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August 16, 2007
The Past Few Days
For a number of days we have been in small towns and cowfields, away from wireless for the most part. But we have continued to take pictures, so I'll share a few while this signal lasts.
The other day we moored for a few hours in a small town along the canal. Its name is Brewood, which is pronounced BROOD by the locals. We stopped, in part, to partake of the "filled baps" listed in the canal guide. Arriving at the bakery (it was early afternoon), we learned, to our dismay, that the baps had all been sold. We wandered down the road to a little antique/junk shop where I bought a souvenir thimble for my anglophile grandmother.
Afterward, we wandered to see the local site: a church of some age. As an ecological nod, the churchyard was not mowed at all times of year, in order to preserve a meadow ecosystem for local critters. It gave the graveyard a haunted look.
Following a narrow road out the far end of the churchyard, Robbi and I came to a public footpath, which we followed.
It was an odd corridor, threading first between houses and then between fences separating people's yards. Eventually we found ourselves outside the town, threading a narrow pathway between farmers' fields. We came to a stile.
While no problem for Robbi, the stile was not easily accessed with the medical boot.
Later that day we stopped at a small town to mail some letters. Along the way, I stopped to photograph some graffiti on the sidewalk.
This roused the curiosity of some local youth, who demanded to know why I was taking pictures.
I explained that I was a tourist, that taking pictures was the tourist's primary occupation. This seemed to appease them. Then one of them asked if I'd ever seen a crocodile. I allowed that I had seen one in the zoo. To which the same young man replied by saying that I reminded him of "that crocodile guy."
"Crocodile Dundee?" I asked, incredulously.
"No" he said, "the other one...Steve...Steve..."
"Steve Irwin?" I asked.
"That's right," he said, "Steve Irwin." Then the others joined in "Yeah, Steve Irwin, you sound just like him."
I accepted this because it seemed unsporting to spoil their good earnest fun. I did not want to tell them that my accent was not even marginally similar to Irwin's. Further, if they were aware of Irwin's passing, it did not mute their glee at comparing me to him. They begged to be photographed, with assurances that they would be posted on the blog. "On the internet!" they said together. "On the internet!" they chanted. Here they are, the little blokes.
Back on the boat, I played Leonardo in Titanic, taking advantage of the dramatic gushings of water that transpire when the sluices open and the boat starts to rise from the bottom of the lock to the top. This pose is not as grand at the base of a slimy lock, but it's the best I could do, considering the circumstances.
I did not sing the Celine Dion song, though now I wish I had.
For many days, every time we got to a lock, we went up. For about a week, this was so. Eventually though, once we rounded the southern tip of the Four Counties Loop near Atherton Junction, we reached a summit of sorts and had to go down. We had been worried about the "down" locks for some time, on account of their being somewhat more tricky. When the boat goes up, water rushes into the chamber, causing the boat to rise. When the boat goes down, the water is evacuated. However, one must be careful that the boat's back edge (including the delicate rudder) not get caught on the cill (pronounced "sill"), a wide ledge that keeps the boat from smashing against the lock doors.
The down lock:
We slide in:
Roji keeps the front of the boat pressed against the front doors of the lock so that we do not get caught on the cill (see the carefully painted indicators).
The boat safely lowered, we carry on.
Since this first "down" lock, we have been through many more and have become old hands. We have gone up and down well over 100 locks in the past two weeks. Not that I'm bragging.
England is not as different as is, say Tokyo, but there are subtle differences that make the place delightful. For example, the pringles vending machine we found in a pub the other night.
And another that vended various things in cans: olives, cashews, jelly beans, and ravioli, to name a few.
And how about these boaters, whose only excuse for their costumes was that "Saturday is dress-up day, mate."
It's my opinion that Sponge Bob looks much better with a beer and cigarette:
As we've made our way through England, there have been more than a few encounters with cows. They are sometimes in the canal itself.
They are sometimes brooding in the twilight, gathered in an angry line, looking ruefully at us across the fields.
When we need entertainment, we practice at drinking tea like British people do.
Or occasionally, try our hand at lassoing Bob. (If you're curious, Daryl was not successful in the attempt pictured here).
More to come. Much more to come. For now, I'm running out of battery.
Posted by bogenamp at August 16, 2007 02:20 PM