About a mile out of Stourbridge, we hit countryside again. There were fields on either side of the canal rather than brick walls or housing estates, and the bridges were free of graffiti. You could tell that there were towns nearby, though, as there were fields of ponies for the gymkhana crowd rather than sheep, cows, or sugar beet.

The canals are full with all the rain we have had, which makes the low bridges seem extra low. We were approaching one yesterday that I realized that the bikes on the roof were not going to make it through. I went into reverse and revved the engine hard to stop the boat, then rearranged the bikes so the handlebars were over the edge of the boat, and then pulled it through the bridge by hand to make sure nothing hit.

The same thing happened again today coming out of a lock – I had to back up, climb on the roof of the boat while we were still in the lock, jiggle the bikes till they fit, and then leave the lock. With another low tunnel coming up, we decided to take the bikes off the roof altogether, and while we were doing that we were hailed by name. It was Jim, they guy who had helped us with the locks yesterday, cycling up from Kidderminster to spread more joy on the towpath.

Jim informed us that there was a big belt of rain on the way, due to hit us about 3pm, and we would need one of those special lock keys for the locks in Kidderminster. We had now left the Stourbridge canal, and turned south on the Staffordshire and Worcestershire canal. There was a marina a couple of miles north of us that sold them, so I hopped on a bike and pedaled up the muddy towpath in that direction. When I got there I was on the wrong side of the canal. It’s a lot harder to cross a canal on a bicycle than it is on a canal boat, but I went up to the next bridge, and finally got the all important magic key.

Now all I need to do is find someone with a brand new pair of roller skates.

I took the front wheels of the bikes off and Paula stowed them in the engine room. Turning the handlebars sideways gives the bikes on the roof a much lower profile now. We are ready for the return trip up the Staffs and Worcester.

Worcester is pronounced “Wooster”, leading to the joke in one of the Jeeves and Wooster TV shows, “Hello, my name is Bertie Wooster, pronounced W-O-R-C-E-S-T-E-R.” I’m not sure if that is in the original PG Woodhouse stories or if it was something that Stephen Fry or Hugh Laurie put in. The “shire” bit gets swallowed, so Worcestershire comes out as WOOST-er-shuh. It’s becoming clear to me that before the end of this trip, I’m not only going to have to be able to pronounce Pontcysyllte, I’m going to have to explain how to pronounce it, in a way that Americans can understand.

Two more locks took us down to the village of Kinver, and we moored up for the night just before the rain hit. Jim came by on his bike heading back in the opposite direction, and stopped for a chat. I wonder how many of the boaters on the canal he knows by now?