Sleeping with the port-hole out means daylight in the bedroom, which means being woken as the sun comes up. So we were up pretty early, it was boiling hot and Nick was feeling the queasy consequences of his Stalyvegas dip.
Three miles soon passed before arriving at the bottom of the Marple flight. I’d remembered the paddles as arm jammers but we must have toughened during our stint up north as they came in just on the stiff side of okay. A few boats coming down bought some much needed water. By the top of the flight we’d thrown a spanner in the works of some Cheshire ring plans, having broken news of the Ashton stoppage to a few boaters.
Under the bridge and onto the Macclesfield, boats suddenly appeared all over the place, bridges needed to be treated as two-way streets again, it seems a long time since that has happened. Higher Poynton was practically chock so it was lucky to turn into one of the very last moorings. Breezy as usual up here, with the doors wide open the boat has been like a fan assisted oven – payback time for condensation months. Happy days.