Part 2

Before proceeding next day, we had to clear the canoe of the dirt and rubbish collected during the passage of the tunnel. Upon this day we passed through six locks in close succession, as well as another tunnel, and skirted the village of Ansley, once the property of Lady Godiva, of the uncomfortable ride fame, soon after which we left the waters of the Grand Junction at Braunston (Warwickshire), and entered upon those of the Oxford Canal.

A hard day's paddle, of no particular interest, brought us to Willoughby, where we put up for the night.

We awoke next morning to find the weather damp and misty, so we dispensed, for the first time, with our morning dip, and lingered somewhat over breakfast to make up for it.

A propose of eating, I should mention that all along the way we had come fruit was in abundance, and as for apples--well, we fairly revelled in them.

To my mind a good English apple, fresh picked from the tree, and with the dew upon its sun-kissed cheeks, cannot be beaten the whole world over.

During a portion of this day we had to face a strong head-wind, which made the travelling rather hard, and severely taxed the patience and skill of the steerer. Happening to chaff him once or twice when the wind got the upper hand and nearly slewed the canoe round, he challenged me to try my hand and do better. Accepting the challenge, and in the rashness of youthful confidence, I ventured to wager him that I could take the canoe, single-handed and empty, up to a certain point and back again, during which I should, of course, have to turn broadside on to the full force of the wind.

The outcome of it was that we quickly landed and emptied the canoe of all impedimenta in case of mishap, and then I started off--not so confidently, though, I may add--on my uncertain way.

All went well until I attempted to turn, and then the full force of the wind catching me suddenly, over I went, after a vain attempt to steady the canoe, souse into the canal. Coming to the surface, I called out (when I had emptied my mouth of as much canal-water as I could) to Jacky that I was all right, and then, amid his uproarious mirth, I struck out for shore, pushing the canoe in front of me.

A brisk rub down and a change of flannels (we were in a secluded spot, fortunately) soon mended matters, and by the time Jacky had emptied the canoe of water and stowed away our belongings, I was ready to start again, thoroughly cured for the time being of over-confidence in my canoeing powers.

After a stiff paddle through charming woodland scenery, and passing en route Bedworth, the most active part of the Warwickshire coal-fields, we reached Nuneaton, where we went ashore and engaged a room for the night under the hospitable roof of the White Horse.

A stroll around Nuneaton before bedtime afforded us much delight, as the old town is full of antiquity, and is also known to fame as the birthplace of George Eliot.

In the morning we took mine host's little son and daughter with us in the canoe as far as Atherston, where we sent them safely back by train, thoroughly delighted with their novel experience, ours being the only craft of the kind that they had ever seen in those parts.

When we arrived at Caldecote we went ashore to explore the place, and noticed with much interest a monument erected to the memory of one George Abbott, who in days gone by defended Caldecote Hall against a Royalist attack led by Prince Rupert. So stubborn was the defence that the defenders melted down the pewter dishes and plate to cast bullets.

We noted with pleasure that the lives of those gallant Roundheads were spared when the garrison finally had to surrender.

We proceeded on through the Birmingham Canal, passing close by Coventry, and arrived at Fradley, where we obtained a charming view of Lichfleld Cathedral in the distance. We rested for the night at Fradley (our bill for an excellent supper, bed, and breakfast coming to the modest sum of 3s. 6d. for the two of us), and early next morning got afloat.

We were now on the North Staffordshire Canal, having covered about 160 miles since the commencement of our journey.

We shortly after began to get in the heart of the Pottery District, and the scenery for some distance assumed the aspect peculiar to manufacturing centres.

Past Armitage, Rugeley, Colwich, and several other towns and villages we paddled, until we reached Little Heyward, where we stopped about midday for lunch.

Re-starting after a rest, we were overtaken by a monkey-barge, the skipper of which kindly gave us a tow for some miles, until we arrived, in the afternoon, at Stone, where we went ashore for tea and a look round the town. On several occasions we took advantage of the good-nature of the bargees and their wives, and obtained a tow behind their barges when we wanted a rest. On the whole, we found them a most interesting and sociable lot of people, and on more than one occasion we were invited on board, as honoured guests, to partake of tea with the skipper and his family.

Life on board one of these slow-moving canal barges appeared to me to possess many charms. The barge people seem to pass a sort of amphibious existence, belonging neither to the land nor to the water, but having a human interest in each. The women and children almost wholly live aboard their floating homes, often never stepping ashore from one day to the other and going about their domestic duties, as well as those connected with their calling, with all the precision and cheerfulness in the world, as if there were nothing strange or out-of-the-way in their surroundings.

Then the scenery through which they pass. To anyone who is capable of appreciating the beauties of Nature in the slightest degree, there must be something soothing and elevating in constantly being brought face to face with Nature in all her varying charms. Now gliding calmly past a water-side village, with the children running out to give you a greeting; then through a waving, poppy-starred cornfield, or past low-lying meadows, with the meditative cattle standing knee-deep in the sweet pasturage, and anon a bend in the canal carries you past wood-lands where the trees meet overhead and form a cool canopy through which the rays of the sun can only penetrate here and there in slanting beams.

When my thoughts wander in this groove, I often marvel at people electing to live in stuffy, smoky towns, when the charms of the country are at their bidding.

Proceeding on our journey after tea, we eventually arrived at Stoke-on-Trent, and went ashore to seek shelter for the night at a wayside cottage.

We got afloat in the morning after our swim and a hearty breakfast, and proceeded past the outskirts of the town, which we were not sorry to leave behind.

It came on to rain soon after we left Stoke-on-Treat; but as we were well prepared with macintoshes to face the elements, we proceeded cheerily on our way.

After paddling for about four miles we came to the entrance of another long tunnel, which we entered, after taking the precaution to provide ourselves with candles. We had a nasty experience in navigating through this tunnel, which I should not much care to encounter again.

After proceeding cautiously for some distance, during which we had to avoid a ducking, and possibly a swamping, from the numerous "weep-holes" that let showers of land water descend from the roof, our candle suddenly went out and left us in total darkness. To make matters worse, a lot of land-water was coming through the tunnel, which, together with the backwash of a tug some little way ahead of us, tried us considerably, and finally wedged our canoe between the two walls of the tunnel.

We did not relish the situation at all, I can assure you, especially as we could not take stock of our whereabouts; but after a deal of rocking and shoving (during which we had a narrow escape from capsizing), we managed to get the canoe clear of the walls, and worked our way backwards, hand-over-hand, to the mouth of the tunnel.