We rather liked Aston Marina, as marinas go. Nice open layout, set in pleasant countryside, reasonable walking distance to Stone, and a rather good if a bit pricey restaurant on site. Good job we don’t moor there normally.

The welcoming committee took no time at all in saying hello, closely followed by demanding food with menaces.

The local security guard made sure nothing untoward happened.

With the laundry maid keeping the washing machine going flat out, on Friday morning the chauffeur commandeered a taxi back to The Holly Bush near Leek, to pick up the car and relocate it to Aston. It might prove useful to go to Bromyard Festival next weekend, but dragging the car around with the boat is becoming a real drag. Not for much longer, we hope.

Saturday morning, we headed off in pleasant weather down the well-trodden path to Great Haywood.

Just outside the marina, this bunch of geese had taken over the cow’s watering hole.

And – lucky us – we found a spot right in the middle of the Great Haywood Visitor Moorings, and headed off to The Clifford Arms, where food was plentiful and surprisingly cheap for us southerners.

We’d dawdled rather longer than expected on the Caldon Canal, what with trains, cars, towpath walks and the like, and some things were needing attention. The dirty laundry pile was becoming excessive, a pump-out would soon be urgent, and we really needed to get the car back home: dragging it around was becoming a drag.

And then SWMBO said “Jackstraws Morris are dancing at Bromyard Folk Festival in 10 days. Without Biggles to look after, if we kept the car up here for a bit longer, we could go, couldn’t we… I’ve brought my kit!”

Stoke’s Festival Park Marina had helped out several times before: moorings with electric for the washing machine – tick; relaxed about leaving cars – tick; pump-out facilities – tick. Except that they were full when we wanted to be there. We could probably get a pump-out, but as for mooring, no chance. CaRT have self-service pump-out machines at Park Lane Wharf (on the way but broken) and Etruria (on the way), but you need a special “credit” card to operate those. Handily, these are only available by mail order (useful when on a boat) or from very rare retailers nowhere near the facility. And these pump-out stations a rare enough that carrying spare cards around is a bit like giving CaRT a long term loan – we haven’t needed one in three years, and the Environment Agency ones on the rivers use a different card. And in any case, that didn’t solve the laundry problem. So we ended up re-planning, and booked ourselves into Aston Marina, just south of Stone for a couple of days, and decided we’d better get a move on.

So off we set. Waving goodbye to The Holly Bush on a pleasant Bank Holiday Monday morning we climbed back up Hazelhurst Locks, pottered past Park Lane Wharf, down through Stockton Brook Locks (the abandoned railway there still had its tracks, but trees were growing through them there) and managed to moor at Milton again. Milton on the Tuesday after a Bank Holiday was much like Milton on a Monday, apart from the café being open. They needn’t have bothered…

And then we finished off the Caldon Canal, and moored up at Etruria Junction, frustratingly close to the pump-out facilities, frustratingly far from any means of using them. It’s a major CaRT depot, but no-one was able or interested in helping us out. Apparently the Park Lane Wharf one had been fixed earlier that day, but the chap said the biggest cause of failures was misuse of the magic cards, so perhaps it’s all a plot to persuade the powers that be that they are so under used there really is no demand for them. After all, they charge more for you to do it yourself than most boatyards/marinas charge to do it for you. One of life’s mysteries.

So much for lazing about doing not a lot on a narrowboat: Friday proved a busy day. We’d booked the car in for an MOT at noon back near Piper Boats because we thought we’d be nearby, but the best laid plans… Meanwhile SWMBO was still suffering from coughing and some new chest pains following the Sidmouth lurgy. As the MOT centre was near a hospital with a walk in centre, and we were going right past, madam was duly dropped off to see if she could get a chest MOT as well. Fortunately, both car and human passed with flying colours: in Fran’s case it was a normal viral cough/cold and a pulled muscle probably from coughing too hard (or overdoing the windlass at locks).

Anyway, we thought the Churnet Valley Railway were running trains between Cheddleton and Froghall during the afternoon, and decided to investigate, particularly as we fancied getting ahead of the game and leaving the car at Cheddleton Station or thereabouts and getting the train back to the boat at Froghall ready to cruise back on Saturday or Sunday.

Turned out they were having a special Gin weekend, and were running trains regularly from Friday afternoon right through to late Friday night (as well as the rest of the Bank Holiday weekend).

The local advertising proved a little dubious, as cider was off, dear… this year they were having separate Gin and Cider Events but someone mistakenly ordered the same posters as last year! We did catch them unloading some of the  40 or so Gins though, but were a bit early for the bar to open.

At the end of the platform, we could see them coaling up their steam engine ready for service later that weekend. Mind you it must be easier filling the tender with a JCB than a shovel! Thought this diesel had rather a cheeky smile, too.

Peering into the workshop, a friendly chap offered to show us around and take us out to the yard beyond to wander about, which was much appreciated.

We renewed our acquaintance with Hotspur (last seen on our maiden boat trip), clearly undergoing some heavy maintenance, and made the acquaintance of George, the workshop’s resident pheasant. Just a little way down the road/canal/river/rail-track (they’re all together here) was an country estate where they raise pheasants in large numbers as shotgun targets; George had obviously decided being regularly fed by an engineering shed manager rather than a gamekeeper was probably a good career move.

As we waited for our train “home” to Froghall, one of us became entranced by these two lovelies, who were also waiting for the train. Fortunately, it came before someone had decided to go in for puppy-knapping.

We enjoyed the journey back, and just doing it one way in the afternoon seemed a waste, so after a quick trip back to the boat to unload stuff and partake of a quick meal, we headed back to Froghall station, where the gin palace was now well and truly open. Then did the return journey to Cheddleton and back just for the hell of it. Madam was very taken with the Rhubarb & Ginger Edinburgh Gin… something for the Christmas list perhaps!

And so to bed!