Through Stanground and the persistence of English summer.

A day behind as usual. Yesterday, how many times have I started a post with that word? Well yesterday we left our final mooring on the Middle Level at Benwick, pronounced Bennick, and returned to the Nene at Peterborough.

We waited until the lorry had passed before we crept under White Fen Bridge, fearing that the weight might lower the headroom, an inch would have been too much.

At Flood's Ferry Farm, where the Rver Nene Old Course joins Whittlesey Dyke, despite careful manoeuvring, we gathered a prop full of blanket weed. I must have words with the arachnids who now inhabit the upper reaches of the weed hatch, getting fed up with having my hair festooned with their webs every time I dive down there. There is one old girl down there who rivals Shelob in size and attitude.

The weed cutters were out along here, notice the recumbent position of the pilot, that's the way to go to work. Even though mother-in-law worked for Sleepeezee I never managed to get my preferred career of bed tester, weed cutter driver would seem to be a good second choice.

We managed the bend and narrows at Briggate without too much trauma. They recommend putting someone ashore to go ahead and check there is no traffic coming the other way, I have no idea where they think you could land and recover anyone along here so a couple of blasts on the horn have to do.

Through Stanground Lock, twenty four hours notice required for transit, passing what appears to be the haunt of buccaneers,

and we arrived in Peterborough.
Despite the stubborn refusal of the Met. Office to recognise reality, today is not the hottest of the year, in Peterborough it is p-p-p-persistently raining.

Watch this space.........