Branching off the Coventry Canal at Marston Junction, the Ashby Canal (or to use it's fancy title, the Ashby-de-la-Zouch canal) meanders for 22 miles to the village of Snarestone, and then peters out into unnavigable rivulets. It once ran all the way to Moira/Measham (where a small watered but isolated section has been reactivated), and was originally intended to reach the Trent, but alas, the limited lifespan of the industrialised network never permitted it to reach this destiny. Now it is the perfect spot for a week's lock-free cruising up and back, surrounded by peaceful meadows, scattered woods, farms and villages.

It’s a paradox of the canal lifestyle that when there is no one to see you navigate under bridges, through locks, moor up or move off, you will invariably execute each move with precision and style. Conversely, the larger the number of gongoozlers¹, the more times you will crash into the armco, thump into said bridge or scrape painfully along the vegetation. On the Ashby, delightful as our week there was, I put this rule to the test more times than I care to recall (accompanied by more rude words that I should admit to allow escaping my lips).

But these small annoyances did not tarnish our happy week on the Ashby. Taking our time, we cruised slowly along, stopping at points that looked idyllic². Although spring was only just sprung, we also had delightful weather.

The Ashby is rich in history, passing through the Bosworth region where the Battle of Bosworth, last of the Wars of the Roses, was fought in 1485. The town of Market Bosworth is walking distance from the canal, full of heritage-listed buildings and crowned with a charming church.

But there were plenty of other spots to explore too, with many a scenic delight, whimsical moment or tasty treat. Hats off to the Spinney Bank Farm Shop for a superb chicken and mushroom pie, sausage roll and fresh produce to sustain our adventures! We also enjoyed a peaceful stroll through Wykin, heading back to collect Nelson the Nissan, who enjoyed his midpoint rest while we cruised onto Market Bosworth and beyond.

Just before Snarestone village, the canal swoops underneath it in the short, slightly skewed Snarestone tunnel. Our plan was to go right to the end basin, turn round, then moor up for lunch at a pub nearby. Of course, with tunnels, there are always complications! The canal network is well sprinkled with them, from minor hiccups like this one (only 250 yards) to the more daunting Standedge (5.2 miles), Blisworth (3 miles) or Harecastle (2.9 miles, also known as the ‘Scarecastle’ for good reason). On our former journey we had successfully passed the Chirk tunnel (half a mile) twice, and husband had singlehandedly made it through the 2 mile long Braunston not long after he arrived last year³. So we weren’t too concerned about this little passage, slightly twisty though it was famous for being. I hopped off to make sure there was no one coming in from the other end and pronounced it clear. Then the fun began.

The intelligent thing to do would have been to pop back on the boat as it entered the tunnel (narrow spaces like tunnel entries and bridge openings are usually easy to do this). However I had the bright idea of reconnoitring the village and meeting up with the boat on the other side. So I waved husband off and headed up the hill to Snarestone, perched atop the tunnel. According to our Nicholson⁴, the towpath picks up again right across the village. According to me, it was nowhere to be seen. Now, my nearest and dearest know that I am not among the world’s most observant people. In fact, I am capable of not noticing a hula-dancing, tambourine-brandishing, purple people eater if I am not paying attention⁵. Could I find the towpath’s continuation? I could not. After casting about vaguely in every direction, I eventually wandered toward where I thought it might be. It was not. I trudged half a mile (at least) down the nearest crossroad in case it had popped up there. It had not.

Where was that blasted canal? It couldn’t have just vanished! Finally I noticed a stile and a footpath beside the road and hastened thither, but to my annoyance it appeared to be leading me back to the village. Suddenly, I was overjoyed to see a small blue CRT sign, at last pointing me in the correct direction. Before long I had found the towpath again! Huzzah! And Flow was nowhere to be seen. Drat! I puffed hastily toward the terminus and arrived at the basin just in time to see husband turning Flow ready for our return journey. After some shouted confab, I headed back down the towpath to the north end of the tunnel (ridiculously close, after all my meanderings). This time, I got on the boat and stayed on!

Post-tunnel, we did indeed moor up for a well-needed lunch at The Globe in Snarestone village. And to my chagrin, as we headed up, what did I see directly opposite me as the towpath met the village?

That’s right. A small blue CRT sign pointing to the continued towpath. I swear it wasn’t there before…

Oh well. Onward and upward – or more accurately, downward, as we were now pointing south.

Our remaining day or so downstream passed without event. Well, without negative event (there were plenty of the undramatic, relaxing, enjoyable kind, including:

• Strolling through the tree-lined hamlet of Congerstone for a morning constitutional;
• Exploring Whitemoors Antiques in Shenton village for more trinkets to bedeck the boat⁶;
• Stopping at Sutton Wharf for a splendiferous brunch on our downstream journey, with waterside amusement offered by remote control mini battleships… shooting water at passing boats and the odd inquisitive duck…

This was, alas, also the unfortunate scene of my worst steering disaster (for which I cannot blame said battleships…sigh). I gritted my teeth, ignored the audience, and carried on – fortunately the bumpy navigating was after our delicious brunch, so I didn’t have to make extended eye contact with anyone (phew). And before we knew it, we were back at Marston Junction. I steered Flow neatly through the junction bridge, turning right to return to the Coventry (where were you now, darn gongoozlers? it was an almost flawless turn and a reasonably neat mooring up!)

The next stage of our random meanderings awaits…

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1. ‘Gongoozler’ is the traditional term for anyone who loves to stand idly by and watch canal boaters get themselves into assorted pickles. They can be distinguished from fellow boaters/Good Samaritans by the lack of windlasses to help at locks, an abundance of all the jokes you have heard before, and their inevitable appearance at the most congested points of the network. ↩︎
2. And preferably spots that had a lane nearby to park our faithful little Micra, Nelson the Nissan – though after a couple stops we decided to leave him midpoint for our return journey. ↩︎
3. Braunston, like some other tunnels, is wide enough to permit passing, so it’s not as fraught as the skinny ones where you need to wait and check the other end before you go in. It can be exceedingly nervous-making to squint through, trying to decide if the pinprick of light at the other end is the other end, or an oncoming boat headlight. Some of the really long tunnels have a stop/go light, or volunteer assistance, but many of them you just have to exercise an abundance of caution. ↩︎
4. The red Nicholson Canal Guides are the Boater’s Bible. There is a volume published for every region on the network, providing detailed maps, canalside info,etc. As we had inherited our set with the boat, they were also liberally annotated by Flow‘s previous owners, with invaluable comments on where to find great mooring spots, where the cut was narrow or shallow, and where the locals were best avoided 🙂 ↩︎
5. When engrossed in a book, husband has an annoying habit of saying ‘Lou, your hair’s on fire!’ just to prove that I am oblivious to my surroundings. Can’t really blame him though; I once failed to notice for three days that he had shaved off his goatee… in my defence, it was a very small, blond goatee… ↩︎
6. We actually visited here late last year, not realising its proximity to the Ashby, so couldn’t resist a return recce. This sprawling emporium has provided us with some useful pieces (and jumpstarted my unexpected thimble collection). ↩︎