The five miles from Sutton Stop into Coventry Basin is not, shall we say, overly scenic, although not without interest. For example, it passes the largest 24 hour Tesco in the country, and the Ricoh Arena, home to Coventry City FC and The Wasps RFC.

We normally cruise just listening to the bird song, but this sunny morning going through the industrial backwaters we had music on deck, on shuffle. It’s always interesting to see how often “random” tracks somehow match the environment, but all the iPod could offer passing the Ricoh Arena was a number from Ian A Anderson, whose lack of interest and/or knowledge of all matters ball-kicky is self-confessed and legendary (and doubtless applies to matters ball-hitty too). Ah well. And then, ten minutes later, as we emerged from a bridge hole, the iPod burst into Brown Sugar just as a huge hoarding came into view advertising the Rolling Stones playing at the Arena in a month or so. Hmm…

In hot sunshine, we reached the refurbished Coventry Basin in time for lunch. It’s an odd place. It might have been rescued from dereliction, but apart from a boat hire base and a few old warehouses that one can’t get to, there’s not much there of interest.

The Canal & River Trust sign (click on photo to “go large”), suggests you can spot quirky crafts in old warehouse – we spotted none, unless a Polish grocer counts – and relax in cafes and bars. Well, there was one small and very basic cafe, and what might have been a night-club that opened up at about 7.30pm for a private birthday party; most of the units were unoccupied, and the place was pretty much devoid of people, passing trade or much interest. Even the “local wildlife on the water” were a few desultory Mallards and a passing Black-Headed Gull. And large chunks were surrounded  by temporary fencing as the cobbles were lifting and becoming trip hazards. CaRT living in cloud-cuckoo land again!

There is an old crane, and a statue James Brindley – a sine qua non of such places one suspects.

Nevertheless, the basin’s very close to the centre of Coventry, so after sampling the solitary cafe’s wares for a snack lunch we girded our loins and set off for town.

I’m afraid that we can’t escape Morris dancing. Real people can skip this post.

An early start on Saturday morning had our friend and morris dancer Sue arriving from the station weighed down by TWO morris outfits. Some people don’t know when enough is enough. Still, at least it was sunny, and on the way to being seriously hot for the time of year. Jam today! The Red Queen will be turning in her grave. Rather different to dancing in the snow, like a couple of years ago.

First up was the Ashmolean Museum. You might think that Jackstraws had forgotten their hankies and their sticks, but this dance was actually sponsored by government cutbacks. It also cunningly disguises the fact that Shirley had forgotten to bring some kit for country member and sister Chris. Good job she had a Jackstraws T-shirt.

Basingclog Morris seem to appeal to both the young and the – errm – slightly more mature dancers. And no morris display would be complete without the ever-young octogenarian Bob Prince lurking in the background.

After lunch, it was the first time Jackstraws had danced in the Botanical Gardens, which was a nice spot apart from the rather unsuitable loose gravel dancing surface. And when numbers are short, dances for four-up are definitely a good move.

As well as dancers and musicians, Brackley Morris Men seem to have a Morris Dog too. Seen horses, cows and fools, but not seen a dog before: wonder if they come under the same rules as other assistance dogs. Perhaps they can warn of anyone likely to suffer ill effects or emotional outbursts from an outbreak of unnecessary Morris Dancing,

After all that, a late afternoon coffee watching the stunts of the punts on the river, and a wander round the gardens, we adjourned to the boat. With the girls spruced up, we were all too tired from all that sun and exercise for a ceilidh, and retired to the Lebanese Restaurant across the bridge in Jericho for the third year running, for some decent food and some nice wine courtesy of the late Serge Hochar.

Sunday was again nice and warm. Sue whizzed off in her different kit, followed by us… not quite sure where the day went: strolling around Oxford tripping over Morris and other dancers of all shapes sizes and varieties. To avoid causing offence, there are no photos of the Belly Dancers, even if this lot seem rather less bellied than last year’s. And I was frankly appalled to discover that the Outside Capering Crew’s Bacca Pipes dances used fake pipes made of copper tubing painted to look like clay. No wonder they never seem to break one.

Having travelled down through Oxfordshire, where the old Ridge and Furrow mediaeval agricultural system is often still highly visible at the edge of the canal, it only seemed appropriate to finish the weekend by going to see  the excellent Furrow Collective, who weren’t as a loud as False Lights, despite Alasdair Roberts’ electric guitar. We were also very taken by the support act, a Welsh trio called Elfen (with the emphasis on Fen).

And after a gloriously warm and sunny weekend, we noticed a decided nip in the air as we walked home at about 22:30. Milly M and Bones were still tied up at the end of the cut  at Hythe Bridge, having overstayed the 48 hours, just like Song and Dancei  and Mallard (a fellow morris dancer) a few hundred yards down. Seems par for the course at Oxford Folk Weekend.

Setting off again in bright warm sunshine – we could get to like this – we were soon at Dukes Cut Lock/Junction, where there was a genuine Red Board warning us about the Thames, but t’Interweb suggested that things were improving rapidly even though we’d seen very little traffic.

Ploughing down through Wolvercote and the Agenda 21moorings (read floating “ecological” slum), we arrived at Jericho to find a mooring – on proper rings – right where we wanted it. Our worries were found-less.

After taking advantage of the sunshine to touch up some paintwork and a spot of lunch, we headed into Oxford centre to sort out some tickets and stuff. After an hour of wandering around the city centre, the cook noticed she was missing a much-loved earring. Another three-quarters of retracing our steps led to her heading back to the boat “just in case” to see if the earring was there while I went off to get some tickets. The missing item was on the floor of our bedroom on the boat. Walking around a busy city centre shopping area with your eyes glued to the pavement and gutter is an interesting experience. Not.

Mind you, one little mystery was solved. As you walk from the Jericho moorings into town, you reach Isis Lock letting down onto the Thames, and a small arm of the Oxford Canal continues for about 500 yards past residential boats to a small basin at Hythe Bridge where there are a couple of 48 hour visitor moorings. It’s a busy, noisy spot right by the main road; the water is full of “end of waterway” rubbish and litter; you probably need a gang plank to access the shore; and in the absence of a winding hole, you either have to reverse down the 500 yards or reverse back when you leave. We’ve never bothered, and rarely see anyone else down here. But tied up were Milly M and Bones. Obviously sloped off for a weekend together…

Actually, we’ve bumped into Maffi in Oxford Cornmarket on previous Folk Weekends, and he has a boat full of guitars so perhaps he’s a closet folkie.

Anyway, with earring restored and tickets purchased, we went off to see Sam Carter and JimDoug in their folk rock band False Lights in the splendid Wesley Memorial Church. They were loud. The PA struggled. And so to bed.