Category Archives: General

Ely, Ely, why hast thou…

8 o’clock the lockkeeper said, for our transit up a tidal bit of the River Great Ouse and through Denver Sluice onto the non-tidal section. So although we appeared to be number three in the queue, we were up at OMG o’clock and ready for duty at 07:45. No sign of the lockkeeper, though.

At 8 o’clock an old hand at this tidal transit lark peered over the wall, and said that the tidal river was still very high, too high to get under the sluice guillotine and bridges, and reckoned it would be nearer 08:45 before anyone could venture through.

Sure enough, about 20 minutes later Paul the lockkeeper appeared, and started marshalling everyone together: there were four of us going up, and some coming down from Denver. As a newbie, Paul suggested that yours truly help him lock number one through as a training exercise, with running commentary and plenty of hints on handling the boat on the river while the tide was flowing out pretty fast. Helpful and most welcome.

The lock has to cope with the river being higher and lower than the Middle Levels, so it has two sets of gates at the end of the chamber, one set pointing up and one set pointing downstream. Locking up, the chamber is barely 58ft long: a tight squeeze for us. At certain times, when the Great Ouse and Well Creek are the same level, they can open everything and just let everyone sail straight through (for a short time)!

In the end, it all happened very quickly. Exiting Salter’s Lode lock we managed – without too much drama – the nearly 180° turn into the river doing its best to take us sideways to King’s Lynn, poured on the power, and barely 5 minutes / a few hundred yards later we branched off the fast flowing tide into the cavernous safe haven of the Denver Sluice lock, which was already open waiting for us. No time for cameras!

With all the excitement over, the journey down to Ely was utterly undramatic. Nice weather, big wide river, high banks, long straight stretches and little to see, although we were encouraged to spot a number of suitably pleasant mooring spaces for possible use on the way back. The village next to the 10 mile bank appeared to be called 10 Mile Bank. Can’t think why.

Ely is seemingly a waterways honey-pot, so turning up on a sunny bank holiday Saturday lunchtime was probably ill advised, but our grasp of days of the week and the calendar has become rather vague…

Ely waterside gardens and town quay were mobbed, with boats and people, but our luck held, and we eventually located somewhere just under the railway bridge in the picture, with rather more suitable facilities for the Captain. Cheesy chips and decent Guinness at the quayside pub for a slightly late lunch – all was well with the world.

We’re Norfolk and Good

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At Salter’s Lode, we were firmly in Norfolk. And it occurred to us that since we left the canal system, and ventured into territory where Tupperware cruisers outnumber the narrowboats, we slowly realised that boat names had become rather bland, and un-noteworthy. The realisation started somewhere around Northampton, probably in reaction to the splendid purveyor of comfy furniture opposite Biggles’ vet called Sofa King, who proudly advertise “You won’t believe our prices – they’re Sofa King low…”

Anyway, having been vaguely collecting some more interesting boat names in our travels, it’s probably time for a round up.

Down on the Basingstoke Canal there was a small narrowboat painted a peculiarly bilious shade of green called The Marrow Boat for which the owner should be shot, and (positively the last one) on the River Thames, not far from Shepperton lock we saw That Wey. Entering the lock as we came out was a rather fine Piper Dutch Barge Nice Butt… which looked way nicer than a rather squat and very wide-beamed barge in Berkhamstead aptly named Fat Bottomed Girl.

In the “rolls off the tongue” category were Not a Scooby, the unrelated Ruby Doo and Oy You Lindy Loo, while Empty Wallet wins the “patently obvious” category.

There’s been a fair sprinkling of alcohol related shenanigans, including a cruiser making a stand at all the rag dolls decorating narrowboat windows, named Rosé and Gin. Raised a smile but didn’t appeal to the taste buds. Also spotted were Gin and Bare It, WineDown, the ever hopeful Whisky Me Away, and Grand Cru.

Meanwhile, we weren’t sure whether Malingra was an exotic island destination, a misspelt admission or just wishful thinking, while the prize for impenetrability is currently held by Minimal Seedling.

And while Narrow Waters’ name doesn’t really stick in the mind, it wins the prize for the most totally OTT cratch cover and pram hood hands down, seen here near Upwell & Outwell. Normal for Norfolk, one suspects…

Well, Well, Well… to Salter’s Lode We Go

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To get to Ely the normal procedure is to join the River Great Ouse at Salter’s Lode, where the river is tidal (and how!), then travel upstream for about a third of a mile to Denver Sluice, part of a major flood defence, whereupon the river becomes non-tidal again. But one can only get through Salter’s Lode Lock/Sluice for short period after high tide. As two high tides roughly twelve hours apart rarely fall into the same working day for the lockkeeper, one is rather restricted in passing through. “0800 to 0830” said the lockkeeper, so it was clear that if we wanted to get through in Saturday morning we’d have to get to Salter’s Lode on Friday night.

There are quite a few ways through the mysterious and multifarious Middle Levels, some more navigable than others but we’d bravely decided to follow the recommended route. This takes us through Upwell & Outwell, seemingly once a single riverside village that underwent binary fission sometime in the long distant past, and then grew back together more recently: you can’t really see the join.

Setting out from March, on wide and straight water, with mainly high banks again, the most obvious crops were wind turbines and big sky, and no other visible boaters.

Approaching Marmont Priory Lock, which we had expected to be manned (or more specifically womanned), we found a day-hire narrowboat out of March that was just starting to tackle the lock with staggering quantities of enthusiasm, energy, and ignorance. We managed, just in time, to stop them opening all the paddles (sorry, penstocks) and draining all the water out of Well Creek: good job we arrived when we did. Before we’d got them sorted out, another utterly unprepared day boat from the same outfit turned up, and had to breast up to Song & Dance because the lock landing only has room for 1 short boat. Biggles had taken umbrage at these strangers traipsing over the back of his boat, had gone ashore, and was heading at some rate of knots down the road to Norfolk. The second day boat crew at least admitted they hadn’t a clue. So we by the time we’d sorted out all that, (6 penstocks all needing 60+ winds to operate) and retrieved the Captain, lunch in Upwell & Outwell looked good… and fortunately the good burghers of Outwell & Upwell had put in some excellent moorings (or staithes, as they call them hereabouts). Splendid café right next to the church, where an interesting array of people in their finery were assembling for a wedding. The bride was late, by the looks of it, so we missed that bit.

All of which meant it was rather late in the afternoon when we finally made Salter’s Lode; fortunately there was room for us on the moorings, and we seemed to be number three in the queue going through the lock. Another long day.

Route March to March

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Well, we made our 9:30 Thursday morning appointment at Stanground Lock, where Tina the Lockkeeper sold us a facilities key (the third one in our rapidly growing collection) and a special windlass, ‘cos their locks aren’t like anyone else’s either…

Although the level change wasn’t much, the gloomy pen and huge industrial grade chains made the lock seem somewhat intimidating. Once off into the levels, it was clear we were in a different world.

Long, dead straight drains or artificial rivers with high reed covered banks meant there was little to see except a big sky. We thought we might stop over for lunch in Whittlesey/Whittlesea of Straw Bear fame but the only mooring was occupied and somewhat far from town. Passing through the only self-operated lock we were likely meet, it was clear they were one of the most tedious on the system. 60 turns to raise or drop a paddle (or penstock, they call it hereabouts). And there are four on the lock. Both muscle and character building.

And on we went, and on, with nowhere to park, watching the boys in blue make a lot of noise overhead, and eventually made it to March, about 5 hours out from Peterborough – a long day for us.

The March mooring we found was well received by Sir, the shops were close, the Guinness was about £1.00 a pint cheaper than anywhere else so far this trip, and the nearest pub cooked superb steaks at about half the price of darn-sarf. Result.

Mind you, if the local Baptists admit to getting lit up at night, it probably has more to do with electricity than cheap beer…

Uplifted in Peterborough

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Wednesday Morning 9am (as Simon and Garfunkel would have sung if they’d had a bit of a lie-in or any sense), and a drizzly Peterborough didn’t bode well, but we’d had a look round the exceeding large Cathedral the day before, and noticed they had a free lunchtime recital from a professional singers ensemble/choir. That and a late snack lunch somewhere sounded like a plan.

The 12 singers were excellent (including a splendid counter-tenor), the acoustics wonderful, and the music splendidly uplifting. Whatever your flavour of deity (or not), they certainly do seem to have some of the best tunes.

And after a late lunch (or even later breakfast) of a short stack of buttermilk pancakes with bacon and maple syrup we were so uplifted that the sun came out.

The central bit of Peterborough has a peculiarly continental feel to it, with the Guildhall and large Parish Church at one end of a large square , and the huge Cathedral at the other end. With programmed water jets to give kids something to run around, and a wide mix of architectural styles surrounding it, it’s not a bad place to watch the world go by in the sunshine.

An early night beckoned: we’d booked a 9:30am passage through Stanground Lock taking us off the Nene, down onto the mysterious Middle Levels, a mix of ancient and new rivers, drains, ditches and God Wot else that cover darkest Fenland, and (hopefully) provide a navigable passage across to the River Ouse and Ely. We may be some time…

A Moonlight Swim in Crappy Peterborough

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Tuesday morning dawned fair for a quick run into Peterborough.

The lengthy town quay is nicely screened by willows, and – at least at one end – amazingly close to the town centre and main shopping street. The only snag is that the area is home, in the day, to hundreds of Canada geese, dozens and dozens of swans, myriad pigeons and so on. They don’t even bother to move out the way for humans, though rouse themselves for dogs and cats. Some of the local population take it upon themselves to feed the birds on a positively industrial scale: whole loaves, large carrier bags stuffed full of bagels, even a couple of pounds of raw mince left on the side. Somewhat similar, only much worse then Wellingborough, where one boater was grumpily opining that the Eastern European and Asian immigrant communities regarded them as free food and went out catching them at night – perhaps they are all Daily Mail readers. Don’t know if it’s true, but it sounds like a good plan, because they really do make an awful mess, even if it doesn’t smell as bad as dog-poo. On many places on the Grand Union, there were pretty signs exclaiming “There is no dog-poo fairy…” but what the whole waterways system really needs is a goose-poo fairy. And it’s not just the banks: the water is full of muck, feathers, etc. which goes nicely with the duckweed.

After a nasty outbreak of traipsing round the shops, we headed out again for dinner, and observed that there were large numbers of people streaming from every direction towards the London Road Bridge right by where we were moored. Just over the other side, within earshot, was the home of Peterborough Football Club, and we guessed there must have been a mid-week match. Somewhat worried about noisy or riotous post-match shenanigans, we saw and heard nary a peep: checking the next morning showed they’d been trounced 4-1 by Charlton, so I guess there were a lot of subdued fans walking home.

The Captain normally has the run of the boat at night, and access to the outside world; where he feels comfortable he makes the occasional trip landside to explore and do his business before returning for refreshment, but he usually spends most of the night asleep on a chair or curled up on the end of the bed. If awake, we know when he comes in, as there’s a slight thump as he jumps down from the gunwale onto the cratch locker, followed by a quiet noise from the cat flap, inevitably followed by crunching noises as he gets stuck into his food. Sometime later we might hear him pad down the length of the boat and jump on the end of the bed.

Unable to sleep (or perhaps ruminating on Canada goose recipes), the chief cook got up at about 03:00, and it being a fine moonlit night went out on the back deck for some air. Don’t know where they go at night, but the only wildlife in sight were four bunnies (heaven knows where from) and a bat. It was clear Sir wasn’t aboard, so she called him once or twice, but there was no sign. We’d earlier caught him sloping off down the quay some distance to the Peterborough Beer Festival that was in full swing – perhaps he’d gone back to check it was all quiet.

He normally comes when called at night, but there was no sign, so SWMBO dutifully tossed and turned, worrying that he was out so late.

Some half hour later we heard the usual thump as he jumped down into the cratch, followed by the flip-flap of the cat flap. But no munching noises: just a high speed run down the length of the boat and a slight “meep” as he launched himself onto the end of the bed – soaking wet – and demanding a towel rub down with extreme prejudice.

Don’t know what had happened: if he’d gone in the water anywhere near the boat he’d have been covered with duckweed, feathers and miscellaneous rubbish, but he was just “clean” wet, and his head and spine weren’t really all that wet, just a bit damp. Another of life’s little mysteries.

Wansford in England–Not

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Monday morning dawned bright, but the afternoon forecast was rubbish, so the outline plan was to get going from Elton straight away, stop in Wansford-in-England for elevenses and shopping, and hopefully a make a recommended overnight stop on Overton Lake near Peterborough before the deluge. Well some of that worked…

The river guide shows Environment Agency and pub customer moorings in Wansford-in-England. Wrong. No sign of the former, and although the pub was glimpsed across the high bank and field, there was nowhere to even get a nose in. Onwards…

A couple of miles out of W-in-England we came to the Nene Valley Railway Bridge at Wansford Station, their HQ. There was a perfectly situated floating pontoon right by their cafe, so it seemed rude not to stop for an early lunch. The sky was already lowering and dark, so no photos, and it started raining a bit, so our plan was rapidly going down the tubes. We could have stayed there for the afternoon/night but mistakenly believed the forecast, and set off again in light rain.

At Water Newton lock the skies opened for 15 minutes. Like standing under Niagara Falls. In full wet weather gear we set off again, and at Alwalton Lock (no relation) the same thing happened just after we’d passed some decent looking moorings. Another Niagara Falls job, but at least the waterproofs were waterproof.

And it continued to pour until we limped into Overton Lake where we eventually located some excellent moorings. Well, the crew liked them: the Captain wasn’t so impressed as the pontoon open-weave mesh flooring was not very suited to small pawed pussies. Mind you, the crew would have liked pretty much any mooring while the deluge continued.

Tuesday dawned fair again, so Peterborough here we come.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, and a would-be Affair

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It was proving to be an eventful Sunday… the weather was holding fair so we decided to potter on from Fotheringhay to some recommended moorings just above Elton lock, spying several Kingfishers on our way. There seemed to be plenty of Red Kites and Buzzards around. And several times

[We] caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

although the air was anything but steady, but it didn’t seem to cause them any problems. We’ve rarely seen Kestrels while on the boat, apart from the last few days. They’re always lovely and spectacular to watch. Spotted a Sparrowhawk too.

The moorings at Elton lock proved perfect, and closeness to the village suggested a quick walk for some suitable refreshment and a shared packet of crisps before returning to the boat for a rather late lunch.

Losing brownie points for not having draught Guinness for him or a dry cider without fruit-salad flavourings for her, The Crown Inn – officially only serving Sunday Lunches – won them back by happily conjuring up a splendidly cooked and large bowl of cheesy chips. There goes the diet again.

Completely unlike the rather artificial Ashton, Elton is clearly a real village with character, even if Stocks Green no longer has the stocks that are still there according to the 2012 updated river guide we had. Seems they disappeared well over 25 years ago…

And, not at all perturbed by the Ashley Madison farrago, Fran was all set, there and then, to embark on a serious affair with a young brindled Great Dane found attached to a local gentleman.

Her previous experiences of Great Dane ownership don’t seem to have put her off, but I shudder to think what the Captain would think. Fortunately, the promised rain arrived on queue, and we had to beat it back to the boat before things got seriously out of hand.

And just in time for a nice sunset, the weather front cleared through. A fitting end to a long and interesting day – over 12 miles, 5 locks and a wet water stop before a late lunch is something of a record for the Song & Dance captain and crew. Could get to like this life…

Spires, Towers and Beheadings

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One of the noticeable things about the Nene down from Northampton was the fact that you could invariably see two, sometimes three, sometimes more church spires in the distance, though we rarely passed really close to them as we wound around the apparently delightful but inaccessible towns and villages. So it was with some surprise that came round a corner to find the decidedly towered and unusual St Andrew’s church at Cotterstock right on the waterside, dating from the 12th century.

Just down river, the church of St. Mary and All Saints at Fotheringhay, with its impressive lantern, is a well known landmark on the Nene.

Notable not only for it’s splendid appearance from the waterside, but for the large number of good moorings just below and on the other side of the bridge. The moorings (£4 overnight, £2 short stay) are also rumoured to notable for the speed at which the farmer arrives to collect the fee.

As it was a bit early for lunch, Sunday lunches in the local pub were likely to be mobbed and fully booked, and we were expecting to spend the night here on the way back to meet up with some friends, we merely put someone ashore to locate the Environment Agency water point supposedly installed. Before we’d even temporarily tied a centre rope to investigate, a man appeared out of nowhere… he was a bit miffed that we were only stopping for water once we’d located the tap! Reminded me of the time we drove across the High Atlas in Morocco: you could park in the middle of absolutely nowhere to take a photo, and within 30 seconds a scruffy urchin would materialise out of thin air demanding money sweets or cigarettes with menaces.

As for the tap, it was one of those that only had two settings: off and rocket assisted deluge. Several times the first mate relaxed his grip enough for the end of the hose to escape and jump around like a demented snake showering everything within 10 yards with cold water. Memo to self: must find a better way to wedge the hose into the water tank…

Anyway, a complete change of clothes later, just under the bridge is the remains of Fotheringhay Castle, where Mary Queen of Scots came to a sticky end. Not much left now (of either of them).

Round and Round Oundle–Part the…

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… well you get the drift.

Sunday, and again the forecast for the day was a splendid morning followed by rain and thunderstorms later. So SWMBO broke the habit of her retirement and we actually managed to set off by 09:00! Meantime, we’d spotted Crackerjak, another Piper Boat heading downstream.

Van Diemen, who had moored up right behind us, proved to be occupied/crewed by a single-handing chap from Tasmania, who keeps his boat at Ramsay in the Cambridgeshire Fens and comes over to cruise the English canals and rivers for several months every summer. He’d already intimated he was one of the 7o’clock brigade (off at crack of sparrows, moored up by lunchtime) so we were surprised when he came out to say goodbye while we locked through the heavy hand-wheel operated Ashton Lock for the third time. He confessed we’d shamed him yesterday into having a day of housework and cleaning!

Oundle is apparently a delightful town, the “Jewel of the Nene”, but like everywhere else around here it doesn’t encourage river-bourn visitors. With the fishing match over, we could have stuck our nose in the bank near Waitrose and the North Bridge, but the supermarket wouldn’t yet be open, and being Sunday, all the nice individualistic emporiums in the town centre would be closed. So chugging off round the outskirts for the third time, we ruefully decided that we’d have to try harder on the way back. Maybe.

Still it was nice to be cruising in the sunshine.

We came across some young or small heavy horses who were enjoying the sunshine too.

Biggles Goes Boating

… or a right Song & Dance.

Category Archives: General

Ely, Ely, why hast thou…

We’re Norfolk and Good

Well, Well, Well… to Salter’s Lode We Go

Route March to March

Uplifted in Peterborough

A Moonlight Swim in Crappy Peterborough

Wansford in England–Not

Gerard Manley Hopkins, and a would-be Affair

Spires, Towers and Beheadings

Round and Round Oundle–Part the…