"Hang on," says the observant blog reader, "I thought you said you were going to the Maybush. This looks like you're out in the sticks."
Well we might have stopped at the Maybush if it had been open, so whilst we did cross another item off the bucket list and pass beneath Newbridge.
and peek up the final yards of the River Windrush
and made a note of the Maybush moorings for our way back, we decided to press on.
At times this morning it was scarily windy and we saw some boats pull in and peg down, but we are made of sterner, or stupider, stuff and plodded on in the knowledge that the weather may be worse tomorrow.
Steering a boat on this stretch requires a fair bit of concentration at the best of times. I've never experienced so many consecutive blind hairpin bends. With this wind, and warnings of silt shallows on the inside it was challenging at times, but fun. I felt like I was applying the wee bit of sailing knowledge that Rick has mostly failed to teach me. I'm sure Rick, who is a fan of such things, would have loved it. Kath did sterling work with the haroogah, sounding the klaxon to warn any unseen boats coming the other way. In the event though there were only one or two, like us, sufficiently stupid to be out on the river. A couple of times we caught lockies napping as they weren't expecting any boats to roll up.
When I was about thirteen, I read all the angling books I could get hold of, devouring wonderful old works by "BB" and the glorious writings and paintings of Bernard Venables. Angling was different then. Fishing rods were wondrous things made of split cane, floats were made from porcupine quills and ages old techniques like long trotting and stret pegging were what you read about. Baits included 'bullocks pith' whatever that is, and maggots if you used them rather than bread or worms, were called 'gentles'. I am happy that the largest fish I ever caught was tempted by a piece of ordinary bread. Nowadays it's wheelbarrows full of gear, carbon fibre poles and electronic bite alarms. Yuck. I'm not sure I ever want to fish again, but I have a deep affection for these lovely old books. It was in such works that I first read the magical names of Tadpole Bridge and Tenfoot Bridge, and today for the first time I travelled beneath them. I was not disappointed.
So here we are above Rushey lock having doubled our intended number of miles and locks, so if it is stormy tomorrow we can make a short hop to Radcot or Kelmscott and head for the pub. Nice one.
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