Leaving the newly-weds to their own devices, we headed back up the Grand Union, stopping again at Weedon. This time up the far end near the station, where there is a useable pub for dinner, and more importantly in the circumstances, a Tesco Extra. Both proved useful.

Then it was back up the Buckby flight – or nearly. We’d spotted some pleasant mooring spots between the top lock and the next on the way down, so aimed for there. They were right by the towpath shop that sells those brightly painted watering cans (called Buckby Cans). The shop had just closed for the night, so we wandered up to The New Inn at the top lock for sustenance (where the cans originated many years ago).

On the way up we passed some nice houses and gardens; autumn colours were definitely starting to show through.

Rather puzzled by the New Bridge – it looked pretty old to us – perhaps it was named after the pub.

We were equally puzzled by this house, which had railway signals and large statues of animals overlooking the cut. Oh well, it takes all sorts.

With a Buckby Can already in the saloon, we eschewed any more, and setting off on the Wednesday morning we stayed on the Grand Union Canal at Norton Junction, and made our way through Braunston Tunnel, then down the Braunston Locks to tie up right in the middle by early afternoon in pleasant sunshine. Just time for a peregrine hunt, and maybe a beer…

Yesterday, we’d been faced with either just working Watford Locks, and leaving a lot to do on the Friday, or carrying on down Buckby locks and leaving us very little to do (after the second lock it’s not feasible to stop halfway down). Opting for the latter, we had loads of time to get to Bugbrooke by close of play, and were soon tied up above the church at Weedon Bec, which is tightly sandwiched between the canal and the West Coast mainline, both of which loom over the churchyard on high embankments.

The “Bec” is customarily silent, as in Tooting; both place names derive from a mediaeval abbey in Normandy that owned lots of land around both areas.

There are two ends of town; the old part is lovely, with warm sandstone and brick houses and occasional thatch, albeit with a distressing surfeit of aberrant apostrophes.

The other end, where the soon-to-be-rerouted A45 will shortly become the Weedon and Flores Bypass, is rather different. There’s a major road junction with the A5 surrounded by antique shops, pubs, restaurants and a Tesco. Between the two lies a boatyard, and the remains of a short arm into a one-time Royal Ordnance Depot with an interesting history. It was supposedly going to be a secret bolt-hole for the royal family if Napoleon crossed the channel.

The last time we were here, you couldn’t go into the depot, but they’re gradually turning it into a destination for the general public. Unfortunately the short arm connecting the basin to the canal has now had a shiny new housing estate built over it. However, with a huge second-hand bookshop equipped with comfy sofas and a café, it was definitely time to tarry.

Belatedly we set off again, down a pleasant if railway-noisy chunk of the Grand Union, and reached our destination of Bugbrooke by about 16:00 on Friday afternoon: right on time! Time to explore…

One of the reasons we were pretty much dawdling along the Leicester Section summit pound was that we rather fancied giving the highly regarded Butcher and Italian Deli a second chance. Having discovered the place two years ago on the way to Foxton Locks, an attempt to revisit on the return leg failed miserably because their approach to opening hours was somewhat disappointing.

With a shiny new web site, and rave reviews, they were now due to open at 12:00 on Wednesday morning after their weekend closure. And so, leaving our freshly cut hedge behind, we soon tied up near Yelvertoft, and commenced the trek down the hill to stock up on delicious cheeses and prosciutto and sausages and stuff, arriving at 12:05… only to find that yet again the place was shut. There was a sign on the door saying “doing local deliveries – back at 1pm”, but with the pub shut, weather iffy and nowhere to wait etc. we were disinclined to get arrested for loitering.

Phoning the the mobile number in the window elicited the information that actually he was – again – getting his van fixed, and would be back if and when the garage got around to putting a new tyre on. Apparently the local area  is renowned for being one of the “worst areas in the country for potholes”. We were not amused. And wondered why he didn’t get his van fixed when his emporium is supposed to be shut.

A shame TripAdvisor doesn’t include such establishments.