Taking advantage of an unplanned couple of days off we decided, uncharacteristically, to have a cheeky little trip out, taking advantage of the late autumn weather. During our recent meander down to Shardlow, I had spotted a couple of likely mooring spots and so I am keen to try them out. As we are often limited to 2 or 3 days cruising, we tend to wander up and down the same bits of canal but this does mean that we are building a database of mooring spots, ranging from lovely to never again. By the time we had organised ourselves and bundled Betty onto the boat it was time for lunch, although with several hours cruising in front of us to reach our planned mooring meant I had a sandwich whilst steering, as we were mindful of loosing the light.
We survived Stenson lock, with neither Keith nor the octopus managing to sink me, going down on our own with a little audience who were obviously disappointed by my complete failure to do anything stupid. With the sun setting on my right we continued towards Swalkstone lock, with a vague plan to stop just before if it was getting dark. We have moored here before and have never had a bad night so it is a good prospect, but I just wanted to tuck myself into a snug little spot just opposite Cliff Wood, overlooking the River Trent on one side, the wood on the other and a reasonable distance away from roads and railways (cheaper.city.refusals). Keith was not so keen and happy to stop before Swalkstone but I was feeling adventurous and ready to try cruising at night. With Keith muttering stark warnings about how rapidly it gets dark and me just hearing an oddly pitched tinkling sound from his direction, we continued onwards, ready to brave out the horrors accompanying the approaching night. I get that funny little sound in my head often, I think it’s a kind of selective tinnitus…
Standing on the stern looking back, the sunset was glorious, sky on fire end to end, Keith and I completely on our own. Absolute bliss for a good 5 seconds before the silence was broken by a car engine stopping on the bridge over the lock to have a chat to Keith, quickly joined by a couple on road bikes and a chap walking his dog. Sitting down to wait for Keith to finish his impromptu towpath tea party, I notice that I have rear lights on the boat in a fetching green. The lights are a lovely design, a design that I have actually been coveting all summer after seeing them on other boats. Turns out we already had some but had just not noticed – I’m putting this down to the time it takes to get to know a boat and to the fact that we have never cruised at night before and so have never turned our lights on, apart from checking the bulb in the bow light. Or it just demonstrates how much extra stuff my brain filters out, in a similar way to that odd repetitive tinkly sound. By the time we leave the lock the sun has drained from the sky and I am pretty dependent on my bow light. Keith is walking down the towpath as there is a widebeam moored immediately before the lock landing so I don’t have the space to swing in to collect him and then manoeuvre out to pass the moored boat. Actually, it’s a good job he is because we have taken absolutely no time at all to either consider or check the direction of the bow light and whilst I have a great view of the tree tops to my port side, I have no idea where the bank is in relation to my bow. Luckily, Keith has a torch, so we navigate by torchlight from the towpath, with a torch beam that is actually much brighter than our bow light. Typically, there is neither clear sky nor bright moon and I have deliberately aimed for a place where there is little light pollution.
I have also not considered the fact that the dark means I will not be able to identify my desired mooring spot as I do not know this part of the canal well enough yet to identify specific locations without all of those underrated visual cues found so easily during daylight hours. Little pools of light appear portside ahead, a narrowboat with her side hatch open and a man smoking out of it. Bidding him good evening I continue on, until we round a bend and come across a straight enough piece of the towpath to moor. Remarkably, we manage moor the boat without taking a dip in the canal or arguing about how to secure the lines, and settle in for a relaxing evening.
The next morning, it is apparent that we are approximately 10 minutes upstream from where we planned to moor, so given the lack of planning, failure to prepare for night cruising and wonky bow light we were quite close, so I’m taking this as a win. As we were winding the boat, with the stern moving towards the bank I noticed a little pile of shells, the remains of some kind of bivalve mollusc immediately next to the canal. The shells are piled up, almost as though someone has sat on the towpath enjoying the clear air and woodland view whilst enjoying a lovely lunch. They are either freshwater mussels or clams I would imagine, although I have no idea how to determine the difference. I see no evidence of what may have had lunch either, although this may also be due to my complete lack of knowledge and there may have been a plethora of clues as to the mystery diners identity. Because I would never turn down more joy in my life I am choosing to believe that a little family of otters was responsible and have a clear mental image of them sitting on the bank, companionably sharing the spoils of the catch and complaining about the weather. As one of my favourite authors quotes ‘Truly, the world is the mollusc of your choice’ (STP).