Moored pretty much where the Macclesfield canal crosses over the Trent and Mersey canal before joining it from the “other” side, you wouldn’t guess we were right in the middle of Kidsgrove.

Just opposite was a run-off control/weir system. Excess water runs over, and there’s an enclosed shelf about five feet below or something. Before leaving to worship at the local 24 hour Tesco cathedral, we’d noticed a couple of families of mallards (two adults, and numerous ducklings per pair) straying perilously close to the weir.

On our return, the adults were there, paddling up and down in a most agitated manner, and there were distressed noises from below: clearly the ducklings had sailed over, and were stranded on the ledge below. Occasionally an adult would drop down, then reappear flapping wildly after conducting what’s known in aviation as a “short field take-off”, but the ducklings had yet to complete their first solo so they were there to stay.

It didn’t really seem like a job for RCR or the Coastguards, but fortunately, a couple were walking a dog that side of the canal, and wading through the long grass went to have a look. Our hero took one look, rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs, and climbed down the access ladder. Over a period of ten minutes – doubtless trying to catch them – numerous ducklings were unceremoniously lobbed over the lip into the wings of their devote mums and dads.

All was well for the time being, foxes and pikes permitting…

Those sad followers of this Blog will know that the plan was to cross the Pennines – probably by the Rochdale Canal, returning by the Leeds and Liverpool. Crucial to this plan was the ability to pass through the Marple flight of locks, which had been closed for months for repairs. The promised Easter opening date had passed and gone, as had the early May bank holiday date; as part of the popular Cheshire Ring, the hire fleet companies were getting cheesed off. The latest opening date was the second, late May bank holiday, and the lock flight was indeed opened to traffic.

We were still suspicious, but decided we’d take CaRT at their word, and left Westport Lakes to transit Harecastle Tunnel then head up the Macclesfield Canal, which goes up to Marple. We ended up mooring at a favourite spot near Little Moreton Hall, a National Trust of some repute. We’d moored here a couple of years ago: a pleasant spot. This time the weather was exceedingly nice, so we actually walked across the fields to Little Moreton Hall to partake of their excellent café; we’d been around the hall itself some years ago when we were having Song & Dance built. And for the first time this year, we actually saw some House Martins… the swallows had been around (and initially freezing) for a while.

It was so nice we chilled out here for another day; on Sunday we moved on through the Congleton outskirts and tied up in another favourite spot by the Dane Aqueduct, just at the bottom of the flight of twelve Bosley Locks. That afternoon, there was some excitement as between the first and seconds locks there is a tight-ish bend, with a winding hole; for some reason the water level in the pound was exceedingly low, and one or two boats were having an epic time sorting themselves up.

Meanwhile, the Chief Sherpa had made it clear that she wanted to upload herself into The Cloud, so preparations were made for an early start on Monday morning.

Unlike the modern usage (for the cynics amongst us “The Cloud” is just a different name for “Someone Else’s Computer”), this The Cloud is a hill just over 1000 feet high just alongside the canal, with – apparently – splendid views over the local area. It’s actually quite a tramp across the fields just to Base Camp, then it starts getting seriously steep for canal travellers.

Actually if we had a car we could have driven pretty nearly all the way up. Mutter, mutter. We made it to the top, though, even if the promised views were disappointing: it was warm and muggy and pretty hazy, so the visibility was less than desirable. And not a Hang Glider in sight.

Cutting across the fields coming down rather than staying on the road, we came across this rather splendid modern house with fabulous views in decent weather. We were, however, somewhat bemused by the car parking arrangements (photo taken from same spot as those of the house).

Thoroughly exhausted, we made it back to Base Camp then across the fields to Song & Dance in time for dinner. One of is jolly glad that – by and large – canals do not travel through mountainous terrain.

Wednesday morning saw a trip to the Post Office for croissants and coffee (first lunch or second breakfast – a quandary) and a chance catch-up with the crew of nb Valentine with whom we had been playing leapfrog from Oxford, and who had also battened down at the top of Claydon due to the (slightly position ally challenged) weather forecast for Monday.

The current weather seemed OK if unremarkable and a bit cold, so we pushed on (or off!). A chance of a shower, apparently. Foolishly looking at the clearing sky, and having decided not to tog up in waterproofs, your helmsman got absolutely soaked when a vicious rain and hail shower suddenly bubbled up out of nowhere…

Just after the rain stopped, we had a fly past from a low-flying peregrine falcon. We don’t know if they’re still resident on Braunston church steeple – if so, it was probably one of those –  we weren’t that far away.

Later that afternoon we tied up just outside Braunston, at a pretty spot looking across the ridge and furrows up to the church – we’d moored here before, but were surprised to find little room: just enough for us. Still, we had managed the transit from the South Oxford Canal via a stretch of the Grand Union to the North Oxford Canal. Three different canals in a day – can’t be bad.

No sign of any peregrines here this evening though, but we’ll find out more tomorrow.

We were itching to be off on our journey North, but Sunday dawned a bit dour and chilly. But the forecast for Monday was awful – torrential rain, gale force winds and cold to boot. So to put a peg in the ground so to speak, after filling Song & Dance with fuel and water, and unfilling the unmentionable tank, we noted the mileage on our car (which we were leaving behind) and said our good-byes to the chaps at Cropredy.

The wind wasn’t as bad as the previous time we’d left (gosh – was that really nearly a fortnight ago) and we exited the marina without heeling over or any undue drama. There was a fair bit of boat traffic about, and we stopped for lunch after three locks, before tackling the five in the Claydon flight climbing up to the summit pound.

By the time we reached Claydon Top Lock it was windy, and absolutely freezing: 20 degrees colder than the same time a week ago. The weather’s gone crazy.

We’d noticed a few swallows had arriving a few days ago, but the ones at Claydon Top Lock really looked as though they wished they hadn’t. Quite a few just perched the edge of the lock looking miserable, barely bothering to get out of our way; a few made desultory flits over the water but there was nary an insect in sight. Hope they make it through the next few days. Strangely, we haven’t seen any Martins yet – just swallows.

Turned out several other boats had made it to the top before tucking up for the night; none of us expected to move on the Monday and we all battened down the hatches. Last time we spent the night near here (a couple of years ago) it snowed.