With a light but disconveniencingly-vectored breeze, about three minutes.
However, to get somewhere on the canal wide enough to even try around here made the turn a round-trip of one and a half hours. One and three-quarter miles to the winding hole and – surprisingly – the same for the return trip. Odd that. Whodathunkit, at sub-relativistic velocities?
On my way to the winding hole (winding = turning a boat around in narrowboatyspeak) I went past Overwater Marina, which had a swan on guard at the entrance to prevent pesky boaters trying to turn there.
I had to laugh at the huge new marquee – meeting for food and drink in the bricks & mortar cafe with all of the doors and windows open is apparently lethal, while meeting for food and drink “outside” in the new polyvinylchloride marquee with all door and window flaps laced up is fine. Same everywhere these interesting days. Nuts. Utterly nuts.
Basic logic was defenestrated years ago.
Great news for tent sales though, and doubly so if you are a doublet & hose-sporting marquis who owns a marquee manufactory. What though of those who make marquees to peddle to other marquises, marquisesses, marquéses and generally noble gases with similar marquee-based needs?
There’s one distinct oddity about the winding hole at the bottom of the Audlem flight, and that is the permanent mooring slapped right on it. What a wholly peculiar place to bung a boat. Discombobulating since the aforementioned light breeze was blowing right along the canal towards the locks, and discouraging my bow from turning. I had to take four bites at the manoeuvre because I wanted to avoid being drifted into that ill-moored vessel.
As I mentioned earlier, logic was deportholed long ago.
Yonder lock visible there is the bottom lock of a flight of fifteen, and I have no desire at the moment to spend some happy hours working the Cardinal up through them, so about-face it was and is. 🙂
I am caught here rather as a rat in a trap (a spring-loaded device, not a pony-trap). I forget to pay heed to such things but this weekend is, apparently, a ‘Bank Holiday’ which meaneth that more folk than usual are likely to be at large, ‘avin’ it large, and there is to be a floating market by the towpath moorings of that very stretch of canal shown above.
[Assumes posture and voice of Penelope Pitstop and mutters ‘Eek!’]
I shall have to save myself with a(nother) dawn fleeing which, you will agree, is much better to contemplate than some dawn flaying.
In the meantime I shall think peaceful and contemplative thoughts.
Contemplative thoughts of the Canals of Mars…
…and of how to get the Cardinal there.
For this evening though I shall merely aspire to a couple of esipodes of Dad’s Army, a mug of Chai Latté and a Rich Chai biscuit or seven to dunk. Tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow is best tackled – well, you may guess. Then and not before, basically.
This has been a post apropos of not much really, except another minor but enjoyable cruise-ette to turn us around (turn us around physically that is, not morally, spiritually or inty-letchewally).
Chapuis? Chapuises, Chapuisesses, Chapuéses? I don’t know; you Hoomans speak funny.
Ian H., & Cardinal W., Perpetual Grumps of The High Seas.
p.s. If chapuis is a rude word in some other non-english language please don’t tell me, I really don’t want to know.
I feel the sudden need to #HUGATREE before bedtime. Any tree will do.