High Summer on Crack Hill

"Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." ~Carl Sandburg

  We were cruising on new water for me. Les has been up the Leicester Arm twice but this was my first time. Rural in nature with some spectacular views between Crick and Yelvertoft, it is an extremely busy section of the cut, with a lot of hire boats on the move as well as a few share boats and private shiny boats--all racing by without slowing down. What is it with folks these days? The Canal Boat Club hire boats even have a sticker below the ignition requesting drivers slow right down when approaching and passing moored boats. Some days it is madness--the total antithesis of being on a cut. Go figure!! 
   It was a year ago on August 17th we received Les' cancer diagnosis, so we celebrated Les' return to good health quietly with a walk up Crack Hill overlooking the village of Crick to South and Yelvertoft to the West, reveling in the view far above the fray. We indulged in my Best Beloved's favorite summer past time: picking blackberries! 
   The hedgerows are loaded with an abundance of ripe fruit so come along with me--the best is yet to be! Walk with us to the top of Crack Hill and back home again...and glory in the great green and golden tapestry that is high summer in England...

NB Valerie is all buttoned up as we walk away up the towpath.

This is the entrance to Yelvertoft Marina--newly built in 2010 with 150 berths, offering 23.25 miles of lock free canal to toddle along. Originally part of Flint Hill Farm, we were told by locals that the farmer is the owner of this marina. 

We've crossed the canal at bridge 17. Farmland and low, rolling hills lay just beyond the low hedgerow of Fireweed and dried flowers on one side...

while the other side of the path wears a tall green fringe laden with late summer fruits and berries! Hawthorn (good for the heart muscle), and Sloes--aka Blackthorn.

 You are probably familiar with Sloes as an ingredient of the drink Sloe Gin Fizz. Sloe Gin is made from soaking the fruit in gin or vodka with sugar added and allowing it to mature. 
   I am familiar with Spinus Prunosa as a medicinal plant and it has been used extensively for many thousands of years. You may remember the discovery of an ancient body frozen in the Italian Alps in 1991. Otzi as he was named, dated from Neanderthal times (3350-3300 BCE). Amongst his precious few belongings were found some dried sloes--medicine for his journey.
  A tea from the flowers is a harmless and reliable purgative and has beneficial effects on the stomach and stimulates appetite. Recommended for mild bladder problems, skin problems, catarrh, stomach cramps, dropsy (edema), and stone formation. Juice of the berries used for inflammations in the mouth and throat. A jam made of the fruit is a palatable laxative safe especially for children. A decoction of the root bark reduces fever.

Blackberries reaching for the sun! They too are medicinal. A tea of the dried leaves alleviates diarrhea. Blackberries and Raspberries contain Ellagic acid--a potent cancer preventative.
“Ellagic acid prevents the binding of carcinogens to DNA and strengthens connective tissue, which may keep cancer cells from spreading.” Ellagic Acid has the ability to inhibit mutations within a cell’s DNA. Furthermore, it is considered to be a cancer inhibitor which has the ability to cause apoptosis or normal cell death in cancer cells." (Webster Kehr, Independent Cancer Research Foundation, Inc. | Last updated on March 14, 2013)

It is amazing to me how abundantly blessed the hedgerows are in this country. Ma Nature is generous in Her fecundity.

A break in the hedge allows us a view of Crack Hill surrounded by golden wheat.

The gate up ahead marks the farmer's land and this Bridle Path and footpath are a public right of way. 

 The air is warm and honeyed with the slightly floral scent of ripening berries and an undertone of licorice from drifts of Sweet Cicely growing nearby. Bees buzz, birds sing, the wind kisses our cheek, and the clouds change shape and color as we watch.
   Beyond the gate, a short walk across a small grassy field bounded on three sides by Blackberry brambles and littered with Sheep scat, and we climb quickly to the rounded summit of Crack Hill.

A lovely spot for a sunny picnic!

  Reaching the top we spy a Jubilee Beacon, a picnic table, and a plaque which explains that this is a glacial outcrop on the edge of the Northamptonshire heights from which the town of Crick takes its name (from the Celtic word cruc meaning hill). Worked flint has been found there indicating pre-historic activity. There is also evidence of a Roman Station and of open field ridge & furrow farming predating the Enclosure Act of 1778. Human activity has marked this hill for thousands of years.

Strong man holds up the Jubilee beacon! Les looking and feeling fit and healthy.

The top of Crack Hill is circled by giant oaks...

...giving it the feel of a pagan chapel. As a witch I would love to return to Crack Hill on the high holy days of Winter solstice, Spring Equinox, May Eve, Summer Solstice, Fall equinox, and close my year at Samhain (Oct. 31st) standing in the twilight on the summit with the wind blowing around me. For me Crack Hill is a sacred place. I can easily believe that while Christians worshiped in the Crick village church, witches met on Crack Hill to turn the wheel of the year and give thanks to the Goddess and the Green Man.

Looking outward to the fields beyond and moving in a circle around to the right. I loved the way the lone far tree in the hedgerow was framed by the break in the trees on the Hill.

A close up from the hilltop, of the canal below, which curls around three sides of the hill. Beyond is a green checkerboard of fields and hedgerows that seem to roll on forever. 

One after another, narrow boats cruise in meandering curves following the canal as it curves around the foot of the hill.

A narrow boat below cruises slowly toward the village of Crick in the distance.

A close up of the path from Crick village to Crack Hill and three walkers surrounded by verdant green pasture. The village church tower stands tall and proud, marking the spot where Christians have worshiped since the beginning of the Norman conquest. Off to the far right on the village pitch...

...a football game is in progress.

Between Crack Hill and the public footpath across the green pasture, another narrow boat glides slowly into view!

Boaters are making the most of the sunshine as another one slips by with wind Gennie's in the background.

Looking down on the wheat farm at the foot of the hill, it is time to start back.

The path down leads between two large oaks, moving through the farmer's gate. The pasture below is ringed on all sides...

...with blackberries! We stop and fill two containers to overflowing. It is not for nothing that one of Les' nicknames is Blackberry Biggs!

Off the hill, blackberries picked, we cross a low field and make for the gate...

beyond which is a field of sweet corn (the word corn is a generic term used by Brits for any field grain), and the path back home to NB Valerie.

 Even though this isn't a typical kissing gate, Dear Sir is waiting to kiss me through...

On our way back to the cut we pass the wheat farm we saw from the hill top.

Yelvertoft Marina from canal bridge 17.

Across the bridge, down the stairs...

...and onto the towpath where I spotted this fuzzy caterpillar making its way toward the canal. I wonder what kind of butterfly it will become?

Further on past the marina this bridge bears the marks of the horse's tether in its brick facing, from the days of horse drawn boats.

In the galley we weigh our plump, purple booty. Five pounds!! I can see into the future and I spy Blackberry and Apple pie, Blackberry cobbler, and Blackberry and Apple Crumble.

A blackberry sunset bids us goodnight.

Growing Old Aboard

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made..." ~Robert Browning

   I was inspired by Del and Al's post titled Just living It on Derwent6. They said, "'This is a lovely life, but one question we always get asked is "What are you going to do when you get older?"'
   We returned from our wedding and the frenetic pitch of wrapping up my Stateside life in early September. NB Valerie was moored for the summer at Napton so we headed out for some countryside quiet, mooring up around bridge 101 on the North Oxford.
    Blackberries were in abundance and we were delighted by the opportunity to fill a bucket. As the two of us worked our way up the towpath picking fat, black berries, we met a woman berrying alone. A boat was moored nearby.
   She looked to be in her late seventies or very fit early eighties, with long white hair pulled up in a soft bun. Thins wisps escaped to curl around her face. She wore a blouse with a faded, small flowered print, and a pair of faded denim pedal pushers. Plain white sneakers graced a pair of small, agile feet. In her tanned, gnarled hands she held a small blue bowl half filled with berries.
   As we gathered berries together we conversed. She asked us how we came to be berrying on the towpath and we told her about our love story--how we met, fell in love, married, etc. etc. Her pale, blue eyes grew misty as she listened to Les. I asked her if she lived nearby. Her face folded into a lovely smile.
   "Yes," she replied. "I live right here." She turned and pointed to the boat moored nearby. Smoke curled from the stove pipe. The windows were hung with lace curtains, closed to the mid day sun. She no doubt noted the expression of surprise on my face.
   "My husband and I have lived on our boat for sixteen years. He is ill now with an incurable illness. He wants to die at home and I promised him he could. I will do whatever it takes to keep my promise."
   Her eyes look deep inside mine, searching for...something. Perhaps she thought I might be shocked by her declaration. She could not know that I have faced my own death more than once, in fact quite recently. I wondered if her husband's incurable illness might be the final stages of cancer. I stood in awe of her courage and love.
   "That's would be the way I would want to go--in my own bed, in my own home aboard," I said, and we wished her well. In the morning their boat had gone, moved on toward Braunston and her husband's final days...
   As the wheel of the year turned towards the longest night, Dear Sir steered us back up the Grand Union canal on our way north from a visit to London, with stops in Watford and Luton to visit family.
   We came in to Slapton locks in the waning light of a brittle, windy afternoon. A local boater on a permanent mooring stopped for a chat on tehway to his car.
    Garbed in baggy black jeans, he was wrapped in several warm layers including a large shapeless jacket, maroon knitted scarf tied close around his neck, and a black knitted cap. His face wore a hungry, curious expression under the grizzle of a three day growth of beard. 
   Those big double locks on the Grand Union take a while to fill. In the course of the conversation regarding whether or not the coming winter would be as severe as the two just past, the bloke mentioned that his nearest neighbor on the next mooring was a woman in her nineties, confined to a wheel chair. Her sixty seven year old son lived aboard and looked after her. She found it easy to get about on the boat since the narrowness allowed her to reach out and hold on to something on each side.
    "Last winter at the holidays, the ice was thick on the frozen canal and the lock gates were quite slippery with ice. Usually," he said, "the son carries his mum over the lock gates and I get her chair for her. They go home to family each Christmas for two weeks, but last year it was too dangerous to walk across the lock gates so we towed her in her wheelchair across the ice!" The bloke's friendly brown eyes crinkled at the corners as his laughter echoed in the cold, crisp air...
   Winter's dark, short days came and went as we cruised through them. At Braunston we came across a lovely couple in their mid-seventies, headed out for the bus into town.
   They were a dapper dressed pair; he in pressed black trousers and a warm fleece coat, his wife in dark plaid wool slacks with a mauve jacket. Her hair was nicely styled, earrings dangling from each ear. She hooked her arm through his as he walked along with a cane.
   They knew Les in passing as a fellow boater and stopped to say hello. She had a Scottish accent and sharp eyes that didn't miss a thing. Her husband had a small, neatly trimmed moustache which framed a lively smile as they said hello. They were on their way to a follow up doctor's appointment for his leg which had undergone recent surgery.
   Dear Sir introduced us, offering a brief synopsis of where he had been and why he hadn't been about on the cut much for the past year! After they offered congratulations on our marriage, I asked if they lived aboard their boat NB Relaine.
   "Oh yes," she assured me. "We've lived aboard as continuous cruisers for twenty six years now." We talked briefly about all the changes they had seen and how much they loved their lives aboard. We said our goodbyes as she slipped her gloved hand through her husband's arm and off they went.
   I must admit I found myself envious of them. Oh! To have been living on the cut all that time! It just goes to show one can age well in life aboard a boat on the cut. I think the lifestyle lends itself to longevity with the lack of stress and slow pace of a very simple life.