The canal walk was a real treat. While the Severn Way mostly afforded only glimpses of the river and felt like walking through a hedgerow lengthways, the towpath was broad, even and gave me plenty to look at. The River Stour accompanied the canalzon my right until Kidderminster, where an aquaduct allowed the two to swap sides.
I crossed a rare roving bridge which was completely split by a one inch gap through the deck and sides. This allowed a horse to remain harnessed to the narrowboat even as the towpath crossed to the other side.
Two young men and a young woman were ahead of me, shouting and generally being 'lairy'. I caught them up, feeling slightly unsettled in a quiet spot.
"Ay mate, am yow tired?"
"I'm okay," I smiled back.
"Om shattered."
"Why, how far have you walked?"
"From town!"
I reckoned that this was only about a mile away.
"Where yo goin'?"
I explained what I was up to, how far I'd come and where I was heading.
The other youth, who hadn't done any talking up to this point, stopped in his tracks. "Fair play to you, mate."
He held out his hand and with handshakes they wished me good look.
Their 'lairiness' was, I realised and rembered, part of the exuberance of the West Midlands. It was the same spirit as that of the bikini-wearing cyclist, who passed me on the towpath a few miles farther north and raised both hands high above her head as she rode on a couple of feet from the water.
(continues in Part Three)
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