The problem with swing bridges

The Chinese meal we had was delicious, and we watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding, before retiring to bed thoroughly knackered.

Having moored at a random spot in the middle of the countryside, it was lovely to be lying in bed with just the sound of leaves gently rustling in the trees, the delicate lapping of water against the hull, the odd duck have a little quack in the distance, all periodically broken by the quiet shriek of jet engines less than 500 feet above as planes came in to land at Manchester Airport.

We had a lie-in this morning until 8am, with 16 locks in one mile to look forward to. They were hard work, but fuelled with coffee and cookies, over soon enough that we had lunch at a civilised 2.30pm with a grey heron for company.

 Actually the locks were very enjoyable, picturesque and gentle, especially compared with yesterday’s.

Mother tidied up the boat, hoovered through and generally made it homely, immediately before tracking muddy boots throughout.

The afternoon was spotted with lift bridges and the odd swing bridge. And I do mean odd, as the first one would not lock back into place after we passed through. A cast iron element was bent too far out of true, that try as we might - hitting, bending and yelling at it - we could not get it to lock. So we gave up, and with a final careless shove, were astounded to see it effortlessly slot into place. The second odd swing bridge was much better behaved, although did make sure it put in an objection before doing so.

Tonight we are moored in Bugsworth Basin, which is an ancient monument. I don’t think I’ve ever slept in an ancient monument before. Time for Pimms.