Canals 6

Day 6
Thursday
July 25, 2002

     Today's run was almost not a run at all--less than a mile. We tied up to a pump-out station to evict the wastes that had been accumulating in our holding tanks for almost a week. With that task finished, we chugged to more permanent moorage on the Saltisford Arm, a small dead-end offshoot of the Grand Union Canal. This would be our home for three days of the Warwick Folk Festival.   There wasn't room for us to moor next to the canal bank so we tied up abreast, that is, bound to another boat alongside. Tied along side, on our bank side, was a boat whose operators were unknown to us.   On the canal side was our sister boat the Weaver Valley.   Together we formed a three boat, side-by-side, boom extending towards the canal center. I became somewhat adept, but never comfortable, climbing from one boat to another, deck to deck, to get to and from our floating home.
     The Saltisford Arm mooring area was charming. The canal side walk was bordered with flowers. It wasn't a long patch, only a few hundred yards, but in that strip existed an impressive variety of exquisite blossoms. They did not form mass color, but vied for the stroller's focus with exotic bursts of glory.
   The flowerbeds terminated next to a grass lawn occupied by several picnic tables. Beyond that was a picturesque shop.   It would have been a gift shop except that it sold a few serious narrowboat basics, such as rope, in addition to a fascinating mixture of gift items, especially hand painted miniatures. There were Lilliputian teapots, watering cans, buckets, lock keys (wrenches designed to crank open and closed the canal lock sluice gates) and a variety of other tiny objects, many decorated in the painting style of English canal folk art. The shopkeeper also sold blessedly cold soft drinks, rarely found in England where local folk preferred their beverages only slightly cooled.
     Our boats were moored closer to the end of the canal arm than most. This grassy area was the favorite haunt of three white geese, who we soon named The Three Stooges. I had noticed the birds as we pulled up to our mooring spot earlier that day. They stood there, not moving, fixing their attention on our approaching boats, as if sizing us up.
     This avian trio was very comfortable around people. Sara was at the galley sink one morning doing the after-breakfast cleanup when she heard a tap-tap-tap on the window in front of her.   She looked up and into the face of one of the geese, inches away, his bill pressed against the window. The expression on the goose's face was expectant, almost demanding. Sara decided the amusing behavior was at least worth a few pieces of bread, which was readily accepted by the clever birds.
     Soon after our boats were moored, most of us embarked on a much-needed journey to a laundromat. At the suggestion of wife Sara, I mined my pockets for suddenly precious 20 pence coins and then retired in a most chauvinist manner to a cozy pub, where I stayed conveniently out of the way while the ladies tended to the business at hand.
     After we returned, Tom, aboard the Weaver, went aft to start the engine. The boat engines needed to be run for a couple of hours each day to keep the batteries charged. That morning's short run had not sufficed, so the motors needed to be started.
     When he turned the key, the motor went clunk. That's all, just clunk. Tom tilted his head quizzically and turned the key again. Clunk.   After a few minutes fussing with the engine, he started to sing softly to himself a tune that so many of us learned in our grade school classes: Oh, dear, what can the matter be, oh dear what can the matter be…
     Finally he called Valley Cruises, the boats' owners. When the man from the boat company arrived, he too made the engine go clunk. After checking here and there in the engine compartment, he looked over the side at the small exhaust pipe protruding from the boat near the aft end. Then he looked at the bilge pump outlet of our boat, tied up directly alongside the Weaver. Then he uttered a string of expletives not designed to express joy. It seems that shortly after arriving, our boat had pumped out a generous amount of bilge water. The position of the bilge pump outlet on the port side of our boat precisely matched the location of the engine exhaust pipe protruding from the starboard side of our companion vessel, tied so neatly abreast of us. When our bilge was pumped, the water shot into the engine exhaust of the Weaver as neatly as if the two ports had been physically connected!
     The Valley Cruises man fiddled some more and finally succeeded in getting the battery to crank the motor. The exhaust of the stricken boat vomited water. Still the engine would not start. The man from the boat company was still working on the motor when we left by van for an evening of food, drink, and darts back at the Cape of Good Hope Pub. Lyn stayed with the mechanic while Tom went with us to the pub.
     Lyn arrived at the pub about an hour later. "Do we have two boats or just one," Tom immediately queried.
    "Two," Lyn replied with a smile. We cheered. Tom grinned.
     After returning to the Tame Valley later that night, Sara and I decided to visit the Dun Cow Pub just across the road for a late night libation. The friendly proprietor of the establishment helped make this watering spot one of the homiest of the trip. While there, we struck up a conversation with Jed, who owned a local taxi company. For the next few days, Jed directed his drivers to go out of their way, if need be, to pick us up. Taxis during Festival seemed especially scarce and this made things a lot easier for us during our stay in Warwick.
     After quenching our late evening thirst, we trudged across the road and over the fence stile which delivered us canal side, near to our boats and bed.