Leicester Ring Day 1 - 23rd April 2007

The day didn't start on the right foot. Having called the boatyard a week or so ago to ascertain whether we might pick the boat up at 12.30pm rather than the officially alotted 2pm, and receiving positive noises, I called the yard first thing this morning to be greeted by the same (but now stressed sounding) lady to be told there was a "full turnaround" today, and the earliest we'd get away would be 2pm.

So what's 90 minutes between friends? - Well, on a boat quite a lot. It's possible to journey about five miles in 90 minutes, and considering we had 6 miles and a swing bridge to negotiate between Market Harborough basin and the Foxton staircase (more about the odd glances we received on the news of our decision to traverse the ring clockwise in a moment).

The problem is Foxton is not on full "summer" hours as yet (we're a week or two early) which means last boat into the flight is at 4.15pm.

If we had boarded at 2pm, by the time the safety briefing had completed (no videos, nor stewardesses - more your weathered mechanic who's done this a thousand times before explaining the joys of the 240v inverter, the boiler, and the weedha.... sorry nodded off there for a moment) we'd have been out of the yard at 2.30pm, getting us to Foxton at about 4.30pm, just in time to moor up for the night four hours behind schedule (or 12 miles if you've been paying attention to the maths)

Co-pilot arrived chez-moi at 9am, and by the time i'd dropped the kids off at school, waved wife off to the gym and fuelled the motor we set off around 9.45.

Having made good time to the yard, we made ourselves known to the (moved on from stressed, now bordering on apoplectic) lady with whom I had conversed not three hours earlier. She might as well have told us to F**K OFF till 1pm at the earliest - this did not bode well.

Given that we had two hours to kill, we decided to make our way en voiture to Foxton. Ten minutes later (for such is the nonsense of the canals, not only would it take two hours and six miles by boat, it took a mere 10 minutes and two and half miles by car) we parked up at Foxton and having coughed for £1.50 to park we took a wander up the site of the inclined plane (now very much benefitting from a £2M Heritage Fund reconstruction grant), then strolled to meet with the bluff lock-keeper at the top lock. Having ascertained what the last arrival time would be by boat for safe passage through the flight, co-pilot generously allowed his pockets to be mugged to the tune of nearly £7 so we might partake of two cups of Mellow Birds instant coffee, a bacon roll and a cheesy bagette - Unequivocally an offering from the very table of the Gods...erm...

Having shoved it down, we made our back down the flight to visit "Bridge 61" a fine hostelry serving an excellent regional ale offering 4.1% ABV and a thoroughly satisfyingly caramel ensemble, where in we observed a general relaxing, and an acknowledgement that we both still had that slight back of the brain feeling that, "surely there's something I'm supposed to be stressing about at the moment" - We decided to head back to the yard to see whether the nice lady might have had a spontaneous heamathorax in our absence, but to our surprise she seemed to have gone down a couple of gears.

I made full use of the excellent facility at the yard before encountering the nice smile on the nice lady who informed us (a little before 1pm) that our craft was ready, and we could begin boarding.

Further raised eyebrows at our decision to tackle the ring clockwise (apparently the trend is to head north initially and get the Soar and Trent out of the way, as a change in the weather can take them from placid to rancid in short order) - I explained that we couldn't make the plan work going anti-clockwise due to the time limits on both Foxton and Watford locks.

Still, having got the paperwork and the small matter of the diesel and gas fee out of the way (£99.95 this year, how super to get 5p off a oncer) we listened carefully whilst the nice engineer explained that if we failed to ensure the facilities on board closed off properly after use (sometimes "things" get stuck apparently) we would likely pay accidental homage to Scottish Water and their rather spectacular " Filth of Forth" incident over the weekend.

Finally, we get underway at 1.20pm. The race was on... that is if you can call 3mph a race under any circumstances. Which reminds me, just what exactly did that bloke who "borrowed" a narrowboat from Middlewich a few weeks ago think he was doing? - He took the boat, repainted it then proceeded to become a fugitive from the law, at the blistering pace of 3mph. Must have been tough for plod to keep up - there he is, no he's got away... oh hang on, i'll just up my pace to a brisk walk, and there he is again...

Here's co-pilot to take up the story.

Yes, i'll be the co-pilot then. So, we make Foxton at around 3.30 impressively. Some momentary confusion about who was steering (see below) was soon resolved.

At this point it might be worthwhile apologising in advance for any apprearance of 'slurred typing' due to the steady intake of alcohol through the day and the recent appearance of a nice glass of port. Anyway, back to the plot. Foxton arrives and my co pilot stopped the boat from going anywhere while I opted to tuck my windlass under my t shirt (hanging over the shoulder being the required position) and make a dash up the hill to find the lock keeper. When i got to the top he popped his head out of an upstairs window (might be useful to point out the small house he was in at the time) and told me we were next. So back down the bottom and little over 30 minutes later we made it to the top with the boat.

Beyond Foxton was a general meanderance (good word) of lock free canal followed by the first tunnel of the journey. It's at this point that i have to tell you about one of the many boat traditions. Upon entering the tunnel, it's cusomary to place the ghetto blaster (i'm sure there's a better name for it but I can't be bothered to find one) on the top of the boat and make it ejaculate intense classical music (that Damien tune or The Sourcerers Apprentice tend to work) at high volume. This is purely done for self pleasure and the added bonus that everyone else in the tunnel with us at the time can hear it as well (along with anyone passing near one of the vents at the top of the hill).

Post tunnel, not a great deal happened apart from the odd splattering of rain, more meandering countryside and the opening of the JD.

We finally gave up for the day short of Yelvertoft by around a mile (having been beaten by the fading daylight). After a shower and some much needed carbohydrate the day is done.

So here we are, two middle aged men, moored up in the middle of nowhere, eating intensely aromatic cheese and biscuits, drinking port and listening to classical music. Me dear? No dear!!!

"How very dare you!" - Back to me then.

I can't believe we've got this far in our yarn without mentioning the unmentionable whiff which has followed us all day.

Yesterday, I spent the day with my family at Willows Farm near London Colney, which has multitudinous benefits, not only does it entertain the little people, it also offers a rather nice delicatessen and butchery. I purchased some bacon and black pudding to go with the previously purchased sausages, and having conferred with soon to be co-pilot, made off with some additional cheeses (the product of which we've just been enjoying with our first and second glasses of port).

Three cheeses were added to the already pleasing array of Stilton, Brie and Chedder. First up for your delight, the Welsh Goats cheese whose name appears to be on the path of a broken synapse at the moment, a wedge of Lincolnshire poacher, and the utterly splendid and perfectly named - I hesitate to refer to it as a wedge, more a slobbering goo - of Stinking Bishop.

So aptly named is this king of cheeses, it spent the entire day on the roof of the boat, not being allowed anywhere near the interior for fear of melting the curtains.

It's been briefly allowed inside whilst we sample it's delights, but to be sure it's about to be put out for the night, much like a rather pissy old moggy, the smell of which it imitates rather too closely for comfort. We will take reasonable measures to protect it from any wildlife, although for the life of me, I suspect it's more likely the other way around.

All that remains for the evening is a round or two of whist (what with us being in the middle of bleedin' nowhere and there being a marked absence of pubbery available) and thence to sleep in order that we might attain three or four hours kip before the 6am start tomorrow.