UK canal boat holiday: A first-time family narrowboat cruise The bulging Sainsbury's carrier bags stowed in the galley (comfort food is essential on barge holidays in damp weather), we cast off. Lovers of canal cruising will tell you it is the perfect way to de-stress, the slowness of the journey (speed limit four miles per hour) imparting an agreeable torpor as the frenetic pace of modern life recedes. Who, after all, has heard of canal rage? This is nonsense. Piloting a narrowboat when you are new to it, or have forgotten what to do, is as tranquillity-inducing as steering a bendy-bus through a minefield. Zig. Zag. Za... Crumbs! Only 20 minutes into the voyage and there was something coming the other way. I mean, honestly! On a bend. With a moored boat to the right - the side we were meant to pass on. Of all the inconsiderate... Four miles an hour became 400, walking speed a hurtling gallop to destruction. Prepare to ram! Full astern! Poor Ruby trembled as the engine slammed into reverse, the propeller churning mud as we backed into the overgrown bank. It occurred to me at this moment that I had absolutely no idea how to steer. Do you point the tiller towards the bank or away, when in reverse? This is far more of a problem when people are watching. The crew of the other barge, who had so inconsiderately decided to put in an appearance, were enjoying themselves immensely, their pitying smiles only adding to the Niagara of sweat rolling down my neck. The crew of the Ruby, my wife Penny and daughters Clare and Jenny, had meanwhile disappeared below to escape embarrassment. All except George, our friends" 12-year-old son, who had come along for the ride. He remained standing at the pointy end, observing events with amused contempt. At moments like this, one wants to jump into the water, wade to the shore and squelch off to the nearest pub, swearing never again to fall for Jerome K Jerome's line that: "There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats." But that is not the British way, the Nelsonian way, the stupid dad way. From the Anglo Welsh marina at Tardebigge, between Bromsgrove and Redditch, our journey was to take us north to the junction with the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal and east through the southern outskirts of Birmingham to Lapworth, a distance of some 20 miles. Then back. Four days sounds like a lot for 40 miles, but canal miles are not road miles. Canals soak up time, what with the locks, swing bridges, enticing hostelries and the lubberly incompetence of yours truly. Locks in particular are good fun in small doses and a pain in the neck when you want to get somewhere in a hurry, hence the swift demise of the canals once George Stephenson got his act together. South of Tardebigge is a flight of 36 locks covering four miles, a rite of passage for narrowboat virgins. It was here that the founders of the Inland Waterways Association met just after the Second World War to discuss revitalising a network largely obsolete as a method of commercial transport and largely fallen into disrepair. Lapworth is a natural destination for the lazy, being the final point on the Stratford Canal before one is committed to descending another time-consuming stair. Twenty-five locks await those adventurous enough to travel on to the seat of the Bard. Our journey - with no locks and a few swing bridges - was a piece of cake. For the spatially aware, at least. Early disaster averted, we chugged on through the Worcestershire countryside, heading towards the Black Country. Slowly, barge life took on a rhythm of its own: cups of tea, toasted teacakes even, on the quieter, straighter stretches; barely controlled panic on the busier, bendy ones. Everyone was better at steering than the self-appointed skipper. George, of course, was annoyingly good. He, Clare and Jenny would pester for control, only to hand it back and disappear below at the first drop of rain. It rained a lot, and one grew used to the solitariness of command, Mrs T having decided that a canal holiday provided the perfect occasion for distraction-free light reading. But being alone at the tiller gradually evolved from chore to pleasure. Even at four miles an hour the landscape was subject to constant change, big skies and rolling fields giving way to posh and not-so-posh suburbia, and areas of ugly but interesting dereliction. Why, one wondered to the patter of rain on hood, were there so many discarded cans of Carling Black Label littering the sodden undergrowth, as opposed to some other brew? Thoughts, musings of no particular import, came and went. The world slid by to the accompaniment of Isuzu diesel: tethered, moss-covered motor cruisers never to cruise again, houseboats belching blue smoke from their wood-burners, hissing power lines, thunderous motorway bridges sprayed with graffiti, and then a sudden outbreak of ancient woodland, undisturbed but for ducks paddling beneath dripping, overhanging branches. Work on the Worcester and Birmingham started in 1794 and was not completed until 1815. Fearful that its water supply might drain into the River Severn via the Worcester and Birmingham, the rival Birmingham Canal Company initially refused to link up with the newcomer. Water loss was a serious concern for canal owners and the junction of the Worcester and Birmingham and Stratford canals at King's Norton is dominated by a rare guillotine stop lock, now disused, designed to control flow between the two. The Worcester and Birmingham boasts another memorable feature, the Wast Hill Tunnel. At 2,726 yards it should take about half an hour to negotiate, but the crew of the Ruby required a good deal longer. Pass through its arched entrance and you enter the underworld, a dank, claustrophobic place where light rapidly ceases to penetrate. It is easy to hit the sides and First Officer George was sent up to the bow to help steer the barge through the narrow confines, his instructions echoing eerily out of the darkness. Water dripping from the brickwork had formed stalactites, illuminated by the narrowboat's single headlight. The outside world seemed impossibly distant, the end a mere spot of light swimming in the black. One could not help but entertain dark thoughts about the consequences of falling into the water so far from help. The exit, when it came, was welcome. It took time to relax, but relax one did, eventually. There was something pleasant about being chilly and wet but within easy reach of warmth and comfort (Ruby, with a proper boiler on-board, was always a cosy boat). Standing for hours in the fresh, damp air made the food taste better and the bed feel softer. There was also the warmth of human relations: it would be unthinkable not to greet the crew of a passing boat or wish good day to a fisherman on the towpath. Metropolitan envy was reserved in particular for the hippy-ish houseboat dwellers, scruffy, smiling and horribly content. Then there were the narrowboats themselves, each one a reflection of its owner. Functional and cluttered for the alternative types; pristine and brightly painted for wealthy retirees. Sunset Nomadic, Calypso, John Thomas and Tempus Fugit, each one the product of a dream. The rebirth of the canals as highways for leisure is one of the quiet success stories of modern Britain, accomplished by volunteers who, over half a century, have been prepared to surrender evenings and weekends to rebuild collapsed banks and clear mud and junk from choked locks. The result is a network of waterways - canals and river navigations - more than 2,000 miles in length, home to 35,000 licensed craft and visited by 200,000 people a year. In addition it is thought that some 50,000 people make their home on the waterways, a subculture unnoticed by the rest of Britain, reflective of a quieter past. This being Tweedie Tours ("The pleasure's yours!"), the return journey from Lapworth could not be allowed to pass without incident, and your captain duly provided it. Foolishly trying to cover too much ground on the final evening of the cruise, we ending up stranded in the dark, the propeller snagged in reeds. It was a grim lesson, involving heated exchanges between members of the crew and lots of heaving with the boat's pole in front of a bemused group of teenagers standing on a nearby bridge. A brusque "What the hell are you looking at?" dispersed the onlookers before Ruby was finally freed. We moored up and headed to the pub for a restorative dinner. It was the next morning, as we prepared to disembark Ruby, that the younger crew members finally vented their dissatisfaction. "Not one lock," said Clare. But locks are hard work, aren't they? "We like locks," said Jenny. Note to self: more locks next time. Still, they seemed to have enjoyed the trip. Try as one might, it is impossible, given a few days, not to succumb to the pace of life on the water, not to shed at least a few of life's cares. Like it or not, on the canals, tempus doesn't fugit. Canal boat essentials The narrowboat Ruby is available through Anglo Welsh waterway holidays (anglowelsh.co.uk) and was booked through the Drifters consortium (0844 984 0322; drifters.co.uk), which offers over 500 boats from 35 locations across the UK. Hire of the six-berth boat costs from £580 for a weekend or mid-week break, or £830 for a week, rising to £1,145/£1,635 during summer school holidays. Reader offer Daily Telegraph readers booking a narrowboat holiday through Drifters (0844 984 0322; drifters.co.uk) by July 15 can claim a 15 per cent discount for selected 2012 departures: quote offer code DT2012rc