Awoke to the gut feeling that there was a lock in the vicinity. Peeked out the window and sure enough, there was a set of lock gates awaiting our pleasure. Chris and I operated the lock while Mum snored her way through it in bed still. However, Dad was extremely proud because he’d actually prepared the lock for us all by himself.

Watched herd of cows indulging in the cowsport of chasing herons, two of them, out of their field. Met Ian and Mick and Carol and Anne, who all lived on the canal in the two boats in tandem ahead of us. Lovely people and very helpful.

Met nasty oncoming boat who forced his way into lock before Ian (directly ahead of Hawksmoor) had cleared it bashing his stern out of the way with his bow. Of course we were assisting Ian and Anne, and were happy to assist the oncoming boat since we would have to otherwise prepare the lock anyway. Nasty boat’s ground crew (one person) remarked on how well we were doing and announced she was heading on to the next lock. No polite enquiry, request or other courteous acknowledgement of us. Even miserable skipper barely nodded a good morning while we operated the lock for them. I mean, we would have offered anyway, but the dismissive assumption was galling. Ian and Mick instructed us to stand down if we saw them again, on the grounds that it’s not our lock until they’ve cleared it.

Also met silly syndicate/timeshare boat that habitually moors on water points, lock queuing points and in lock pounds, i.e. places where mooring isn’t allowed. Good job there were no oncoming boats in that particular lock.

Spent part of the afternoon feeling a very happy seven years old whilst sitting in the bow having lick-outs of the sweet Mum was making for dinner. Until it started raining again.

Entered Stoke-on-Trent where it got a bit grotty although some of the buildings were fascinating; old milk bottle shaped chimneys (pottery kilns) and paper mills. Five locks completed the total of sixteen we covered today, but these locks were… special.

Number one was occupied by a very drunk artist residing on the lock side.

Number two held an oncoming boat brandishing the Swedish flag, (England were playing Sweden tonight for those who didn’t get the date.)

Number three had more holes than a tennis racket and resulted in Dad and Chris opening the top gate man-ually against the last few inches difference in water levels.

Number four had a boat going the same way with a mature couple who were not in any hurry, and didn’t necessarily take the straightest route from A to B. Zigzagging their way out of the lock, they lost at least one fender.

Number five saw the same couple, with the husband reading a lock side sign whilst waiting for it to fill. Ooh, your gate’s ready said I helpfully. Oh no, he replied looking at the water line, there’s still another foot to go. And proceeded to tell, in a scarily Mum type fashion, his wife what the sign said. Except the sign had a lot less words. The water line was still a foot above the water level, so I helpfully prodded the gate with my big toe and it kindly swung open all by itself. Hubby jumped on as it zigzagged out of the lock, and nearly lost his foot as wifey zagged into the lock wall where his foot was for some reason dangling.

By now it was raining, so the boys, feeling all manly after their display earlier stayed out in the rain while Mum and I went indoors. Still in manly mode, Chris cooked and Dad served up wine. Dinner was lovely.

Parked up outside Harecastle Tunnel which we have to be escorted through in the morning in batches of eight boats. Slightly concerned that we came and plonked ourselves by the tunnel and therefore the head of the queue when everyone else has moored a mile back down the canal. What do they know that we don’t? Water is very orange here. Iron ore maybe?

Mum screamed and shouted when Sweden equalised.