Slow travel

30/9/2017 Just outside Wigan is the re-built staithe of Orwell's pier. Wigan is a city of contradictions, energy and apathy, fine buildings and rubbish ones. On Friday we moored next a fine pub, the Farmer's Arms, and couldn't say no to a good feed,  with a free bottle of merlot. The landscape is flatter, few hedges, wide fields, cropping. Great hay stacks, bales forming 20ft or so towers. No locks, which given a persistent drizztle suits us fine. Numerous electrically operated swing bridges. The first one of the day delayed some late peak traffic while the system malfunctioned. I had to read the 'how to reset the system' instructions, as the cars banked up. No pressure! Now moored for lunch, cold wet outside, snug warm inside. Love that central heating!

30/9/2017 On a lovely summery day, early, mist rising, we set off  to tackle the 21 locks in the Wigan flight.  These locks take you down 214'8", to the junction with the Bridgewater canal which runs westwards from Manchester. It took us 6 hours to complete the flight,  with assistance from a lock keeper. The locks are capable of taking a 14' wide boat, and are about 60' long.  Some have cascades (as in the pic), requiring the rear doors to be hastily closed to avoid a drenching. The walkie talkies came into their own, and saved our sanity ('please tell me why I am still stuck in this lock, getting wet?'), and assisted marital harmony. At the end of the flight we moored up,  and organised our mooring in Liverpool. A free mooring in the heart of the docks, for a week. Now we are in contact with a river pilot, to hopefully accompany us across the Mersey,  and into Ellsmere Port below Chester. An exciting prospect. Have attached a washing day pic, and one of fr

22/9/2017 Apart from canals, and the green belt,  this country has legislated to protect the right to roam,  and this is on top of the footpath system, signposted,  stiles, bridges, which covers the entire country.  Centuries old, a product of the only form of transport available to most people until public transport came along, that is, walking.  So even when you have no map, and Google isn't playing ball, you can head off on a walk, keeping a church spire or other landmark in sight, and happily roam the countryside. The memoir 'Larks Rise to Candleford', by Flora Thompson, is a delightful introduction to traditional life,  including walking between villages. A few days ago, in north Yorkshire,  I followed a little footpath beside the Royal Oak in Staveley, leading between houses to the countryside, and a route round the conservation area. We had previously explored a small part of this, where bird hides have been built for the avid twitchers. So this wasn't a rash v

12/9/2017 While a hat would have been a good idea, as the sun was determined to shine, the competing wind would have sent it into Northumberland. The ear worm tune was apparently from a hymn, and adapted and  revived by Victorian school children. Probably like many a mad hiker before me, I bellowed the ditty into the heather clad wind blasted moors,  two bemused sheep and one long suffering husband the only audience. The pleasures of slow travel in England- a bus from our mooring in Skipton to Ilkley, us perched in the front seats of the double decker. No car to manage or navigation to challenge marital harmony. Then an amble round the town, which borders the River Wharfe. We recalled passing the mouth of the Wharfe, where it lazily winds to a junction with the Ouse, below York. Nothing lazy about the Wharfe in Ilkley, as the folds of the Pennines press it east. After a reviving coffee at the institution called Bettys,  we picked up a map and decided a ramble up the moors, would be

8/9/2017  Our slow travel in and around 'sheep town', Skipton, has taken us by steam train to Bolton Abbey, where we walked to the old priory, towering remnants above the Strid. There are stepping stones which beckoned, but given the drizsle, caution for once prevailed. We retreated into the intact priory, which occupies part of the site, as the heavens opened,  in heavy drenching torrents, gusty winds. As it eased, we quick marched to the nearest tea room, before the 3 km walk back to the train. Yesterday we stayed in Skipton, a town at a significant ancient crossing point of the Pennines. The castle high above the town was built in 1090, by the Normans. 4 metre walls, round towers, moated, it was the last Royalist castle in the north to surrender to Cromwell in the Civil War. The redoubtable Lady Anne Clifford negotiated the surrender, part of the castle roof was 'slighted', so no cannons could be mounted there. The Lady in 1655 was given permission to rebuild the ro

13/9/2017 Two different experiences of Symi, one by boat circumnavigating the island, with swimming stops in 5 remote locations. The other traversing the interior on foot, following often indistinct tracks more suited to goats. From the northern side of the island the Turkish coast is visible, mountainous,  veiled in a heat haze. We swim into a  cave in the limestone cliffs, mostly using ladders from the boat, anchored off shore. The water deep, blessedly cool. One beach lies below cliffs making it inaccessible except by water, or abseiling. A small church graces one end of the beach, 3 goats wander the shore. Our walk across the island starts early, catching the 6.50am bus taking worshippers to a monastery at the far end of the island. We arrange a drop off a few miles from the port, and a pick up at a small church some 3 hours walk away. We start high on a ridge, dropping and traversing, looking down on old stone walled farms, moving in the early morning towards a cypress and oak f