We had already decided (a decision? a rare event) that we weren’t going to press on to Bristol: the storm had – it turned out – rendered the Avon unsafe for boaters and if it was going to be imitating a yo-yo we didn’t want to be stranded. So  – not really being city people – when we set off from Bradford-upon-Avon (or Bradford on Avon if you prefer), we were rather expecting to wind at Avoncliff Aqueduct, stopping at the recommended pub for lunch. But we got there rather early and there were no terribly easy moorings left, so we pressed on to Dundas Aqueduct.

Passing The Who’s country establishment, we came to the conclusion the herons were tamer than in the Midlands, or had been deafened by the noises emanating from the studio.

Dundas Aqueduct was even more mobbed, being a lovely spot on a sunny Sunday lunchtime, but we managed to squeeze in just near Dundas Wharf. Mr Dundas was a big wheel in establishing the K&A, so his name keeps cropping up, even if only as the aforementioned purveyor of extraordinarily expensive Guinness in Kintbury.

The aqueduct is impressive, as are the views.

The wharf was busy – that’s us just under the footbridge in the distance. (Click on the photo and it should get bigger,  as the actress said…)

However, faced with the –err – challenge of reversing a 58ft boat under the bridge and into the basin and then winding in the junction of the aqueduct and the Somerset Coal Canal entrance, with boats coming from all directions, we decided to press on a bit further to the next winding hole.

By which time we were not a million miles from Bath, and it was still only mid-afternoon, so the Captain thought “sod-it”, we might as well press on and see if we can get moored somewhere amenable, and come back if we can’t.

So, while we’d never really intended to come this far, we stumbled upon a mooring in a pleasant spot right next to Sydney Gardens, overlooking the city centre, with a parade of hot-air balloons to welcome us. With such an invitation to spend a couple of days in the city, it would have been positively rude to refuse!

So, more or less by accident, we seem to have brought February’s bare steel bath tub from it’s genesis in Biddulph all the way to Bath, complete with Captain Biggles, who still seems to be opting to stay with the boat.

Now what?

Jumping on the train at Kintbury, as I went to sit down the chap on the opposite seat put a copy of the Metro “newspaper” on it. Barely glancing up I asked “have you finished with that” and he said he had. Then we both did a double take, as it was Joe Phillips, a dear old friend from Bracknell and Uxbridge Folk Club days, who we knew lived in Great Bedwyn – the previous station / end of the line – and who we were planning on phoning a couple of days later as it is on the canal. He never normally travels by train, but that day by chance was going up to London, collecting a friend en-route at Virginia Water (on our beloved slow train from Reading to Waterloo) rather than going direct to Paddington. What are the chances of that?

Not having seen each other since a funeral several years ago, there was lots to talk about!

Mooring up at Great Bedwyn a couple of days later, Fran was heading off to the village shop when she was hi-jacked in the wharf car park by Joe and his musical partner in crime Clive Buckingham (an old Bunjies resident!) and we were dragged off to a splendid dinner in Wilton then a music session in Ramsbury before being returned to the boat well after normal bed time. It’s a hard life…

Joe’s also a volunteer at the fascinating  Crofton Pumping Station, so we had the luxury next afternoon of being heavy-crewed on the short cruise up through a few locks to the Crofton Moorings, from where we got the full guided tour. The boiler was fired up already, in preparation for a special evening steaming event the next day, at which Joe and Clive were singing. A fascinating afternoon… thanks, Joe!

Meanwhile, outside the martins were gathering on the wires, and inside the swallows were keeping warm above the boiler while waiting for the flitting time to arrive. Won’t be long now!

Autumn is a-coming in: with all the hedgerow fruit well advanced, and only a few swallows still lurking in the flocks of martins, the conker trees have clearly decided to call it a day. Magic Dragon, the rather fine steam-driven half-scale Clyde Puffer moored at Beale Park started a Peter Paul & Mary ear-worm that lasted far too long. Would have been nice to see her in steam.

We don’t know Reading very well. Having persuaded Caversham Boat Services (right between Caversham and Reading Bridges) to provide us with a mooring for the night that had an electric hook-up so we could exercise the washing machine, we were surprised when they said “you do realise we’re on an island, and there’s no way off once we go home, don’t you…”. Mind you, their address – Fry’s Island – gives a clue I suppose.

Hope the residents of the posh flats across the water enjoyed the view of our boat and washing drying in the sun. Lots of interesting traffic passing , but somehow this boat (see below) did NOT inspire any ear-worms. We suggested he change the name to Banjo.

The next day, we picked up some very dear old Reading dwelling friends avec bicyclettes outside the posh flats, then had a very pleasant meander down the Thames to Sonning Lock before returning to the junction of the Kennet River with The Thames where they pedalled off to put dinner on. (And from where we were subsequently chauffeured to and from a delightful repast chez Mayor). Before leaving we were visited by some equally friendly Antipodean strays, who seem to still have their seasons mixed up. They were so much more polite than their white UK compatriots.

In the morning, we discovered that we were moored rather closer to the entrance of a 24-hour Tesco than most car drivers could park (unless handily equipped with a disabled disc or a small baby). Fresh croissants and a newspaper for breakfast within a minute’s walk – a rare treat…

Mind you, en-route back for said breakfast, the rodent seen scurrying across the path was clearly a rat rather than a stoat or water vole. Ho Hum.