What a day yesterday was, after a good run from Abingdon to Godstow it all went pear shaped, but more of that later.
It started well with breakfast, well you've got to have soldiers with a soft boiled egg. Here I have an awful confession to make. It is generally considered that I am a bit of a trencherman and occasionally a toper but in fact, since March, we both have been, whisper it, on a diet. It's the 5 and 2 that's all the rage and we've both lost over two stone. So in fact yesterday I was limited to six hundred calories, so nothing after breakfast until 1800. It's all the fault of the bathroom scales that Jill bought back at Banbury, if I hadn't got on them I would not have known that I had ballooned to seventeen stone, even I saw that was a tad heavy for someone as vertically challenged as I am.
Back to travelling, Nuneham House gazes down on the river as it has done for two hundred and seven years, I reckon Earl Harcourt who had it built would be surprised that it is now a spiritual retreat.
There seemed to be a plethora of geese on this reach, we didn't have any Paxo with us though and it was a fast day,(Sigh).
Approaching Oxford we passed all the different college boat houses and
the mouth of the Cherwell, we will become more involved with that river in a week or two as we make our way up the Oxford Canal.
Then past the old Salter's Steamers base and under Folly Bridge. Oxford doesn't show it's best side to the river.
A bit further on is the entrance to the Sheepwash Channel, one of the routes up to the Oxford Canal. It was then across Port Meadow
with its herds of cattle and yet more geese.
At Godstow Lock we once again confronted with the self service but we were old hands at this lark by now and were soon through and moored next to the remains of Godstow Nunnery.
Little remains of what was once a great religious foundation and once the burial place of Rosamund Clifford, "The Fair Rosamund" of legend. Mistress of Henry II, she retired to the nunnery in 1176 and was buried in front of the high altar. At the dissolution the nunnery was converted to a house but, come the Civil War, it ended up as one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked abart a bit.
Music Hall Song:
I'm on of the ruins that Cromwell knocked abart a bit,
One of the ruins that Cromwell knocked abart a bit,
In the gay old days there used to be something doin'
No wonder the poor old abbey went to ruin.
Those who raise their voices sing and shart of it,
You can bet yer life there ain't a doubt of it.
Outside the Oliver Cromwell larst Saterday night
I was one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked abart a bit.
After a Guinness or three my old Aunty Nell would sing it with great verve. Sadly I can't recall the tune.
Now the only inhabitant seemed to be
this fine fellow.
But now comes the pear shaped bit, about 1730 I started the motor, we were running short of hot water, twenty minutes later the engine alarm sent its scream echoing down the boat. Steam billowing out from the engine 'ole, temperature gauge off the scale, instant depression. However, after my small portion of salmon with roasted vegetables, 370 calories, I cheered up, diagnosed an air lock in the skin tank and 'phoned R.C.R. I pay 'em, don't see why I should struggle. This morning a very nice chap came out, tied himself in knots trying to reach the bleed screw and finally got it sorted.
It was then off through King's Lock
where strange things lurk in the bushes. We're not that close to Wales are we?
Didn't travel far, we've stopped by Eynsham Lock, on again tomorrow.
Watch this space.........
