With all the noise and bustle of the city behind us, and with no worries about what lay ahead of us now that we were clear of Dublin's badlands, our first night in the countryside was a night of blissful sleep, so blissful that we decided not to travel the following day.  This meant ringing the Lock-keeper, John,  who was going to meet us at the next lock later in the morning. Our not moving presented the odd problem of John being concerned that we would run out of essentials like bread and milk, both of which he offered to drop down to us. Having stressed to John that we had enough food on board to feed a small army, we agreed to meet 24 hours later than originally planned and spent the day doing very little other than rest, walk the dog and talk to local boaters.  The boaters may have been pretty much static live-aboards but they all made encouraging noises when they heard of our plans to make our way to the Shannon for the summer.  It was a good idea to stop for a day but we were excited and happy when we left the following morning. It was only a couple of miles to the next lock but this took us an hour - the canal was still weedy but we were informed that this would improve the further west we went.  John arrived at the lock a few minutes after us and, to our astonishment, he was carrying a bag of groceries: bread, milk, a carton of orange juice and a tin of dog food! Clearly Hobbes was not going to be allowed to starve. John also had a windlass for us should we need to do a lock for ourselves. Of course, despite our protestations, he would not take any money. My,  we were being looked after.  Above the lock we could see a very grand building that was obviously very well looked after. John explained that it was the showpiece restaurant of Ireland's superchef, Richard Corrigan, who could often be seen having a sly fag on the towpath. The way things were going, we would not have been surprised if Mr Corrigan had cooked breakfast for us and had it delivered on silver platters!                                           

Richard Corrigan's restaurant

This was the last lock of John's stretch and we said our goodbyes and slowly crawled westward. Our lack of pace allowed us plenty of time enjoy the gently rolling landscape of small fields enclosed by dense hedges and there were few houses to be seen. Those that we could see were either fairly run down or in the new 'Southfork' style so beloved of the Irish; particularly odd when they are built next to the most dilapidated farm buildings. Another sign of the times were the multi-lingual signs that have been erected anywhere that a road made access to the canal easy for fishing. The purpose of these is to stop the practice, common amongst Eastern European workers, of taking fish home for supper: so common is this practice that fish stocks have suffered considerable depletion in the last few years although, with the Irish economy in tatters, it is hoped that the dwindling numbers of migrant workers might allow the fishing to recover.  Not that we would have known that fishing had suffered for, when not watching the countryside, we were able to see the fish quite clearly as the water in the canal is gin clear - the only time we have seen similar clarity and fish numbers had been on the rivers Lark and Little Ouse in East Anglia.                                      

Put it Back!

After a number of locks and more friendly Waterways Ireland staff, we arrived at the village of Sallins.  We had not even put the mooring pins in before being joined by a boater from one of the barges we had passed as we left the cutting that precedes the village and, after introducing ourselves, Gene Lambert joined us for a cup of tea. Gene's own barge had been built in England and he had spent several years fitting it out so we had a lot in common. | also wanted to enquire about Irish gas bottles and there compatibility with our English regulator. Of course this is Ireland: rather than tell us what we needed Gene disappeared to get his car so that we could take our empty bottle to a local supplier and get a replacement if possible. It wasn't possible and neither could we get rid of our, now useless, bottle; that would have to wait until we got to Northern Ireland later in the summer. In the meantime we had to buy a new bottle and find a regulator to fit. Not a problem, Gene rang a gas fitting friend who called at Hawthorn within the hour; another hurdle overcome without too much effort.  Over yet more tea, we were to learn that Gene is a painter of some note and we spent a couple of hours chatting to him about painting, poetry and books. If this is to be what boating in Ireland is about then we are going to be very happy indeed.