Through Canal-Land in a Canadian Canoe

by Vincent Hughes

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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.

A Monkey-Barge Man.

We awoke next morning to find the weather damp and misty, so we dispensed, for the first time, with our morning dip, and lingered somewhat over breakfast to make up for it.
A propose of eating, I should mention that all along the way we had come fruit was in abundance, and as for apples--well, we fairly revelled in them.
To my mind a good English apple, fresh picked from the tree, and with the dew upon its sun-kissed cheeks, cannot be beaten the whole world over.
During a portion of this day we had to face a strong head-wind, which made the travelling rather hard, and severely taxed the patience and skill of the steerer. Happening to chaff him once or twice when the wind got the upper hand and nearly slewed the canoe round, he challenged me to try my hand and do better. Accepting the challenge, and in the rashness of youthful confidence, I ventured to wager him that I could take the canoe, single-handed and empty, up to a certain point and back again, during which I should, of course, have to turn broadside on to the full force of the wind.
The outcome of it was that we quickly landed and emptied the canoe of all impedimenta in case of mishap, and then I started off--not so confidently, though, I may add--on my uncertain way.
All went well until I attempted to turn, and then the full force of the wind catching me suddenly, over I went, after a vain attempt to steady the canoe, souse into the canal. Coming to the surface, I called out (when I had emptied my mouth of as much canal-water as I could) to Jacky that I was all right, and then, amid his uproarious mirth, I struck out for shore, pushing the canoe in front of me.
A brisk rub down and a change of flannels (we were in a secluded spot, fortunately) soon mended matters, and by the time Jacky had emptied the canoe of water and stowed away our belongings, I was ready to start again, thoroughly cured for the time being of over-confidence in my canoeing powers.
After a stiff paddle through charming woodland scenery, and passing en route Bedworth, the most active part of the Warwickshire coal-fields, we reached Nuneaton, where we went ashore and engaged a room for the night under the hospitable roof of the White Horse.
A stroll around Nuneaton before bedtime afforded us much delight, as the old town is full of antiquity, and is also known to fame as the birthplace of George Eliot.
In the morning we took mine host's little son and daughter with us in the canoe as far as Atherston, where we sent them safely back by train, thoroughly delighted with their novel experience, ours being the only craft of the kind that they had ever seen in those parts.
When we arrived at Caldecote we went ashore to explore the place, and noticed with much interest a monument erected to the memory of one George Abbott, who in days gone by defended Caldecote Hall against a Royalist attack led by Prince Rupert. So stubborn was the defence that the defenders melted down the pewter dishes and plate to cast bullets.
We noted with pleasure that the lives of those gallant Roundheads were spared when the garrison finally had to surrender.
We proceeded on through the Birmingham Canal, passing close by Coventry, and arrived at Fradley, where we obtained a charming view of Lichfleld Cathedral in the distance. We rested for the night at Fradley (our bill for an excellent supper, bed, and breakfast coming to the modest sum of 3s. 6d. for the two of us), and early next morning got afloat.
We were now on the North Staffordshire Canal, having covered about 160 miles since the commencement of our journey.
We shortly after began to get in the heart of the Pottery District, and the scenery for some distance assumed the aspect peculiar to manufacturing centres.
Past Armitage, Rugeley, Colwich, and several other towns and villages we paddled, until we reached Little Heyward, where we stopped about midday for lunch.
Re-starting after a rest, we were overtaken by a monkey-barge, the skipper of which kindly gave us a tow for some miles, until we arrived, in the afternoon, at Stone, where we went ashore for tea and a look round the town. On several occasions we took advantage of the good-nature of the bargees and their wives, and obtained a tow behind their barges when we wanted a rest. On the whole, we found them a most interesting and sociable lot of people, and on more than one occasion we were invited on board, as honoured guests, to partake of tea with the skipper and his family.
Life on board one of these slow-moving canal barges appeared to me to possess many charms. The barge people seem to pass a sort of amphibious existence, belonging neither to the land nor to the water, but having a human interest in each. The women and children almost wholly live aboard their floating homes, often never stepping ashore from one day to the other and going about their domestic duties, as well as those connected with their calling, with all the precision and cheerfulness in the world, as if there were nothing strange or out-of-the-way in their surroundings.
Then the scenery through which they pass. To anyone who is capable of appreciating the beauties of Nature in the slightest degree, there must be something soothing and elevating in constantly being brought face to face with Nature in all her varying charms. Now gliding calmly past a water-side village, with the children running out to give you a greeting; then through a waving, poppy-starred cornfield, or past low-lying meadows, with the meditative cattle standing knee-deep in the sweet pasturage, and anon a bend in the canal carries you past wood-lands where the trees meet overhead and form a cool canopy through which the rays of the sun can only penetrate here and there in slanting beams.

Scene at Natland Beck.
[photo by A. S. Walker.

When my thoughts wander in this groove, I often marvel at people electing to live in stuffy, smoky towns, when the charms of the country are at their bidding.
Proceeding on our journey after tea, we eventually arrived at Stoke-on-Trent, and went ashore to seek shelter for the night at a wayside cottage.
We got afloat in the morning after our swim and a hearty breakfast, and proceeded past the outskirts of the town, which we were not sorry to leave behind.
It came on to rain soon after we left Stoke-on-Treat; but as we were well prepared with macintoshes to face the elements, we proceeded cheerily on our way.
After paddling for about four miles we came to the entrance of another long tunnel, which we entered, after taking the precaution to provide ourselves with candles. We had a nasty experience in navigating through this tunnel, which I should not much care to encounter again.
After proceeding cautiously for some distance, during which we had to avoid a ducking, and possibly a swamping, from the numerous "weep-holes" that let showers of land water descend from the roof, our candle suddenly went out and left us in total darkness. To make matters worse, a lot of land-water was coming through the tunnel, which, together with the backwash of a tug some little way ahead of us, tried us considerably, and finally wedged our canoe between the two walls of the tunnel.
We did not relish the situation at all, I can assure you, especially as we could not take stock of our whereabouts; but after a deal of rocking and shoving (during which we had a narrow escape from capsizing), we managed to get the canoe clear of the walls, and worked our way backwards, hand-over-hand, to the mouth of the tunnel.
After this experience we were strangely unanimous as to the desirability of going through in some less risky manner (we accused each other of "funking" afterwards), and accordingly sought the aid of a man, a boy, and a wheelbarrow, and in this unconventional manner conveyed our goods and chattels overland to the other end of the tunnel.
In the course of our journey along the canals we passed through a number of these tunnels, including the one that starts close to Chatterby Station, and goes under Yield and Golden Hills. The passage of barges through some of these tunnels is performed in a very curious manner, as owing to the roofs being too low to admit of tugs passing through, the heavily laden canal barges have to be "footed" along by men and boys lying on their backs and pushing against the roof or walls of the tunnel.
As may be imagined, but slow progress is made in this manner, the passage of some of the tunnels occupying upwards of an hour. In some cases, however, the tunnels are provided with a narrow tow-path running through them, which, of course, greatly facilitates the passage, as when once momentum is obtained, a man and a boy can tow a barge through without much difficulty.
We next reached Harecastle, in Cheshire, where we landed for lunch. Re-starting, after doing justice to a good feed, we soon encountered a cluster of thirty-five locks (think of it) all grouped together within a distance of six miles. Finding the negotiating of two or three a weariness of the flesh, we cast around for help, and fortunately came across a "locked-out" coal-miner, who for two shillings cheerfully trotted on ahead, and opened each of the remaining locks ready for us by the time we arrived, thus giving us a welcome rest after a spell of hard work.
After getting through the locks we had a straight-away paddle of some nine miles, which was a pleasant change after the slow and tedious progress we had lately been making, and passing by Alleyfield and Sandbach Station, brought our day's journey to an end at Middlewich, where we are glad to leave the canoe at the lock-house, and make preparations for passing the night.
Proceeding next morning, with the sun shining and everything looking fresh and lovely after the rain of the previous day, we got into the picturesque, country peculiar to the salt district.

A Tea-party near Sedgwick.
[photo by A. S. Walker.