closed. A good traditional looking pub, despite the huge plastic dinosaur/dragon in the garden. In the afternoon we passed the repair zone on the canal near Bettisfield, testified by shiny new metal canal edging and farmland churned up by the mechanical tread of diggers and cranes. The breach of the canal, blamed on the burrowing of local badgers had threatened our holiday, but the work had been completed ahead of schedule so we didn’t have to resort to Plan B (the Kennet and Avon canal). Passing scenery was predominantly agricultural with flocks of seagulls following tractors ploughing the fields and small lambs springing along after their mothers. Weather remained overcast and cold.

We passed along ridges above the surrounding rolling fields and on through pleasant woodland surrounding a number of large meres (lakes). Picnic tables and wooden huts which had seen better days were set to make the most of the scenery. It brought to mind numerous American films and books with secluded timber lodges on vast lakes, generally out of season. Holiday homes which set the scene for stalking psychopaths, ghosts, secrets and family reconciliations away from the city. There would generally be an unfortunate incident involving a fishing dinghy in the plot!

We moored for the night near Ellesmere. Well-marked walks around The Mere provided exercise for Herbie in the dark, rainy evening. We stayed in the boat watching DVD’s with the heating turned up.

Tuesday 15th March 2005

We walked into Ellesmere after our breakfast of Special K cereal. The Pearson Canal Companion says "Ellesmere is a rare survival, a small unspoilt country town with no pretentions. Life seems as slowly lived here as the rhythmic lapping of waters on the shores of the meres. Visitors are assimilated without the usual symptomatic rash of tourist traps. What the visitor sees today is a late 19^th century country town preserved almost in aspic." We agreed whole-heartedly with this and ear-marked the town for a return visit.

We walked into the town passed a wooden dinghy full of plants and the army cadet hut, and on past timbered terraced houses and a pub that could have been out of Treasure Island. One of the recommended shops to visit is Vermeulen’s delicatessen which has a range of tempting treats from pork pies, bacon, cooked meat and cheeses. We stocked up with a pork pie, black pudding, Shropshire blue cheese and some honey-roast ham which was a snip at £4.44 for the lot. Other essential supplies necessitated a trip to the Co-op for a box of wine. We filled up with water at the boatyard, alongside a boat skippered by an American in a fine grey beard and his wife.

Chugging on passed Frankton Junction in the rain, we reluctantly left the Narrowboat Inn and the Jack Mytton Pub ("Dogs welcome at Mad Jacks!" said the sign) in our wake without stopping. We followed the American couple through the 2 New Marton locks. There was a delay at the second lock as a working boat came through from the opposite direction and a couple of canal enthusiasts from the lock-keepers cottage insisted that they photograph it from every angle as it made it’s way through the top lock. The skipper of the working boat thought that I was the lock keeper and thanked me for opening the paddles.

We passed a splendid new bar and restaurant with a marina by bridge 17, named Lion Quays. Further along we passed the Poachers Pocket pub which was heartily recommended by some British Waterways workers in fluorescent orange inflatable jackets, who were concreting the tow path outside. Lambs frolicked on the steep grassy banks and huddled together out of the rain in hollows and tree stumps.

We passed by Chirk without noticing and were soon following a laboriously slow bright yellow boat across the aqueduct and into the 459 yard long Chirk Tunnel (Previously known as Darkie Tunnel). Both the aqueduct and the tunnel are too narrow for boats to pass so you need to check there is no oncoming traffic before embarking. We crossed the border from England into Wales 70 feet in the air in a narrow channel, supported by tall elegant arches above the River Ceirog. Another magnificent viaduct alongside carries the railway. Fantastic architecture for 1801, built by Thomas Telford (See http://www.chirk.com/aqueduct.html for more details).

In dismal weather we negotiated a final lift bridge, complicated by the fact that the tow path was fenced off for renovation and moored for the night at long-term moorings at Froncysyllte, a small town which perched on the hill above the canal, dominated by the Aqueduct Inn. A monument to miners had been erected across the canal on the closed side. A rock carved with images of picks and a cart on rails. A short walk around the bend from our mooring took us to the awe-inspiring 1,000 foot long Pontcysyllte (Pont-ker-sulth-tee) Aqueduct which carries the canal in an iron trough on a series of high arches 127 feet above the tumultuous River Dee. There is a channel just wide enough for one narrowboat and a tow path with iron railings on the right hand side. The left hand side wall is only a foot or so higher than the water level so you look down into a vast gulf on the left as you chug over. Herbie had a quick look through the tow path railings and hurriedly skipped back to the safety of the bank behind us.

TV reception was poor despite moving the boat along a bit, so we watched Top Gun on DVD while tucking in to M&S chicken tikka masala.

Wednesday 16th March 2005

After a hearty breakfast of bacon sandwiches and black pudding from Ellesmere we filled up our water tanks. The tap was exceptionally fierce and kept forming air locks which threw the hose whipping and spitting out of the filler hole, and into the air like a writhing Harry Potter serpent, showering us with spray. We set off with Hilary and Herbie safely inside the boat as I negotiated across the scary aqueduct. The view was spectacular despite the miserable drizzle, starting with playing fields dotted with sheep and going on to a rocky Welsh white water river valley far below on the left.

Reaching the sanctuary of the other side of the Dee Valley we took a tight left hand right angle turn moving along the side of the valley and leaving behind the busy Trevor arm. We were now in the wilder Welsh hills and rocky outcrops replaced soft green fields. The canal is narrow, shallower and has an increasing flow against us now, so we make slower progress in the drizzle. A wide valley is visible on our left when trees and high banks allow. We passed several small maintenance boats on the trip, and the latest was named "Earwig". There were an assortment of ducks, from the common mallard, to black ones with white fronts and predominantly white ones. There seemed to be quite a few mixed couples about.

We met few oncoming vessels, but the few we did meet were always at the worst point, at a blind bridge or a tight bend where one or other of us would end up aground. This situation dogged us for the whole trip, even though at this early (the first week of the season) there were very few boats in motion. On the final leg there were a few narrow channels where boats would not be able to pass and signs advised that a crew member walked ahead to reconnoitre the situation and warn oncoming boats.

We passed the Sun Trevor, the final pub before Llangollen, and a place recommended to stop in the busy summer season rather than try and get to Llangollen. We got to the new marina at the navigable end of the canal and turned around in a wide expanse of water. The shiny new marina jetties were empty except for one boat. The canal seemed to be in its own twee High Street, with the canal substituted for the road. The tourist day trip boats were moored awaiting the seasons trippers and England, Ireland, Wales and Scottish flags flapped in the breeze above the tea rooms. All of the new moorings are equipped with electrical hook-ups and their own water points (fitted by a firm from Skegness). There is a charge of £5 per night for mooring in the summer season, but although the winter officially finished on 15^th March (yesterday), the British Waterways Customer Service Operative in his mini-portakabin said we could moor for free and he would start summer from the weekend.

Hilary and I descended the steep slope into town, passing a taxidermists shop with it’s windows full of petrified owls, birds and animals. We crossed the chunky ancient bridge and browsed the tourist knick-knack, craft and New Age shops. The weather was warming up and the rain had stopped. A nice bottle of red wine and a meal of liver with bubble and squeak in the charismatic old Corn Mill pub/restaurant revived our spirits. Windows in the timbered floors revealed the old water wheels and we looked out over the tumbling River Dee and a green steam train puffing in the railway station on the opposite bank. (Well worth a visit if you are in the area - more information at http://www.brunningandprice.co.uk/pub10_1.html) We returned to the boat laid down with provisions.

The sky was brightening but still grey, although a few blue bits were peeping through the chinks ("enough to make a pair of sailors trousers," as Hilary would say). There was no television reception despite moving the boat, so we settled in to watch Shameless, series 1 on DVD. After a stiff gin and tonic I went into town and bought the biggest Chinese takeaway feast imaginable. The Special Banquet for 2 from the River Dragon (£34) was presented in a carrier bag bulging at the seams and so full it was difficult to get hold of the handles. Washed down with red wine (Hilary) and Summer Moon medium dry perry (Steve). Lovely. And left us very full up indeed (with some left for lunch tomorrow).

The night sky was clearer, with lots of stars, but it soon misted over. There were some strong gusts of wind, but we were moored in quite a sheltered spot. The old bridge across the river into town makes it look medieval in the moonlight.

Thursday 17th March 2005

We awoke to a brighter morning with blue patches amongst the clouds. The sun shone in shafts down on Llangollen. British Waterways also provided a fine public toilet for boaters which was a palace compared to the cramped cubby hole on the boat. In Somerfield supermarket the newspapers were full of cynical headlines about the pre-election budget (You’ll pay later!) and teenage girls queued behind me optimistically hoping to be served with Red Square alcopops (20% alcohol by volume). The sun was shining as we replenished our water reserves and set off on our return journey.

We ploughed ahead down the narrow channels with the grey rock face on our left, hoping that nothing was coming the other way. We made it through the restricted passage without incident and soon had the frisky lambs bleating at us as we passed. Others were to busy suckling on their mums. There was a strong wind blowing as we crossed the exposed aqueducts but we were "old hands" at these crossings now. Whitehouses tunnel at 191 yards seemed little more than a wide bridge. The tunnels in this area are only wide enough to allow one boat at a time to pass through, but they do have a tow path running right through them. This is because Telford considered the hitherto established practice of "legging" by boatmen to be dangerous and undignified. Later we passed a modern, new viaduct with huge concrete pillars and a road on it which would fail to rouse anybodies interest.

"Why not have a game of golf?" beseeched signs on the approaches to Chirk Marina and golf course. We fed ducks as they raced after the boat, flying to catch bread in their beaks before it hit the water. A welter of quacking and splashing until the bread ran out. We tied up at the newly concreted jetty at the Poachers Pocket pub and sat in the afternoon sun on one of the multitude of picnic benches in the beer garden. Supping drinks we sent text messages to workmates on our mobile phones. Sad, or just a sign of the times? We were disappointed by the pub, which had been themed, replacing the original timber beams and artefacts with plastic replications.

We retired to the boat at 3pm and munched crusty white rolls with Chinese chicken and sweetcorn soup which was left from our take away feast. During the day we had been chomping on the huge bag of prawn crackers from the same source. After a bottle of Chile con Cabernet wine we were soon all snoozing.

We returned to the pub for an adequate, but uninspiring meal. Mega Meals were on offer, but we stuck to the regular menu. There was a brisk trade from motorists at 6:30pm, probably due to the two meals for £7 before 7pm deal. Back on the boat we watched East Enders on TV followed by Jack Dee doing stand-up comedy on DVD to restore our humour after the enduring misery of Albert Square.

Friday 18th March 2005

Leaving faint footprints for prosperity on the fresh concrete tow path we set off, fortified with sandwiches made from bacon from the butchers in Llangollen, each rasher being about a quarter of an inch thick. A BW workman half-heartedly raked the grass and looked whistfully at the pub as we left it behind. Initial cloud gave way to sun and we were soon making good progress amongst undulating farmland. There is evidently a virulent mole presence in the whole of this area, the brown piles of earth in every direction. In one field they seemed to be working on a huge circle of earthy pyramids.

We passed a moored boat at an isolated spot and Hilary had to avert her gaze as a naked person appeared in the window. They must have thought they were free from view of passers by here. Wild flowers brightened up the banks, including the yellow flowers on gorse bushes. I supped Grolsch lager and pondered on the use of the Consumer Helpline. "Hello, I’ve just drunk ten bottles of your lager and I’ve gone all wobbly and my vision is blurred!"

Modern petrol stations along the route provide the daily supply of newspapers and basic provisions for boaters, replacing the old canalside stores. Hilary struggled to get across the busy main road on the bridge overlooking Lion Quays to get her Daily Telegraph.

We went under another "wide bridge" tunnel (87 yards) and stopped for lunch amongst the Ellesmere meres, finding an excellent picnic table in the sun between tree 27 and tree 28 (labelled for fishing pitches). Walkers exclaimed how lucky we were to be having lunch in such a picturesque spot and one little white dog didn’t want to leave us. The ducks were strange here and swam away from the bread we threw out to them.

Back in motion we passed a sign in the middle of nowhere saying "Jesus, lead us out of darkness into your glorious light". Further on a moored boat with a variety of junk on the roof displayed a sign saying "Jesus loves you" alongside a Welsh flag. At the other end were painted verses from the bible and the words "Gods Will" in a heart. The route wiggled about through a variety of arable and livestock pastures. At 3:30pm there was a half moon in the bright blue sky above and a blinding sun behind us. Shropshire seems to be overlooked by the tourist propaganda world, but this doesn’t seem justified. Most houses on the canal seemed to feel incomplete without some sort of decaying shed or hut, a few caravans and a selection of tacky garden ornaments. Quite a few had decaying cars of varying vintages, no doubt unfinished projects.

The distance from large towns and the fact that the canal doesn’t pass through big city suburbs means an absence of the usual canal debris, such as shopping trollies, plastic footballs and floating bags of rubbish (but there was a shopping trolley at Llangollen that must have been thrown off of the bridge). We usually see at least one dead sheep floating in the murky water on our canal holidays, but not in the Llangollen. We made good progress through a series of lift bridges and moor up on the outskirts of Whitchurch, just before lift bridge 33.

We passed another narrowboat sporting the fish symbol and a Boaters Christian Fellowship badge as we walked into the twilight world of Whitchurch. We had a long walk uphill heading towards a dark church tower on the horizon. A white van with an Odd Job Man livery offered "does the job your husband won’t". A fellow who looked like Benny from Crossroads, with "Jesus love you" badges on his bobble hat gave us dodgy directions to Tescos. The rumble of skateboards heralded a pack of weaving boarders slaloming the pavements and racing the traffic. We found Tesco eventually with lurking teenage girls in denim mini skirts and big boots. Walking back along the abandoned Whitchurch arm of the canal we encountered a plague of frogs under a firey red sky. A large group of dark frogs were hopping their way slowly into the swampy mush of the old canal bed. Back on the boat we battened down the hatches and watched the soaps and the Two Ronnies and tried to ignore the occasional mysterious rocking of the boat for no apparent reason.

Saturday 19th March 2005

The gloomy grey sky was back and there was condensation on the boat windows. Hilary clambered up the bank onto the bridge and tackled the busy A525 to get a paper from the petrol station on the other side. Hot showers and bacon sandwiches with HP sauce got us going and we headed for the staircase locks. This time there was a British Waterways man with the obligatory canal enthusiasts beard and blue sweatshirt on duty. He explained that the staircase locks should always be supervised by one of two men working 4 days on and 4 days off. Last Monday when we came up they were on a fire fighting course. "We’ve been issued with new mobile phones," he said. "We’d be better off going on a course to learn how to use those!"

A few of the locks had hydraulic winches on the paddles. This seemed to be counter-productive use of technology as they took more effort and were slower than the old manual ones. Herbie tried to follow us into the great canal shop "@ Bridge 29" where we found a range of local organic meat produce and exotic pate.

At the Willey Moor Lock Herbie took an unintended swim by trying to leap off the boat to shore and falling short. Luckily I was on hand to haul the dripping hound onto the bank by his collar. He snootled along the tow path looking sheepish. We moored up and headed west across the fields to the Blue Bell Inn, a heavily beamed 14^th century pub at Bell o’ th’ Hill. We pushed open the heavy wooden studded door and found the cosy interior full of solid wooden furniture and dozens of horse brasses. Locals supped opaque orange cider as we waited for our steak and ale pies. "Bear" a big, but soft Alsation fell in love with Herbie and kept fussing around him as he lolled out on the floor.

An odd-ball in shorts came in and asked for "half a sheep". "That’s half a pint of Black Sheep ale, not the creature in the garden outside," he chortled. He proceeded to witter on to anyone in audio range about previous trips to the area and the progress of his strange son at school. Other children were persuaded to go and play in the other bar, but the son sat playing with his toy cars at the table next to Hilary, burping with delight every now and then. A few other eccentrics came in and it soon began to resemble a scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. We paid up and trudged back to the sanctuary of the boat.

The sun was fully out now and the temperature was up. I had a long walk between locks, kept expecting the next lock to be around the next bend. We passed through the Marbury lock and moored up. I walked into Marbury to locate the pub. The village was quiet except for a radio blaring rugby commentary as a young couple washed their cars. Elsewhere a lawn mower was buzzing. The white old houses seemed to be timber framed, although closer inspection showed them to be just black painted on beams on brickwork. The pub overlooked a small triangular green with a bench going all around the central tree. A nearby wall sported a number of Best Kept Village award plaques.

The sun went down, an intense orange ball to the right of Marbury lock. It was a tranquil evening with just the hiss of the weir to break the silence. The evening brought out hordes of tiny flies. One of many robin redbreasts we had seen this week hopped in the nearby hedge. We walked to the pub intending to eat there. It appeared to be closed, but there were candles and menus on the tables. A broken window at the front was a clue that the pub had been shut for some time. We met a local on the walk back and he said that the pub had been closed since August 2004. We cooked up pasta on the boat and found that we could only get TV reception on ITV despite the new-fangled 360 degree arial and booster.

A cold, ghostly mist descends, leaving the lock keepers cottage and one other house being the only visible lights.

Sunday 20th March 2005

Misty morning with faint drizzle. Bacon sandwiches for breakfast and then chug the last few miles to Wrenbury Mill, packing our belongings en route. As usual we meet an oncoming boat at the worst point. Negotiate the final electronic lift bridge (slower than manual version) and return the boat to the Alvechurch marina. Back to the 20^th Century and the British motorway system as we head for Nottingham and home.