Three Points of the Compass continues up the towpath toward Birmingham, following what was once an essential trade route but is now almost exclusively a watery alternative for habitation or recreation.

Day six: Roade (Stoke Bruerne) to Weedon

I slept well, perhaps unsurprising as a bottle of wine had accompanied my late night film in my room. I had a short day so no need of the early breakfast that had been offered. Instead, I pottered around my room, brewing a couple of teas, and filled my flask for later that day. Wandering down to breakfast around eight I found the dining room empty other than a young lady and her much younger charge. The little lad was full of lively chatter and it was great to hear such happiness. Not that he received much attention, apparently a phone screen was more rewarding.

The Full English in the morning at the Roade House wasn’t cheap but was excellent, other than sliced cold raw mushrooms, the reason for including these somewhat avoids me. I can get a bit fed up with these ‘heart attack on a plate’ breakfasts after a few mornings in a row but thankfully, had not had to endure them much so far. Which was just as well, as the bangers were fantastic. I had also pre-ordered a basic cheese and pickle sarnie for lunch. As per last night, it was also an opportunity to talk to Paul about his own hiking ambitions. I was chatting so much that breakfast became a bit of a drawn out affair and I wasn’t away as sharpish as I had originally planned.

Back to the room, pack shouldered, and it was again follow my route of yesterday, back out of town and across the fields, again following the Mid Shires Way as far as the horse path over the canal tunnel. A small sticker on a post suggested I should cross straight over the road I had walked up from the left, instead of turning right, and I did follow the bridleway ahead as indicated for a while, but it was such a torn up quagmire that I returned to the road and followed that into Blisworth instead, which was the route shown on my map. I presume ‘elf ‘n’ safety’ were attempting to take people away from the pathless road, but traffic was almost non-existent, so it was no issue for me. This also meant I could follow the actual route of the tunnel, deep below me, indicated by a prominent line of shafts to the left of the road. There was a slight mist this morning that hung around for a few hours before burning off in the weak sun.

Shafts had been sunk to the tunnel below as an aid in the construction and some of these were retained afterward for ventilation. Seven remain. I am slightly baffled by the size and height of the chimneys on these as they seem much in excess of what is or was required. Each brick chimney also seems to have been built on a raised hillock, so perhaps the height is necessary to create sufficient draw on the fumes created below ground. Whatever the reason, they now make for an intriguing sight alongside the quiet country road.

I rejoined the canal at Blisworth where traffic on the road built up for some reason, and I dodged the bottleneck of cars and vans on the pathless road walk into the town, thankfully leaving them behind when back on the quiet towpath. One young lad passed me, walking in the opposite direction, going to work I presumed, and that was it for a good few miles with no-one else seen at all. A Red Kite drifted overhead, exciting the corvids that left the trees to see it off. As a change from the dog walkers, a large girl was walking her ferret on a lead. Both ignored me.

I reached and passed the wide Gayton Junction where the Northampton Arm strikes off. When that branch opened in 1815 it was an important Gateway to the Sea via the ports on the east coast. Gayton is also the location of a lovely ‘turnover bridge’, where the horses that pulled the boats could be walked from one side of the canal to the other. This was necessary when the towpath switched sides and these bridges meant that the tow ropes could remain fastened. Hundreds of bridges are walked under and over on this trail. Some small, others huge, some ugly and functional, some tatty and suffering the vagaries of age, most are nothing to write home about but just a handful are quite beautiful in design. Where metal rubbing bars are attached to the bridge uprights, these are often deeply incised from countless ropes, where missing, the stonework or bricks had suffered instead.

Because it was going to be a fairly short day’s walking today, I decided I could treat myself to a pint and bag of nuts at The Wharf at Bugbrooke. It was a good call. I was the only person visiting though there seemed to be an excess of staff, most busy having meetings or on laptops, while the friendly girl on the tills was happy to chat about the local brews on offer. The Steam Ale on draft was so good that I had a second. The eclectic choice of music was to my liking too so it made for a very relaxing almost-hour halt. But, miles don’t get walked unless you actually walk them so it was with some reluctance that I put my pack back on and dragged myself from my seat. I picked up a copy of Towpath Talk for reading later, the ‘essential’ newspaper for all users of the waterways, or so we are told.

I was enjoying this part of the canal immensely. It was particularly pretty with a wide variety of bridges spaced along it’s length. I passed few people, and each boat that passed had boaty people aboard happy to both receive and deliver a friendly wave.

While this was a really attractive part of the canal, the towpath underfoot was frequently challenging. A mudbath would be a better description. My feet were plastered with the stuff but I was much more concerned with going arse over tit and ending up in the canal. My Paramo shell picked up a rip as a result of the twiggy hedge bordering the towpath. That was going to be an expensive repair in my future.

John was sat in his boat, watching the day pass, and hailed me loudly. I paused for a natter. Most of the conversation was about the small pleasure cruiser almost completely sunk, not a hundred metres away. He had fished out of the drink what he could salvage with a pole and it lined the bank, waiting for someone to turn up and claim it. He was mostly thankful that an alarm aboard it had finally stopped, after two days incessant sound. I asked why he hadn’t simply moved his 57 footer but he seemed strangely reluctant to move from his mooring.

Passing a few boats, including one narrowboat plastered with an excess of flexible solar panels, I reached The Narrowboat at Weedon, tonight’s halt, at three in the afternoon. I was staying in The Lock, a detached mini bungalow across the courtyard. All very pleasant and away from any disturbance there might be from the Inn, not that I would expect much in this country retreat. To its only detriment, a cold breeze whistled under the door and into the room during my stay and it was an ‘almost too cold’ room as a result. With hours to spare I could laze for a while, catch up on my journal, read my guidebook, make copious cups of tea to enjoy with the provided ginger nuts and digestives. An hour or so nap followed a decent hot shower prior to a long video chat with Mrs Three Points. The pub had a bit of a ‘foodie’ rep and I had ensured that I had booked a table previously as there is little in the way of alternatives here. What’s more, it was ‘Pie Night’ and despite a much shorter day of just 14.27 miles I still felt I had earned the trio of little lovelies that turned up on my plate. Eighteen quid for lamb and mint, chicken, steak and kidney pies, veg, jug of gravy and a pint of beer seemed reasonable enough to me so I splashed out on a bottle of Cab Sav, half of which accompanied me to my room for another late film. A good day.

Day seven: Weedon to Stockton

As had been the case for almost all of my overnight halts, I slept well. No doubt assisted by a warm quilt in a cool room, and copious amounts of ‘neck-oil’ the previous evening. Hey, I’m on holiday! I filled my flask and had a single cup of tea prior to leaving around seven.

There was no breakfast on offer but that didn’t matter as it was only a 30 minute walk along the canal to pretty little Little Weedon where on leaving the canal it is a short walk into town to Granny’s Café. ‘Granny’ was a twenty-something man who not only makes an excellent fry up, but who’s first love is fishing. He was eager to chat about all things angling to any of his customers that would stop long enough to listen.

Most mornings when I started walking this canal route, the water in the cut was often quite clear. Prior to the bottom being stirred up by boats, I could often see fish, weeds, cans thrown from bridges, a bicycle once, but here the water was murky, what the proprietor back at the café had called the ‘colour of chocolate soup’. An apt description and I couldn’t see how the fishermen occasionally lining the bank could catch anything, a fish could have a maggot presented an inch from it’s nose and not see it. Leaving Weedon it wasn’t far until I was accompanied by the M1. What a racket! I couldn’t hear a thing above the thundering roar, not birdsong, not a thing. This is an area where transport planners followed the same way through the contours of the land- there is nineteenth century railway on one side, twentieth century motorway on the other, with eighteenth century canal between the two. When I reached the Whilton Marina café I crossed the lock gates to it, as much for respite from the noise as for a pot of tea.

Thankfully the motorway wandered off to annoy people somewhere else and silence again prevailed. Approaching Norton Junction I was slightly baffled by the prow of a boat ahead that kept appearing from the right, then retreating, before appearing again. It all became clear as I crossed the small wooden pedestrian bridge over the Leicester Line branch with the heads of the boat’s crew below me. There had been quite a wind blowing up the canal, in my back. While this hadn’t troubled me, it was catching the emerging James Henry, pushing it against the bank and preventing the crew from making the tight turn into the main artery. Feeling they wouldn’t appreciate my watching their struggles, I walked on.

It wasn’t far until I came across a small working party from the Canal and River Trust. All volunteers, they were engaged in all-important maintenance and repair of the tow path and I stopped for a chat. One was happy to down tools for a few minutes to explain their work. The necessity for repair was mostly bought about by the 1930s renovation of the stone edging to the canal. A lack of chamfering or off-set butting of joints means that the wash from boats can create a vortex of water between towpath and stone, washing away the path and making large holes in the towpath. Their exertion was made obvious by the fine condition of this stretch of path.

As I reached Braunston Tunnel, built in 1793 and just over a mile in length, the James Henry finally caught up with me. They were obviously going through the tunnel however as before, there is no towpath and my path took me up the hill to run over the top. But nope, my way was barred. Fencing had been erected to prevent anyone walking ahead and the path went off in entirely the wrong direction. I was momentarily at a loss as to what to do. My canal map showed the footpath continuing directly ahead and my OS map also showed the path proceeding in the same direction.

I had no idea where the path off to the left went and there was no signage as to official diversions to the route. What there was however was fencing that had long been flattened and every indication that many people had passed through. So, ever the trespasser, I walked over the prostrate fence and followed the path into the vegetation. Sadly the trail died down and I had to bash a virgin path through scrubby growth and brambles. This eventually thinned out and I emerged to a large sloping field where I could now see there was new housing being built far off to my right. Out of sight on the slopes below the building works, I carried on, following the green diamond route on my phone across the grassy field, contouring round the hill. This route eventually took me over a couple of low temporary fences, easily straddled and I now followed a new laid gravel path up toward the builder’s portacabins and stores, expecting a shouted challenge at any moment. The few workmen I could see, hundreds of metres away ignored me and I walked up to the site entrance gatehouse. Approaching it from behind I mentally composed my excuses for the guard within. It was empty, and I walked out onto the road beyond. Turning to view the site entrance there was no signage, no diversion, nothing to indicate that the Grand Union Canal Walk, a long distance path, committed to Ordnance Survey maps, was diverted, instead simply ignored by planners, builders and council.

On the other side of the road, the route now joined a lovely bridleway across the fields. GPS indicated I was still walking with the canal and tunnel far below my feet and I passed just a few feet from one of its ventilation shafts, just the other side of the bordering hedgerow.

As I marched along I silently composed my never-to-be-sent letters of complaint to the local councillors and Member of Parliament regarding what I viewed as a flagrant disregard for regional routes and walking pleasure. I rounded it off with clever references to English law and the moral demands placed upon those in office. I imagined the court case to follow, the papers picking up on the cause célèbre, the judge loudly castigating the builders and planners. I couldn’t remain annoyed for long however and my mind wandered off to more pleasant thoughts. Such is the way with long distance walking and an over-active brain. I think it was a tune off the morning’s radio in Granny’s Café that now came to the fore. I’ll often pick up a tune in my head early on and it will keep popping up throughout the day and it takes conscious effort to switch to another. Usually, my last course of action is an internal brass band playing some jaunty marching tune. With that in my head I can swing along for miles but I try and reserve that for long and boring stretches of road walking.

I dropped down the hill and rejoined the canal towpath. Just ahead, the crew of James Henry were busy hammering in pins, mooring for the night. I suspect they were pleased to see the back of me. They were obviously reluctant to begin the slow passage through the flight of six Braunston Locks. It was here that I passed the Stop House, built in 1796 as an office to collect tolls and registration of boats passing between the Oxford Canal and Grand Junction Canal. It was in use for a hundred years but more recently served as an office for the Canal and River Trust. Just past there, it was the Braunston Turn, where the two canals went their separate ways.

In the late eighteenth century the Oxford Canal and the poorly kept River Thames used to be the only navigable way to carry goods by water from the Midlands to and from London. A bill was passed in Parliament in 1793 forming the Grand Junction Canal and William Jessop and his chief engineer James Barnes were appointed to build it, It was fully open by 1805 and reduced the distance to London by 60 miles.

The junction of the Oxford Canal and Grand Union is crossed by two handsome iron bridges, forming a double arch. I wandered over the bridges and back again, briefly exploring a variation from the standard grass and mud towpath. I had a left turn here, now following the Oxford Canal, that was incorporated into the Grand Union system in 1929.

“this part of the towpath is in very poor condition, badly overgrown and, in parts, severely eroded… it can only be recommended to those stalwarts determined to do the whole course in spite of scratches from brambles, stings from nettles and the risk of a twisted ankle in a pothole”

The Grand Union Canal Walk, published 1993

I passed a boat being moored up for the night, the chap was hammering in pins while his spouse stood at the stern of their vessel, simply looking pleased with life. She hailed me as I passed, I replied, followed by her darkly muttering “take care on the towpath up there”. She knew nothing, I was by now a veritable towpath killer, capable of leaping holes with a single bound. Well at least that was what I thought. Ha! I knew nothing. The stretch that followed was the worst I have ever encountered beside a canal, probably the worst section on the London-Birmingham route, possibly the worst on the entire canal system for all I know. Not only was the path mostly slippery mud but there were also flooded sections. Large and apparently deep holes in the path occasionally presented themself. The only thing in my favour was the bordering hedge had been recently cut back so I could usually carefully hug the thorny barrier while carefully stepping past hazards on the six inches of sloping remnant path. It had to happen. Attempting to circumvent one hole, my shoes slipped from beneath me. In best Wile E Coyote fashion, my feet frantically scrambled for purchase in thin air before I splashed and crashed to the ground. Feet and legs soaked, I landed on a now bruised and muddy hip. I swore, and then found I had torn another hole in the back of my Paramo on the hedge I had landed against and again swore, loudly. My guidebook, published thirty years previous, warns of the condition of the towpath on this stretch and it is unbelievable that it is still an issue, nay, disgrace.

I was a bit pissed off now. The day was longer than I wanted and I had a crap towpath that made for slow going. My feet were both wet and weary. My back hurt. Tendons in my right arm hurt. I tried stretching exercises as I walked. There was nowhere really suited for a brief sit down and breather and my late lunch was my two-day old cheese sandwich munched as I walked. I finally paused for two mugs of lukewarm tea from my flask at the crumbling Wigrams Bridge. Somewhat at odds with anything sensible, numbering of bridges on this canal starts here with No 17. It was close to some very large and impressive marinas, rammed with brightly painted boats. The entrance to each marina off to my right crossed by the towpath climbing up and over bridges. At road bridge No. 19 I left the canal for the thankfully almost traffic free road walk into Stockton and the end of a long day. My previously mapped 18.6 miles ended up being 23.76 tracked miles on the ground though I could have shortened this slightly if I had turned off the canal in advance of where I actually left it.

I was pleased to reach the Crown Inn at Stockton, with my accommodation behind. My Airbnb apartment was expensive and far larger than what I either required or wanted. Such was the problem of a shortage in available accommodation in this area. It was a very smart and modern premises. Environmentally friendly enough to have a heat pump, which meant I ran out of hot water half way through my shower and the overall room temperature was too cold. The ‘book of words’ informed me I could turn this up if I wished but it would take 12 hours to take effect. The few radiators were cold and couldn’t be adjusted so I couldn’t dry any washed clothing. I sighed, dressed and wandered off to the pub for a warm up, decent meal and liquid solace.

I was now well into this walk but still had a couple more days to complete before rolling into Birmingham. Thankfully the weather had been mostly holding for me but the forecast wasn’t good. Things could be getting slippery ahead and having tumbled already I was concerned as to what was still to come. This little training adventure continues in part four.

• Grand Union Canal: London to Marsworth
• Grand Union Canal: Marsworth to Stoke Bruerne (Roade)
• Grand Union Canal: Stockton to Birmingham
• A hiker’s library: Canals