Canal cruise a rustic reminder of times past

WHAT marvellous tranquillity and other-worldliness we experienced last Sunday as 19 of us Enrights cruised down the Grand Union Canal in Hertfordshire at duck pace.

A mallard paddled ahead, splitting the brown waters as if piloting us.

Like a band of brigands displaced on the roofs and decks of two elderly 70ft-long narrowboats lashed together, we followed that duck. The boat’s owner and our captain stood stripped to the waist at the tiller, luxuriant hair falling in curls to his shoulders, as wild and hearty as any Lascar seaman that ever sailed the main with Henry Morgan.

Canada geese passed in flotillas of a hundred birds. Songbirds piped from the trees above and terns flew low against the heavenly blue — I have never had a better view of terns with their sharp white wings and forked tails almost translucent against the bright sky. Dainty and aerodynamic, they called to one another as they patrolled up and down the canal, every now and then plunging headlong into the brown water to rise with small fish in their beaks.

The Canada geese are a nuisance on British inland waterways, breeding in huge numbers in competition with native birds. But these too were to be seen in abundance, ducks and coots, herons and kingfishers. Perhaps prettiest of all were the dainty waterhens stepping along the undercover of the banks. One had six fluffy balls of down in tow, making my youngest granddaughter shriek and want to stop to hold them.

And so we sat atop the barges and partied and drank beer or wine, and dined, and sailed slowly through the lovely English countryside on that lovely afternoon. We chugged quietly along the green watery ribbon through busy market towns and conurbations, with their shopping malls and spaghetti junctions, and never knew they were there.

In our domain, cattle grazed in overgrown fields and buddleia bloomed over the tow paths. The verdant corridor of the Grand Union is another world, removed from all semblance of hurry, remote from concrete and stress, and most of the landscapes, locks and bridges have remained little changed since the canal, running from London to Birmingham, was built over 200 years ago.

Dick Warner, my colleague on this page, long ago discovered the joys of the Grand Canal in Ireland, and shared the secret via his series of programmes on RTÉ. After this, my first experience of travel by narrowboat, I can see how one could become enamoured of life on the water, on the green, tranquil corridors that run, largely unused and unsung, through the hearts of these islands.

Andrew Marvell, the 18th century poet, writing about a garden talked of “green thoughts in a green shade”. To slowly round a bend in the narrow waterway and see, ahead, through a tunnel of green light, a group of horses grazing in sunlit meadows alongside old, tile-roofed barns recalled his fresh, poetic sentiments.

No wonder sensible folk chose to live in the narrowboats rather than in urban flats, not only for economy (a handy boat costs £50,000; licence plus mooring fees, £2,000 a year) but to be citizens of this other world, where there is no traffic but for the occasional quiet craft passing and people walking, cycling or fishing along the towpaths. Where, as our captain said, within a few hundred yards of busy high streets, he can canoe up the canal in the dusk of the evening and for a mile at a time not hear a car or see a soul.

Sometimes, we passed floating homes lining the canal bank between locks, narrowboats and house-boats of all sizes, some dinky and squeaky clean, with polished brass and varnished timbers, others growing moss and only held together by paint.

The canal people seemed to be, universally, relaxed folk sitting atop their craft amongst bicycles, deck chairs, boxes of gay flowers and parasols. There is a sense of community here; all are escapees from the concrete jungle only a few hundred yards away. “Here at last!” they cried to our captain as we passed, exchanging the joys of the long-awaited summer.

Secretly, we knew that we, in fact, had brought the weather with us from Spain. Up to that weekend, the English had endured a month of downpours and inundation, with no break in the clouds.

Now, suddenly, we arrive off the ferry, open the doors of our car, and release the sun. It rushed out and warmed the English and painted their pleasant countryside in gold.