I think the Ouse should be rechristened the Ooze. I took one look at it today, a brown muddy torrent with slimy banks looking about as inviting as a French pissoir. Okay, I probably wasn’t seeing it at its best but I was so pleased that we were already facing the other way, back down the Selby Canal. Ah, the Selby canal, a surprising little number, fresh on the nose, long on the finish, a miniature Northern Ashby with the benefit of water. But this has been just one surprise of many, as the Yorkshire navigations continue to delight in all their languid splendour, their separateness and solitariness and…something else which I just can’t put my finger on….oh, and no boats, that’s it. In fact, at one point, as we sauntered down and around the River Aire en route to Selby, we did wonder whether we’d inadvertently taken a wrong turn – it wasn’t that there were no other boats around but more the fact that there was no hint whatsoever of any life on earth at all. Had Bank Dole lock actually thrown us into some bizarre parallel universe where my only other human contact for all time would be A?
It was looking like that until I saw a dog walker just as we made the turn at Haddlesey – he probably went home to his wife with tales of a mad old bat at the tiller smiling and waving at him like some maniacal witch on a day trip from Pendle. That was the measure of my relief, reader. Think, stuck with A forever, on my own and with no prospect of remission. It’s bad enough after six hours at the tiller. So, reassured that we were not alone, we pootled onto a mooring that a chap at Castleford had told us about. He was a lovely guy, put me in mind of Les Dawson with a beard. He’d bigged up this mooring, saying how nice it was to lay over there for a bit and how we wouldn’t be disturbed. Well, he must be deaf as he omitted to tell us the bit about the adjacent A19 and the artics that rattle the Perspex inserts every time they go over the bridge. Mind, this was the same guy who said Castleford town centre was a nice place. I’ve been to Castleford town centre – just the once, but that was enough. Nice isn’t the word I would use. I can think of another four letter word to describe it though…
So any plans for sitting out and enjoying the peace and quiet over the weekend have been scrubbed and instead we’re going to head back through the ‘land that time forgot’ and rejoin the Aire and Calder. We’ll take up where we left off and head Goole-wards, seeing what else this remarkable navigation has to offer us. Unusually for him, A is rather holding out for a pub. And so am I actually. It’s all the pub at Stanley Ferry’s fault. They were advertising two rump steaks and a Walls Vianetta for a tenner when we passed by earlier in the week. Sadly, we dallied and dithered too long about deciding to stop and we were across the aqueduct before you could say ‘hydrogenated fats’. Trouble is, it’s a prospect that’s lingered and we’ve really got the taste for a big old steak. And yes, I know I could griddle a couple up myself and they’d probably be a whole lot better than anything we’d get for a tenner, but it’s just the idea of toddling off to the pub and having it all served up on a plate, with a nice pint and pud to follow, that’s got us going. So the search is on. As I’m down to my last jar of pasta sauce (of dubious provenance) and last packet of penne (of uncertain age), I’m really hoping that we turn up trumps. Otherwise, the emergency Frosties may have to be opened…
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