Mr SPH and I met at Charing Cross station yesterday morning for a trip up to Milton Keynes to see the League One table-top clash between the local side and our own (yes, yes, yes - it's really division 3 - we know!).
After wending our way across the capital we had a quick breakfast in the Brittannia Bar, overlooking the concourse at Euston station - very good value at £2.99. There was brief talk of the forthcoming BCN Challenge but our minds were more firmly set on the challenges of the day: a) Finding our way from Fenny Stratford station, via the nominated pub, to the stadium and b) Maintaining our (more correctly, our football team's) 12 point lead at the top. We were soon down onto platform 11 and settled into our London Midland Chariot, en route Bletchley - and soon afterwards we were getting glimpses of the Grand Union as we sped northwards. I think it must have been one of these glimpses that started SPH's mind churning. "What did you say the name of this pub was?" "The Red Lion", I replied. "Do you know", he said, "I think that might be... ". "Do you know", I interrupted, "I think you might be right!" The journey to Bletchley passed quickly with nothing more that is of any relevance here. On arrival we crossed the footbridge to the Bedford platform - the comments from our fellow fans clearly suggesting that none of them had previously encountered a Class 153 (those of you with an interest in railways will know what I mean). Three minutes later and we were getting off this second train at Fenny Stratford. Steve and I had just one thing on our minds by this time. Off the station, left over the level crossing, first right, down a little hill, Red Lion on the left - and there, right in front of us was Fenny Stratford Lock - we were right! For those of you who don't know (or had forgotten), Fenny Stratford Lock is the one that was put in as a temporary measure just over 200 years ago to solve the problem caused by the rocky and leaky canal-bed to the north thereof. The rise is just 12 inches - which caused much amusement to those born in bred in Leicestershire and who can still remember being taken to Foxton Locks in their pushchairs. Comparison was also made to the 'not-a-proper-train' on which they had recently travelled. "Not a proper train - and not a proper lock", they muttered. For added interest there is a swingbridge across the lock. Now one thing about football fans is that they want to be entertained. Sometimes it's a pretty girl walking by; sometimes it's the early Sky-match on the pub TV. But yesterday this lot decided that they wanted to be entertained by a barge (idiots!!) going through the toy lock. Some of them know of my interest in waterways and started to demand the time of the next arrival (idiots!!). I told them to ask Steve, but by this time he had noticed that the door on the pumping house was ajar and he was off across the bottom gates to have a nosey. I think I managed to get most of them to understand that boats don't run to a timetable - and in due course, lookouts were appointed for the purpose of warning of any approaching vessels; a wise precaution with a lot of football fans to be moved before the swingbridge could be swung and the gates opened and closed. Before long, Steve decided that is was about time we got ourselves off to the match; neither of us could believe that two hours had passed so quickly. We drank up, set off back towards the road, but quickly realised that nobody else was coming with us. Steve checked his watch again. Big hand on the 3 - little hand between the 1 and the 2 - it was quarter past one - we had only been in the pub for an hour. We thought about going back to the pub - we thought about full bladders at football matches on cold days - one us remembered that there is a fish and chip shop in the centre of Fenny Stratford - and very nice they were too (Steve had an enormous pickled onion with his; I think he said it was 10p) Appetites assuaged, we decided that full bladders at football matches on cold days are just something that has to be managed - and in any case the Red Lion was not far off the direct route between the chippy and the stadium. So across the level crossing, first right, down the hill, Red Lion on the left and we were back at the lock. And soon afterwards from the south, there came two narrowboats - result! The assembled throng, glasses in right hands, folded their arms, rocked back on their heels, fell into silence and watched. I wondered why the crews felt it necessary to tie their boats up in such a benign lock - I wondered whether they did the same thing in bigger locks where it could be a real danger - but what was it to do with me, a mere gongoozler for the day? I could see Steve getting twitchy. Then the masses started to find their voice. Half of them told the other half that they "would love to go out in one of those"; the other half raised themselves to their full height and remembered out loud their narrowboat holiday twenty years ago, though none of them could quite remember where they went. One chap said he had been "on the Broads, but that was different from this". I thought Steve was controlling his twitchyness very well but suddenly as the boats left the lock, he forgot he was a football fan, dashed forward and with a cheery wave to the crews he called, "Don't worry. I'll sort these out for you" and started to shut the gates. By now it really was time to go to the match. We'll gloss over what happened there, but I believe that the Sunday papers will record that we were completely outplayed by the home side (they may even use the word 'outclassed'), but nevertheless managed to get a fortuitous equalizing goal in the 95th minute of a game that is only supposed to last for 90 minutes. Needless to say, Steve and I thought we had better check the lock was still OK on the way back to the station. It was - and so was the Red Lion. One more boat passed in the short time that we were there - again northbound - and this time it was me who couldn't resist a bit of waterways activity, swinging the bridge back into position and then leading the unseemly dash to the bottom gate to close those. Steve pitched in with a demonstration of how to gently drop a paddle without a windlass. And so it was, with an undeserved point in the bag and the warm glow of a few minutes against the cut in our hearts, that Steve and I turned ourselves back towards Fenny Compton station and the humdrum of our normal lives. -- Bob
