I had forgotten how suddenly one passes from lush greenery to these forlorn brick hulks. The pace of canal life, somewhere between a brisk walk and a slow jog, takes a little getting used to. When our bilge pump fails after four seemingly long days on the canals, I'm stunned that the repairman catches up with us in less than an hour, but then I realize we've traveled only 30 miles. Rain only enhances the damp beauty of woods so dense you expect Robin Hood and his Merry Men to ambush you. Coots, magpies, moorhens, ducks, and swans flutter about, scurrying across our bow or hanging in our wake, scavenging.
Rabbits dash through the underbrush.
Turning sharply near Stourbridge, we come upon a hillside so thick with grazing sheep it looks as if it's shadowed by a white cloud. As we pass, they nod slowly and draw their poles back, like an honor guard. Heading south toward Stourport, where the canal feeds into the Severn River, the locks appear more frequently. By the end of two weeks we will have worked through 140 of them over the course of 150 miles. Perhaps because canal boating combines a taste for both rain and pub fare, it seems peculiarly suited to the English.