Through Canal-Land in a Canadian Canoe

Transcriber's Note: The spelling of Westmoreland has been modernized to Westmorland. Variant spellings of macintoshes and mackintoshes have been retained as printed.
( Illustrated by the AUTHOR and with Photographs .)
photo by A. S. Walker
Bearing in mind that variety is the spice of existence, I determined that I would temporarily desert the dear old Thames, with whose waters I had become so familiar, and try fresh fields and pastures new during my approaching holidays. Accordingly, I took a friend (who had been my boon companion on many a previous trip by land and water) into my confidence, and after due deliberations, befitting an enterprise likely to be of a novel character, we determined to explore the comparatively un-known canals that commence from the Thames, at Brentford, and thread their way through England from south to north, and end at Kendal in Westmorland. One thing that largely influenced us in deciding upon this route was that we had recently become possessed of a light and well-built Canadian canoe that had been sent us by an English resident in France, where he had been using it in exploring the picturesque portions of the Seine. We fortunately had a friend connected with the Grand Junction Canal Company, and through his kindly offices were enabled without much difficulty to obtain passes allowing us to journey over the different canals which we had mapped out as the waterway to follow. This part of the undertaking having been successfully disposed of, we turned to and overhauled our craft, and saw to the getting of the outfit which we should require in order to make the trip a success. By the time that all our arrangements were in a complete state, the day fixed for the start arrived, and it found us brimming over with cheerful anticipation of the good time in store for us during the next three weeks, and in the best of health and spirits. We were up betimes in the morning, as quaint old Samuel Pepys has it, and journeying down to the boat-house at Kew, where we had left our canoe overnight, soon got afloat and on our way, without mishap or delay of any kind. What a glorious August day it was! The sun shining brightly in a cloudless blue sky overhead, the birds singing blithely in the trees upon the banks, and the water sparkling and lapping beneath our bows; no wonder we took it all as a good omen for the success of our trip. Heading up-stream, we soon shot beneath the railway bridge at Kew, and pass through dirty, straggling old Brentford, entered the Brent, where a short paddle brought us to the first lock. Getting through in our turn, after a short delay caused by a string of canal barges coming through to catch the morning tide, we entered upon the Grand Junction Canal, which extends form here to Braunston, a distance of some hundred and six miles. An enjoyable paddle through fairly pretty and diversified scenery brought us to Hanwell, where we had to negotiate a cluster of five or six locks, all grouped together within a short distance, for the purpose of carrying the water over a sharp rise in the ground. We had a brief chat here with an old bargee, from whom we got some useful advice, not wholly free from chaff, and proceeded upon our way, arriving about midday at West Drayton, where an al fresco lunch on the bar was much appreciated. Resuming our journey after refreshing the inner man, we passed Uxbridge and Harefield, and so out of Middlesex into Hertfordshire. The town of Rickmansworth being passed, Watford, about a mile from the canal, was settled upon as our first stopping place; and evening approaching, we went ashore to seek our well-earned repose for the night. Early to bed and early to rise was the programme, so after a light supper and a brief stroll around the outskirts of the town, we turned into bed and were not long in seeking the sleep that is said to be the reward of an easy conscience. The sun shining through our window in the morning got us out of bed at an early hour, and we were soon splashing about in the sunlit waters of the canal. A delightful dip ended, we returned to our quarters for breakfast, and from the looks of genuine admiration expressed upon the countenance of our landlady, I should judge that our appetites did us full credit. Afloat once more, we paddled by easy stages past Cassiobury House, surrounded by a glorious well-wooded park, and then reached King's Langley, to which an interest attached as having been the birthplace of Edward III. We found the scenery all along this portion of the canal typical of rural England, the various inns by the wayside recalling the delightful types made familiar by the brushes of Dendy Sadler and Yeend King. We soon found to our cost that the tropical summer weather was responsible for the presence of numerous wasps, whose attentions were rather too pressing to be altogether pleasant. While engaged in trying to allay the burning pains of a bad sting upon Jacky's arm, we were advised by a rustic on the bank (whose sympathetic grins upset my chum almost as much as the wasps) to try some clay from the canal-side as a remedy. We were sceptical at first, but were subsequently astonished at the soothing effects of this novel panacea for wasp-stings. Here is a wrinkle for any of my readers who should happen to get stung by the ferocious little pests. At Boxmoor, where we next arrived, we observed, during a saunter around the village, a curious stone erected to the memory of a highwayman rejoicing in the most un-romantic name of Snooks, who was hanged here at the beginning of the century for robbing the King's mail. Paddling on farther, we passed Berkhampstead (a corruption of Berg-ham-sted, the home on the hill), with its picturesque castle, much in request by picnic parties, and duly arrived at Bulborn, near Tring, and during a stroll around the latter town we observed a column erect to commemorate the completion (in 1832) of the canal along which we were journeying. We stopped for the night at Bulborn, a typical bargee's village, and after our usual morning dip proceeded on our way in good time. As the day wore on, we got well into Buckinghamshire, and shortly after came to Stony Stratford, remarkable in history as being the place where the ill-fated young Edward V was seized by Richard Duke of Gloucester. A paddle of some length brought us to the Stoke entrance of the well-known Blisworth Tunnel, which is a mile and a-half in length, and forms the first of a series along the route. Seeing one of the curious little tug-boats about to proceed through the tunnel, we obtained permission from one of the very grimy crew to place our canoe aboard, and, this safely accomplished, the tug puffed and snorted up to the entrance, hitched on to a string of barges, and with a deal of fuss and smoke entered the tunnel. The journey through this subterranean passage was a most novel one to us who had never been through a tunnel of this description before. The intense darkness, only illuminated by the light from the boiler fire, was most uncanny, while the wonderful reverberations and echoes occurring in the tunnel quite startled us until we became used to the situation. The roof seemed so low that we instinctively stooped our heads to avoid getting them removed from our shoulders, an action which caused immense amusement to the skipper, who, in the manner of his kind, accentuated the eerie feeling of the place by spinning all sorts of creepy yarns about canal boatmen who had mysteriously gone overboard in the pitch dark, and never been seen again. We drew a long breath when we emerged into the welcome blinking daylight at the other end of the tunnel, and soon after bade good-bye to our whilom friend the skipper. I can imagine no place more calculated to quickly shatter the nerves and break the health of a human being than one of those foul, suffocating tunnels under the hills. On this occasion we stopped for the night at Blisworth and put up at a wayside inn possessing the curious sign of the Sun, Moon, and Seven Stars (the only one in England we were told), where we met with quite a reception, the news of our approach having gone ahead of us, we afterwards discovered. 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.