Through Canal-Land in a Canadian Canoe | Page 3

tunnel,
and skirted the village of Ansley, once the property of Lady Godiva, of
the uncomfortable ride fame, soon after which we left the waters of the
Grand Junction at Braunston (Warwickshire), and entered upon those
of the Oxford Canal.
A hard day's paddle, of no particular interest, brought us to Willoughby,
where we put up for the night.
We awoke next morning to find the weather damp and misty, so we
dispensed, for the first time, with our morning dip, and lingered
somewhat over breakfast to make up for it.
A propose of eating, I should mention that all along the way we had
come fruit was in abundance, and as for apples--well, we fairly revelled
in them.
To my mind a good English apple, fresh picked from the tree, and with
the dew upon its sun-kissed cheeks, cannot be beaten the whole world
over.
During a portion of this day we had to face a strong head-wind, which
made the travelling rather hard, and severely taxed the patience and
skill of the steerer. Happening to chaff him once or twice when the
wind got the upper hand and nearly slewed the canoe round, he
challenged me to try my hand and do better. Accepting the challenge,

and in the rashness of youthful confidence, I ventured to wager him that
I could take the canoe, single-handed and empty, up to a certain point
and back again, during which I should, of course, have to turn
broadside on to the full force of the wind.
The outcome of it was that we quickly landed and emptied the canoe of
all impedimenta in case of mishap, and then I started off--not so
confidently, though, I may add--on my uncertain way.
All went well until I attempted to turn, and then the full force of the
wind catching me suddenly, over I went, after a vain attempt to steady
the canoe, souse into the canal. Coming to the surface, I called out
(when I had emptied my mouth of as much canal-water as I could) to
Jacky that I was all right, and then, amid his uproarious mirth, I struck
out for shore, pushing the canoe in front of me.
A brisk rub down and a change of flannels (we were in a secluded spot,
fortunately) soon mended matters, and by the time Jacky had emptied
the canoe of water and stowed away our belongings, I was ready to
start again, thoroughly cured for the time being of over-confidence in
my canoeing powers.
After a stiff paddle through charming woodland scenery, and passing
en route Bedworth, the most active part of the Warwickshire coal-fields,
we reached Nuneaton, where we went ashore and engaged a room for
the night under the hospitable roof of the White Horse.
A stroll around Nuneaton before bedtime afforded us much delight, as
the old town is full of antiquity, and is also known to fame as the
birthplace of George Eliot.
In the morning we took mine host's little son and daughter with us in
the canoe as far as Atherston, where we sent them safely back by train,
thoroughly delighted with their novel experience, ours being the only
craft of the kind that they had ever seen in those parts.
When we arrived at Caldecote we went ashore to explore the place, and
noticed with much interest a monument erected to the memory of one

George Abbott, who in days gone by defended Caldecote Hall against a
Royalist attack led by Prince Rupert. So stubborn was the defence that
the defenders melted down the pewter dishes and plate to cast bullets.
We noted with pleasure that the lives of those gallant Roundheads were
spared when the garrison finally had to surrender.
We proceeded on through the Birmingham Canal, passing close by
Coventry, and arrived at Fradley, where we obtained a charming view
of Lichfleld Cathedral in the distance. We rested for the night at
Fradley (our bill for an excellent supper, bed, and breakfast coming to
the modest sum of 3s. 6d. for the two of us), and early next morning got
afloat.
We were now on the North Staffordshire Canal, having covered about
160 miles since the commencement of our journey.
We shortly after began to get in the heart of the Pottery District, and the
scenery for some distance assumed the aspect peculiar to
manufacturing centres.
Past Armitage, Rugeley, Colwich, and several other towns and villages
we paddled, until we reached Little Heyward, where we stopped about
midday for lunch.
Re-starting after a rest, we were overtaken by a monkey-barge, the
skipper of which kindly gave us a tow for some miles, until we arrived,
in the afternoon, at Stone, where we went ashore for tea and a look
round the town. On several occasions we