What was left unseen last weekend along the Basingstoke Canal was remedied today in the counties of Oxfordshire and Warwickshire. The entire morning was filled with a most pleasant walk along the Oxford Canal from Banbury heading north and ending at the village of Fenny Compton. I have only read about the Suez Canal and its locks in school. I have never seen any such locks in operation. A direct experience is always enlightening. If seeing is believing, it also enhances one’s appreciation.
The Oxford Canal cannot be described as busy but there are enough boats using it and all locks are in perfect working condition that it certainly not a romantic lure from a decadent past. The lock compartments, if that’s what they are called, are sometimes as long as 72 feet. This limits the maximum length of a boat passing through. I observed one such lock about 10 feet wide and 20 feet deep filling up quickly in a matter of three or four minutes and emptying in seconds. Such is the force of gravity. The only opposition to this is from the sturdy wooden locks by which boats are raised to a higher water level. Here is a simple concept of physics applied and elucidated in a practical way.
The towpath along this canal is the most comfortable walking path that anyone could wish. Maps and compasses are redundant. Slopes are non-existent. Shades are plenty. Boats quietly pass. Anglers sit patiently with their promising lines. Waterfowls wade in silence. A flock of Canadian geese stare inquisitively. The occasional Virgin Train, oblivious to this unhurried order of the day, speeds away intrusively.
Sections of the towpath are almost a house-porch with potted plants spilling over from the moored boats. These houseboats are mostly 50-65 feet in length. Most boats stay at a place from a few days to a couple of weeks. Longer stays generally require a license. It is clear that for many couples the boat is their home, shall we say, a travelling home. One person I spoke to had cruised all the way from Bristol to spend two weeks here to attend a folk festival. It is a world that I never knew existed. I am told there are 2000 miles of navigable waterways in Britain, a relaxing alternative to the motorways. One has to be organised in terms of filling up the water tanks or emptying the wastes at designated service stations. It is not unlike my own as a weekend backpacker.
Besides the locks, a frequent picturesque icon of the canal is the red-brick bridge. Many bridges gracefully span the narrow width of the canal. I stopped at one such bridge to finish my lunch that I had packed at Banbury. At that point I thought what a wonderful day it had been without realizing that the afternoon was going to exceed all expectations.
Seven villages, five churches, two pubs and countless fields and farms lay on my path. Now I hardly remember what I saw where or where I saw what, but the hours spent in this part of West Midlands have been the most enjoyable. The villages of Fenny Compton, Northend, Burton Dassett, Avon Dassett, Warmington, Shotteswell and Hanwell were crossed in that order.
The All Saints Church at Burton Dassett occupied me for nearly an hour. It claims to be one of the most unspoilt village churches of Warwickshire. It is unspoilt only in the sense that the spoils of time have been left undisturbed. Any restorations that have been attempted have successfully preserved the look and mood of this 12th century church. There are no fancy decorations or pompous glorification of cathedrals. The colourful wall murals have long been obliterated. Upon closer inspection I found that many murals are buried under newer coats of distemper. As the later peel off in their own time the ancient murals begin to unveil their colourful secrets. The church itself is ingeniously built on the slope of a hill such that the altar and chancel stand on higher ground towards the east. The spiritual significance is rarely overlooked. Another interesting feature are the stone carvings of beasts and foliage circling the capitals of pillars in the north aisle. The beasts are stylistic at best. They are hardly realistic or well-proportioned. It is difficult to identify them. Are they sheep, wolves, tigers, lions, dragons, angels, dogs or cats? Some are even upside down. The imagination of the artist has overflowed any meaning or purpose. That’s what makes it interesting because a church as this is hardly their right place. Finally, a note of appreciation to all the volunteers and caretakers. Without them this church would now be little more than a ruin of stones and crumbling masonry, a dismembered spiritual haven for seeking souls. The church continues to be used for services to this day.
I could not explore the interiors of the other churches. There were locked and are opened only for services. From the outside they are built of the same stones as the Burton Dassett Church. They were dedicated to specific saints while the Burton Dassett Church has taken an all embracing stand.
A panoramic view from Burton Hills informs a mix of pasture and arables although I did not encounter much livestock. This part of the country is predominant in crop farming with the exception of areas around Burton Dassett which explains this well in its own history. The motorway, M40, is just next to this village. This little village is either annoyed to distraction or lulled to sleep by the constant motorway hum. For a resident, by cultivated habit, it dissolves into the background. For a visitor, it depends only on the state of the human mind as yet new to such a habit.
Yet another village of note is Warmington. This village is full of splendid stone buildings that include the church, the manor house, the school and a 17th century pub, The Plough. If I had not been in a rush to return to Banbury by sunset I would have stopped at the pub for a drink.
At the village of Shotteswell I passed “The Coronation Tree”, a chestnut tree filled with growing fruits. It was planted in 1911 to commemorate the coronation of King George V. If this is the case in a small village, there must be many more such trees all over the country. The British surely love their monarchs very much.
Walking through fields in late summer is not an easy task but thoroughly enjoyable. I cut across crop fields along long winding paths. The deeply cracked brown earth leads my way. The waves of growing wheat or barley reflect the sunlight to a golden hue. By twilight the same waves are lulled to a soft white glow under a growing moonlight. A roadside barn at a farm has a sign that announces:
HAY
Pick your
own bale
£1-20
A slotted metal box is fixed to the wall for payment. One must assume a measure of confidence from the farmer on the honesty of village folks. Who would want to steal a bale of hay?
Once I startle a wild deer. They like to hide and wander in these fields. I infiltrate overgrown paths through fields of broad beans. This gets worse, let’s say better, as I lose my way for a good thirty minutes. I get chased by a herd of cattle, some with threatening horns, but an alternative route is easily found. In retaliation, a flock of sheep flee at my approach. It requires no effort to scare these timid creatures. All in all, by the time I reach Banbury, after 12 hours of walk covering some 40 km, I am covered with spiders, beetles, flies and crickets. They must think it’s a good night out to the city for the summer!
