Best. Tunnel. Yet.

At the top of Heartbreak Hill is the Harecastle Tunnel. The first tunnel was constructed by Brindley (actually, I think he had some navvies helping) and was built between 1766 and 1777. It was a mile and three quarters long, and only had room for boats going in one direction at a time. There was no tow path, so boats had to be ‘legged’ through – that is, a team of men lay on their back on the boat and walked on the sides of the tunnel, pushing it through.

By the 1820s the success of the Trent and Mersey canal meant that this tunnel was a huge bottleneck, and Telford was asked to build an additional tunnel. Thanks to improvements in technology in fifty years, Telford’s tunnel only took three years to complete, and included a tow path. Until 1914, both tunnels were used, one in each direction. Brindley’s tunnel was finally abandoned then, and electric tugs were used to pull boats through Telford’s tunnel, using a steel cable along the canal bed for traction, and an overhead power line for electricity. Diesel engines could not be used as there was not enough ventilation in the tunnel.

This system lasted until 1954, when a new approach was tried. A door was put on the south end of the tunnel with fans in it that could blow air through the tunnel when there were boats using it. There is a tunnel keeper at each end to make sure that boats are only going in one direction at a time. That means that when you are going through the tunnel southbound, you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. You are just proceeding by the lights you have on the boat through a tunnel that appears to go in for ever.

In the 1970s the tunnel was refurbished, and the towpath was removed, making the watercourse several feet wider, which means that you can roar through at three to four miles an hour without fear of hitting the sides of the tunnel, or having to worry about oncoming traffic.

In the middle, probably where the tunnel was repaired, the roof gets quite low. The tunnel keeper told me to take the bikes off the roof unless I wanted to have them sliding back into my face. I had to sit down for some of the very low bits as there was no room to stand up at the tiller.

I must admit I was happy to see the door finally opening at the end of the tunnel and yelled, “Open the pod bay doors, Hal,” to celebrate.

We are now on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent, aka The Potteries. We are moored up next to Westport Lake, a pretty park with a strangely ark-like visitor center.

There are the usual signs up telling dog owners to pick up after their dogs, which is pretty pointless, because the towpath is covered in gooseshit.

If I took a crap on the footpath I’d be in the nick before you could say ASBO, but for geese it’s OK. When is this double standard going to end?

Talking of turds, this is what an English croissant looks like these days.

You will notice it no longer has any pretense of being crescent shaped because f*ck you if we’re not in the European Union any more we don’t have to pretend to speak French. In revenge, the French are planning to move le week-end to the middle of the week.