After yet another eight o'clock start, we've chugged steadily north to end up at Barlaston for the night, getting here at eleven; the shop even had an Independent left. I popped into the butcher's to get some chicken fillets, and succumbed to the temptation of peppered pork steaks for tonight.
On the way, we passed Hadar moored on the towpath opposite Roger Fuller's yard. I couldn't see any sign of Keith or Jo, but Jo's just left a comment on yesterday's blog, so they're presumably OK. Maybe we'll catch up with you soon?
This afternoon has been another pottering session, of which the main achievement was cleaning out the bottom shelf of the fridge, which was looking a bit manky.
Tomorrow, we gird our loins (however you do that) and work up through Stoke in what promises to be a rainstorm. It often is in Stoke, strange that.
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