Lingering on the Llangollen

As soon as we left the house on Sunday, ready for our holiday, the rain started. A few big drops a first. And then more and more and more drops. By the time we reached Cheshire and the boat club, it was dull and dark and cold. So we tackled the first flight of locks Gore-texed from head to toe.

The rain had eased off by the following morning when we woke up on the Llangollen Canal to the tuneful lowing of jersey cows. A long day of cruising followed. We tackled swingbridges and a staircase lock where we encountered chaos. There was a child overboard above the locks and a narrowboat grounded on a cill in a lower lock. Disaster was averted in each case.

We made it to Whitchurch by nightfall but decided that we couldn't be bothered to walk up to the pub. We walked up to town the next morning and found that it was even further than it looked on the map. It had been a good decision to stay on the boat rather than walk a mile in the pitch black along the old Whitchurch Arm.

The eponymous White Church has been replaced by an eighteenth century sandstone church after the original one fell down. The church had two curious features: it is dedicated to the lesser-known St Alkmund and the heart of a crusader, Sir John Talbot, is buried under the porch.

We wandered down the High Street, I treated myself to a newspaper and then we embarked on the next stage of the voyage which brought more lift bridges.

Ellesmere, another quaint Shropshire town, provided a suitable overnight mooring and a meal at the Black Lion for half the price we'd pay in London.

The next day was more challenging. Three tunnels and two aqueducts. I made Captain Skene steer through and over everything as I hadn't quite got used to steering again after a year off. And Ian is less likely to shout at him about chipping the paint work.

The aqueduct at Chirk runs alongside a viaduct, a later addition, and ends in Chirk Tunnel at the Welsh border. So much excitement for such a short stretch of canal!

Having perfected his technique in Chirk, Thomas Telford built the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct. It is two hundred years old this year and it was the third time that I had crossed it. It doesn't get any less scary. It stretches over one thousand feet across the Dee Valley and the waterway is only marginally wider than a narrowboat. A towpath runs along one side of the iron trough but the other side is open. With a 130 foot drop! Too far too fall and too short for a canyon swing. With a crosswind, it's impossible to navigate the aqueduct without touching the side which then buckles. Not surprising given that the iron trough was sealed with Welsh flannel boiled in sugar and using an ox-blood mortar.

At the end of the aqueduct, we found the curiously named town of Trevor. Skene did a fine job of turning the boat and we moored in the award-winning basin. It started to rain as soon as we decided to go to the pub. So we stayed put. The next morning, the wet weather brought on a mutinous mind in our captain and he didn't stir himself to take the tiller until after lunch.

Originally, the canal at Trevor was intended to go on to Ruabon and over the Welsh hills to Chester but the plan was abandoned as too ambitious. So the only choice was onwards and upwards to Llangollen.

This stretch of cut has suffered from a series of breaches over recent years so the powers that be have strengthened the canal bed by putting in a number of concrete trenches. Other parts of the canal were already a rather tight squeeze so the last four miles must be navigated with care. Unfortunately, the hire boats don't always realize that and we were forced aground at one point by overenthusiastic oncoming boaters.

By the time we reached the Narrows, a one way system was in force. I walked ahead with a walkie talkie and left the other with Skene at the helm. There were even worse communication problems than normal! Fortunately, the other boaters listened to me and I managed to negotiate an unobstructed passage for Printer's Devil No. II.

We reached our destination mid-afternoon and moored up in another new basin at Llangollen. It was by far the best accommodation to date with water and power points on every pontoon. In one direction there was the promise of a dramatic view of dark hills and in the other, the equally striking, Royal International Pavillion.

With the new facilities on tap, I took the risk of a hot shower - a more enjoyable drenching than the one I'd had earlier in the day. We were then ready for a trip to the pub. Only, it wasn't going to be so simple. Llangollen has plenty of pubs but only one opens before 7pm - even on a Thursday night. Where do all the locals go?

We took shelter in the White Bear pub (occupied only by the bar staff and their friends) having established that there was no choice to be had and gazed in disbelief at the big screen television as it revealed devestation in Birmingham after an earlier tornado. Maybe our day hadn't been so bad after all.

After one drink we moved on to the Prince of Wales which was even quieter. Our only companions were a barmaid intent on watching Coronation Street and an incomprehensible local drunkard. We eventually decided that there was nothing else for it but to go for a curry. The curryhouse was packed. It was obviously the only place to be seen.

The next morning, Skene let me go off for a wander around the rather picturesque town. I couldn't find the old Dr Who exhibition but there were more than enough love spoons to admire.

Once we'd decided that it wasn't going to rain immediately, we ventured out for a walk. The walk became more ambitious as we went on and eventually took in the Castell Bran Dinas, Valle Crucis Abbey, Velvet Hill, the man-made Horseshoe Falls, the far reaches of the canal and the Chain Bridge over the River Dee. By that point a drink or two was in order before heading back down the unnavigable section of the canal to the basin.

Click here to see our holiday snaps!

Audience

To my great surprise - and horror given the neglect that my blog has suffered in recent months - it seems that I actually have an audience!

An e mail from Chris Worth revealed a sympathetic reader. It seems only fair that I mention his blog in return - visit www.redpump.co.uk or www.chrisworth.com to find out more.

And then it seems as though I have something of a following in chambers and amongst my solicitors. I shall have to watch what I write!

Leaner Driver

Skene's driving lessons continue.

Amazingly, it hasn't been the end of a beautiful friendship. It is to his credit that I have managed to refrain from stamping my right foot on the floor as he approaches the traffic lights. Equally, I have not yet resorted to supervising with one hand on the handbrake and the other on the door handle as my mother used to do.

He even achieved a three-point turn on his second attempt. Something I've not quite managed yet in the Beast. Not sure I'm going to let him try parallel parking though. The cars round here are either far too expensive or else their owners are far too menacing.

There's been a strange side-effect to the lessons though. Every Sunday evening, I find him glued to BBC2 and Top Gear. He even tolerates Jeremy Clarkson unlike all sensible people. I've created a monster!

Graduation: Second Time Around

Having survived 21 terms since matriculation, our year became eligible to upgrade our B.A. (Oxon)s to M.A. (Oxon)s. We grabbed the opportunity for a reunion/pub crawl with both hands and sent off our cheques. We headed up to Brasenose this morning and found it full of summer schoolers wandering around as though they owned the place. Grr...

It was as welcoming as ever though with familiar faces in the lodge and the Stocker Room. I found that my old desk in the Stally window (the perfect eavesdropping location) had been turned into the computer table so that no-one else could make it their own. But I felt little affection for my old room with its pigeon's nest behind the gargoyle just outside the window.

Having donned our B.A. gowns, we wandered across Radcliffe Square, through the Bodleian to the Sheldonian Theatre where the elaborate ceremony was to be held. Tourists stared and locals gave us a wide berth.

The ceremony started with the conferment of an honorary doctor upon Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies. The Queen's Master of Music was welcomed by an address in Latin which made no mention of the recent swan scandal. It did, however, manage to translate the phrase "singing in the bath". The Latin words are: "in balneo cantes", for those who are curious.

After the DPhils and the medics, we were called up by name and marched up to the front of the hall by our Dean of Degrees. We bowed to the proctors before processing out to the adjacent robing hall. We swapped our ermine for a red silk hood and our sleeved gowns for some approaching a Q.C.'s gown before trooping back out to the Sheldonian. Once inside, our heads were tapped with a bible and we were blessed in the name of "Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus".

When we emerged, Emma and I were grabbed by a group of Spanish tourists, desperate for us to appear in their holiday album. Just the kind of photograph I like - one which won't come back to haunt me.

Drinks on the Deer Park followed with a series of snaps taken by various proud parents. Having decided against lunch in hall, half of us headed down to the river for a picnic and lazed around under the trees watching the punts go by for a good few hours. The Head of the River beckoned eventually. Then the Mitre. Then curry (fish and pumpkin - mmm). Then a final drink or two at the Turf beneath the old city walls.

Just like old times. Except half of us were feeling far too old to head to sweaty and skanky Filth and so sent Gav, Gus, Ed and Ann-Marie to live it up.

Click here for the photos.

Courts and Castles

My 5 am alarm was far from welcome but Lincoln's tourist attractions were reasonable compensation for my excessively early start.

A member of chambers kindly picked me up at Grantham so I enjoyed a drive through sunny Lincolnshire before work. It's a funny county - I don't think I'll ever become used to a flat landscape after so many years in Lancashire's Hill Country. Even London isn't as lacking in high ground as Lincolnshire. Ermine Street, the Roman road which we followed for most of our journey, gave the place an ancient and eerie feel as it carved a line across the fields.

It was my first visit to the Crown Court and I was impressed to find the courthouse at the top of the hill within the castle walls. I had to wander around the grounds in my wig and gown to find my client before appearing in front of a red judge - more time-travelling, this time, back to the era of the assizes.

Once my case was concluded, I packed up and wandered around the Castle, happening upon one of the three surviving copies of the Magna Carta. I even studied Roman Law for my B.A. but read nothing about this ancient convention on human rights and so I was ashamed by how little I knew of its history whilst being surprised at how familiar many of the phrases and concepts were.

A lap of the castle walls gave me a wonderful view of the city and the surrounding county before I ventured into the darker part of the castle - the old prison chapel. It was built according to the separate system which was originally put in place at H.M.P. Pentonville before being adopted across the world. The chapel at Old Melbourne Gaol had been re-claimed before our visit and so it was my first sight of the segregation architecture which I'd read about during crim and pen.

My next stop was the cathedral which dominates the surrounding area from its prominent position on a rocky outcrop. It conceals the castle for those on the approach to Lincoln and so gives an intimidating first impression for the city. There is no doubting the level of influence the church had when the cathedral was built in the Middle Ages. I peeped inside and found it refreshingly bare. I shall explore further next time.

I made my way towards the station down Steep Hill. Not a misnomer by anyone's standards - it's even steeper than the road to Lewes Crown Court and brought back memories of Clovelly and the long walk. I was unsurprisingly most relieved to take a seat on the local train service at the bottom of the city and to rest my weary legs all the way back to London.

They Backed the Bid

We turned on the radio at lunchtime just in time to hear that London's bid for the 2012 Olympics had been successful. We turned on the television just in time to see the Red Arrows whizz over Stratford on their way to fly past the celebrations in Trafalgar Square.

And so we dashed upstairs to see the jets emerge from behind the towers at Canary Wharf and give us our very own aerial display. Hopefully this is a sign of exciting times ahead for East and South-East London. There are lots of people about who are full of doom and gloom at the prospect of the government spending so much money with little hope of recouping the expense. There's a lot of pessimism too about the ability of the transport system to cope with the sheer number of visitors.

My main concern is that too much of the investment will be centred on Stratford when other areas are also pretty desperate. Hackney and Clapton should benefit from being on the fringes of the Olympic Village. And Woolwich, New Cross and Peckham should become more popular with the use of the Dome and Greenwich Park though it's a shame that Crystal Palace can't be in on the act again.

I can't help but think that North-West London (Willesden, Neasden, Harlesden) is in as much need of re-development as Stratford. Hopefully the new Wembley Stadium will give the area the boost it requires to bring it up to the standard of the rest of the city.

Meanwhile in our corner of the metropolis, the Cross-Rail project and the East London Line extension should be welcome side-effects of the Games. But who can guess if we'll be around to take full advantage? If we are, I wonder whether we'll be asked to accommodate a pole-vaulter or a shot-putter as local residents did for the 1948 Games when the bunk beds in school halls ran out. I think I'd rather have a javelinist though I guess Skene will be after a gymnast.