Today dawned cold and windy, but we all braved it, Dad soldiering on at the stern, while the crew manned all nine locks.

Lock 69 did indeed have a paddle down, but we were the only people there, possibly the first of the day, even. And with a bit of brute force and patience assisted the under-paddled gate in opening up. Whilst we were midway through the lock, two British Waterways peeps turned up and told us to go play the Lottery. If we’d turned up just a couple of minutes later, we would have found the lock shut for repairs. Go us!

A ninety degree turn as we changed canals was performed flawlessly by the skipper. However, the immediate first lock on the canal was kept by the matronly Maureen and her neighbour. Maureen liked to give people scores as they came through, for the turn and then for lock performance.

Ten out of ten for the turn and nine out of ten for entrance to the lock. Lock performance was un-scored due to Maureen doing her best to distract skipper with gossiping, and neighbour catching her doing it; a regular ploy of hers apparently, specially so she can down score them. After Dad and Maureen had gassed for a while, despite the lock being open and ready to go and the oncoming boat waiting patiently, Maureen decided that we could have a twelve out of ten score, because actually, Dad knew boat speak and therefore must know what he’s doing.

Stopped at a village for a lunchtime drink. Or at least we moored by the bridge that led to the village. We strolled down the riverbank to the bridge, mooched up the steps and wandered onto the idyllic country lane. And nearly got run over by a Mercedes doing 60+. Followed by a Bentley with trade plates. Followed by an assortment of Focuses, Vectras, Golfs, vans and small trucks. Both ways. No pavement, no room.

Mum got spooked by all the traffic with nowhere to run and went back to the boat with Dad while Chris and I took our lives in our hands to find the pub and the perfect beer. We played real life Frogger, eventually reaching the little footpath that materialised just by the 30mph sign. We reached the centre of the village, spotted the pub (The Badger), and once more acquainted ourselves with the game of Frogger to cross the junction and virtually sprinted into the Badger in search of safety and that pint.

And came crashing to a halt when the front door failed to open.

It was shut. Not only was it shut at 1pm on a Thursday afternoon, it had been shut for the last two years. So, our nerves stuttering, we once more braved the road, taking on an Octavia estate and a speeding milk float, in order to get back on the road that would return us to the boat. We met Dad and gave him the bad news. Walking back up the road when the footpath ran out, Frogger turned into chicken as cars hurtled towards us, swerving around us at the last minute.

Except for one poor learner driver who saw us over the hump back bridge and quivered in fear, tippy toeing gently over the bridge. We smiled gently at the poor sausage and veered sharp right off the bridge and onto the towpath.

Had beer and lunch on board. Yum.

Did the last two locks, the first with paddles that had clearly had a liberal application of superglue given their reluctance to move. We were, however, entertained by black Labrador in search of a stick to play with, attempting to carry small tree in his mouth.

The second lock was the canal equivalent of Clackett Lane Services, with queues both ways, but we were entertained by corgi type sliding down the very steep slope next to the lock steps on his belly. Almost Lassie style.

Arrived at destination but nowhere to moor, so Mum and I hopped off and trundled off to Somerfields to shop. After walking what seemed like ten miles we found that the Somerfields stocked very little, so after relieving the almost empty shelves and fridges of the sole remaining pint of milk and a tomato we trundled back. The return journey was actually less than a mile.

However, upon return to the canal, we found that Dad had managed to find a parking spot miles away from where we’d left them. In the opposite direction. To put it another way, Dad had managed to reverse Hawksmoor half a mile including through a bridge to find a spot. Most spectators were impressed, the rest were scared.

Once Mum and I arrived back at the boat and had unpacked, the rent collectors arrived. There were no signs to indicate that this spot was subject to rent, but it was made quite clear from the couple that turned up demanding payment that there was no option. Fortunately, one slice of bread sufficed, and in return for this rent, the pair of ducks ensured other ducks were kept away with much charging and hissing.

Walked back into town to have dinner at a very nice Italian.