Day 14 on the English Canals

Day 14
Friday
August 2, 2002

We were able to sleep an extra hour this morning and we loosed our lines at 9:00 A.M. The day dawned bright and sunny, a welcome contrast to the previous two days. Within 20 minutes we encountered our first lock. The beauty of the passing English countryside was amplified by perfect weather; a gentle sun and fluffy clouds set in a blue sky. Bright pink flowers punctuated the green along the canal and huge five-foot ferns stretched from the banks towards the center of the waterway. They seemed to reach for me, wanting to share in my desire for a ritual caress of farewell on our last day on the canals. Sara and I would not make the last few miles of the float the following morning.   Our plane was leaving so early that Pam was going to take us to Birmingham Airport at dawn to catch a shuttle bus to Heathrow in time to board our midday flight.
      Another hour saw us reach Fazely Junction. We passed under Watling Street Bridge and took the right fork of the canal. We had just left the Birmingham and Fazely canal and entered the Coventry Canal, the very one from which we had started 14 days ago. Not only was this waterway particularly beautiful, but also had been one of the most persistently profitable of all the English canals, paying a dividend until 1947.
    Twenty minutes on the Coventry Canal delivered us to the two Glascote Locks. As the Tame Valley chugged out of the second of the two locks, I did not realize that, for Sara and I, this was our last lock. I'm glad that this reality did not occur to me. The mood generated by this perfect day was not disturbed by such a bittersweet realization.
     We floated by chickens pecking in fields of yellow flowers. Sleek black horses grazed contentedly on rich green grass and white sheep dotted the pastures. Tom laughed, declaring that Mother Nature, in a successful attempt to influence our memories, was putting on one last show, saying, "Look at me! Look at me!"
     That afternoon, we moored at Polesworth, between bridges 53 and 54. I climbed over the bow and threw a couple of loops and a double half hitch on the designated bollard.
     "Well, I guess that's it," I muttered.
     Later that evening we all went to the Malt Shovel Pub for a last meal together. Sara was finally able to get a drink with a desired abundance of ice. The employees were extraordinarily friendly and helpful, even for the ever-cheerful English.
     Throughout the trip, Stuart had shown unusual maturity and talent as an excellent helmsman. In recognition of this, Tom knighted the teenager as "Tillerman Extraordinare" and presented him a poster-sized decorative map of the Canals, declaring him graduated Summa cum Lock-key. His 19-year-old sister, Molly, was presented with a miniature lock key (a crank handle used to open and close sluice gates, or paddles) in recognition of her accomplishments in dealing with the often difficult paddle gears and lock doors.
    As daylight faded, several in our group went outside the pub to talk to canal folk artist Brian Mayland and look at some of the art that he had brought along. There he talked at length about the different styles of canal folk art and how it differed from area to area and from his "Baunston " style of painting. Sara bought a highly decorated wooden spoon that now hangs in a prominent place in our kitchen. The twilight faded and it became difficult to see Brian's artwork. Those of us who were still outside returned to the pub where we rejoined the others and soon after climbed into the van for the trip home, to our boat.
   Home it was, home it had become, and as of the next morning, home it would cease to be. We set out alarm for 3:30, as we needed to pack the last of our belongings and be on the road by sunrise.
    The next morning, Sara and I stood by the van, saying our good-byes to Tom & Lyn before setting off.
    "Look at that," Tom said, gesturing towards the Eastern horizon. It was as if the edge of the sky was on fire. Red, orange, and purple light silhouetted distant oak trees, their vague forms still dark and hazy in the morning mists.
     This was a somewhat sad moment and some of this sadness returns to me as I write these last words of this journal. But certainly, this sweet melancholia would not exist if those awesome Two Weeks on the English Canals had not been so extraordinary.

FINIS?