Dining at the crowded Folly Inn last night, at one point we heard a voice stand out from the noise saying “…it’s usually quite good, apart from the inevitable Morris Dancers” but we didn’t know what the chap was talking about.

Saturday morning, and we turned left at Napton junction onto the Grand Union canal as planned, passing the several marinas, and soon came up against the flight of locks at Stockton (GUC = wide locks). We buddied up with another boat, operating single crew and started downhill through the eight or so. Our chum was positioning his dad’s boat back to Warwick and was determined to reach Long Itchington – a couple of locks beyond the Stockton Flight – that afternoon. Apparently a beer festival was going on there : small village, six pubs, go figure…

At Stockton bottom lock, our buddy’s engine died, and defied all attempts to restart and stay running. We towed him out of the lock, whereupon he just banged in a couple of pins, tied his boat to them, rang his dad to say he was abandoning ship, and headed off down the towpath on foot: such dedication to a cause is rare these days. We’d heard from a boat heading the other way that there weren’t any mooring spaces left at Long Itchington, so we shortly tied up too and settled down for a quiet Saturday evening.

Mayday’s plan (plan!) was to head on towards Warwick, popping in to Long Itchington if we could moor anywhere suitable, to raid the local Co-Op. A suitable mooring presented itself, so we walked into the village for a quick coffee and shopping expedition, past the house that QE1 stayed in many centuries ago, while admiring the Muscovy Duck on the village green.

Before reaching said Co-Op, we stopped at a large but rather empty pub advertising decent coffee. Eschewing the interior, which stank of industrial strength pine flavoured cleaning stuff, we sat outside, enjoying the aroma of yesterday’s cigarettes. We were some time, as there seemed to be some technical difficulty with the coffee machine.

The Chief Cook suddenly became very excited: “There’s some Earlsdon Morris Men” and indeed there did seem to be one or two walking down the road way across the other side of the village green. Herself dated an Earlsdon chap several lifetimes ago, and so heading off in search of her old pals, we reached another pub, where indeed Earlsdon Morris were dancing along with some more old friends Chinewyrd and Seven Champs. It was nice to meet up with several chums we normally only see at Sidmouth these days.

Chinewyrd were as good as always, although, we’ve never seen a team numbering a colour coordinated clarsach player amongst their musicians before. And if any folkies care to click on the photo to take a proper look, they’ll find Dave Hunt (aka Dr. Sunshine) and Will Pound playing melodeons, too.

Tool, founder member of Earlsdon and the renowned Peeping Tom Ceilidh Band lived 17 paces from the pub (going) or 34 (going home), as one can see from the Blue Plaque.

The local ladies caused consternation in the ranks of the road closure stewards helping the teams process from pub A to pub B: half away along outside the church was a sign saying “Free Tea and Cakes: Everyone Welcome”, at which point the procession hung a quick left, then descended on the cakes like a plague of morris dancers. Tea, cakes, and an impromptu hymn-tune session ensued, rather delaying the arrival at the next pub, even though free beer had been promised…

We did make it to the Co-Op, and eventually back to the boat, somewhat the worse for wear. The Captain enquired politely why our quick trip had taken more than five hours before confining us to the brig. Not quite the May Day we’d planned: must listen more carefully to overheard pub conversations…

Friday night, and The Folly was mobbed: we got the last table for dinner. Turns out they’d had an Open Mic night on the Thursday, but carrying a guitar down five locks-worth of towpath in the hail and sleet wouldn’t have appealed even if we’d known.

While noshing, I caught a half a glimpse of a lady making her way across the crowded bar room to the plumbing facilities. I said to the boss “You know, that lady looked awfully like Kathy of Kathy & Neil…” – a couple who we’d known for years, decades even, as they were local folkies who ran the Bracknell Folk Club for some years; our paths had crossed numerous times over the years, but always at music related events.

Curiosity getting the better of things, I wandered round to the other bar, and there was Kathy saying to Neil “I’m sure I just saw Bob & Fran hidden away in the corner of the other bar…”. Indeed it was them – they were moored below the bottom lock, around the corner.

Actually, we sort of knew they had a boat, but no idea where they kept it or how often they got afloat (grandchildren, you know), but they joined us for coffee back on Song & Dance where it turned out that Neil runs a highly regarded blog on their travels. They were en-route from the Slough Arm on the Grand Union, relocating to Cropredy Marina for the year. Guess we’ll see more of Neil, Kathy and Herbie over the next winter.

In the sunshine, Napton Bottom Lock is a nice place for watching the world go by, with good views across to Napton-on-the-Hill.

Biggles was taken with the lockkeeper’s cottage as it not only had a suitable half door for dancing, but was already equipped with his access requirements as well.

And just as we were getting ready to cast off, Herbie and crew headed off up the hill to Cropredy. We were heading – err – not sure. Turning left at Napton junction was as far as we’d “planned”.

Sunday morning proved rather more amenable, weather-wise, and we weren’t expecting much boat traffic (no hire movements and the Thames still on red boards), so we risked venturing into town, only to find more morris dancers. Yateley were in Gloucester Green – our friend Ian from Tuesday Night is dancing, so there’s no-one watching Song & Dance. Fingers crossed. Not sure what the chap in Tatters and Port and Starboard socks was doing, but at least he’s got the socks on the right way: his companion looks suitably awe-struck.

The festival was using the Philosophy section of Blackwell’s Norrington Room as a music venue, deep in the dark underground. Must be 30 years since I last ventured into the depths of Blackwells, and had forgotten what an astonishing place it is. Managed to find a copy of Michael Houghton’s biography of Sandy Denny, too, recently recommended by someone who knows my musical tastes only too well.

Bampton Traditional Morris were  capering outside The Sheldonian Theatre – last time we were here it was mobbed by new undergraduates all in sub-fusc on Matriculation Day. At least Bampton Morris looked as though they knew what the were doing, which is more than the students did. They were sharing the pitch with Chiltern Hundreds Clog Morris.

By now fearing for Song & Dance’s moorings, an early return found the pins well pulled about (someone had kindly put the front ones back in) and what appeared to be a space opened up a hundred yards downstream with proper cemented-in mooring rings. A hasty whip round untying the boat and moving down (before anyone else noticed) led to the discovery that the space was approximately 12 inches too short. The crew of Baguette – now there’s an odd name for a British narrowboat – were aboard and happy to re-position her forward the requisite foot, so that was fine. They’d been there for a week waiting for the Thames to become navigable, and said they’d enjoy a change of view…

Fran and Sue managed to find the cunningly moved boat, Sue was suitably despatched onto a train home, and we went for Steak Frites and a bottle, to end a pleasant weekend. All was well with the world… or so we thought.

Sir had given the Quartermaster the weekend off to go Morris Dancing around Oxford in the cold – there’s no accounting for taste. With an 11:00 start outside the Pitt Rivers museum and Sue (a morris dancer, and – as it happened – our first guest to stay overnight) needing to be collected from the station, we were somewhat bemused during breakfast to find quite heavy wet snow falling. The first we’d seen all winter, and it had to wait until mid-April! Fortunately, there were quite a few boat movements expected, so the First Officer was unable to join them, needing to ensure no other idiots dragged out the mooring pins, and to be on standby to move the boat if a safer spot became available.

The museum took pity on the dancers and let them dance inside (why?).

The above pictures courtesy of Shirley Dixon  and nicked from Farcebook – see if you can spot the dinosaurs. Rather like the sign over the musicians, too. Apparently they all retired to a pub for lunch: I shudder to think what was in the pork pies…

With our friends from Yateley Morris and Cropredy Marina (moored just behind us on their boat Tuesday Night) saying they were staying put for the afternoon and would keep an eye on Song & Dance, a visit to town to see the afternoon dancing was risked, particularly as the precipitation had stopped, and the venue was the indoor market.

Joined by the Ridgeway Stepdancers, Jackstraws managed to get their lines straight (at least while stationary) – the liquid lunch hadn’t done too much damage.

Back in the real world, the sun had come out in Broad Street, and lots of people were dancing and watching.

This chap seemed to be doing his best not to look like a morris dancer despite the purple face paint, so Jackstraws did their caber-tossing dance. No morris dancer was hurt during the making of this picture.

They even managed to all get airborne at the same time.

These two young girls from Fireclog were attracting considerable interest, too.

On return to the boat, our pins had been put back a couple of times by the Tuesday Night crew, who had then spotted a safer mooring and nabbed it. That’ll teach me to go and watch morris dancers.

After hosing down the sweaty dancers, Biggles stayed in charge on board while the three of us hoped for no more boats moving that evening, went to eat at a nearby Lebanese restaurant, then got hot and sweaty dancing in St. Barnabas’ church to the estimable Simon Care Trio.

With all the excitement of the tidal transit, it was only when we moored up safely on Wells Creek at Salter’s Lode for some well-earned lunch that we realised one crucial difference between Denver Sluice and the Nene guillotine locks.

When recently raised, the Nene guillotine locks drip relatively clean river water all over the boat. When recently raised during a monster high tide, the Denver Sluice drips old pre-decimalization-penny sized splats of wet mud that dry rapidly in the warm sun.

Nae bother… heavy rain showers were forecast late evening, so we assumed it would all wash off.

Moving on, we made an pleasantly unremarkable afternoon trip back through Wells Creek on the Middle Levels to Outwell & Upwell (or is that Upwell & Outwell?), before mooring up at the nice staithe just under St. Peter’s Church at Upwell, where there were nice raised beds with roses, rosemary and a particularly pungent curry plant.

Wednesday night was clearly bell ringing practice night: makes a change from Morris Dancing I suppose, but maybe a bit too close for comfort!

It did rain heavily that night. It didn’t wash off the mud splats.

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…