We were lucky to arrive in Ireland during the first hot week of the summer, it seemed that everybody was in party mood and determined to get as  burnt as possible.  Of course, this is Ireland and everyone knew that this would not last until September so we weren't surprised when,  after eight days, the heavens opened and it poured with rain for 24 hours: not just normal rain, a particularly slippery, thin, boat penetrating rain that found it's way through both hatches.  We had made the hatches early in the build and had considered replacing them this spring but had decided against it; we might as well get as long as we could out of them and they only dripped occasionally. They didn't just drip under the onslaught at Sallins but wept profusely. There seemed little point in going boating in such conditions unless you had to, and we didn't, so we stayed at Sallins for the day.  Never one for inactivity, JIll decided to take a bus into Naas, the larger commuter town to the south and, having paid the driver for a return she waited for her ticket.  Puzzled by her waiting the driver explained that she didn't need a ticket as his was the only bus on the route and he never forgot a face. He then pulled up in the middle of Sallins in order to have a conversation with a friend on the pavement.  It does you no good to be in a hurry in Ireland.

A typical view from the wheelhouse

The following day was brighter and drier but without the heat of the previous week and, having enjoyed Gene's company over a cup of coffee, we slipped our mooring and headed west again, crossing the Liffey on a seven arched stone aqueduct as we left the village.  The river is surprisingly wide here, as befits a salmon and trout fishery.  Hawthorn is close to the physical limit on the Grand Canal, and we made slow going through the weedy water.  This would not have mattered normally but the Irish practice of having a lock keeper meet you at each lock put a little pressure on us: the lock keepers invariably know where you are, what time you left, and when to expect you at their lock.  We would ring them to say that we were at such and such at spot, be told that we were an hour away, and then take an hour and a half to cover the ground. Not that this seemed to bother anyone: we were/are invariably greeted cheerfully on arrival. Of course, in England we would have done our own locks and were quite happy to do so here (we even discussed this with Gene before leaving Sallins, he suggested using the lock keepers as much as possible, after all that is their job and there is a danger that not using them would set a precedent that  'management' might use against them later). Despite the size of the Liffey at Sallins, we had only two more 'uphill' locks before reaching the canal's summit - from here it was downhill all the way to the Shannon some 50 miles distant - and we soon moored in the wilds just short of Robertstown. Jill walked the dog down the towpath to the town only for a gang of terriers to come flooding out of the front window of a terraced house and set about Hobbes' ankles.  We were glad to have stopped short as the town is more of a village with the mooring next to a busy road and we slept really well in the silence a mile away. We had needed to use our 10' gang plank as we could not get close to the side but this has the advantage that we can take it up at night to stop any unwanted visitors: it is as if we have our own floating castle, complete with moat and drawbridge.

One for your dad, Lucy.

Soon after leaving Robertstown is the junction with the Barrow line where a canal connects the Grand to the River Barrow at Athy some 30 miles south. From Athy it is possible to navigate all the way to Waterford. Everyone has been telling us that we must do the Barrow but we are drawn to the Shannon for the summer and were happy to pass it by for now. The junction has a large boatyard on it, the first that we have seen, and we had to weave our way through a mixture of steel barges, narrowboats and larger, flashier, cruisers. At the lock just before the yard the lock keeper had described boats that never leave their moorings as 'Olympic flames' - because they never go out!  The canal remained rural and quiet but the water depth was improving and there was less weed and we were now flying along at a giddy 3mph.  Not that we flew for long as we came to the perfect mooring, lock 20, where we were able to stop above the lock and could spend the evening watching the sun set over the Bog of Allen below us.   

Across the Bog of Allen