THE instructor's face had seen weather.  Bad weather. He taught us how to operate the boat and locks in the manner a grandfather tells a story to his grandchildren. After 20 minutes he left, taking his bicycle off the roof of the boat and cycling, slowly, back down the towpath towards Stoke Prior, his disappearance coinciding with the first of many popping corks. The boat was all ours.

The Stourport Ring, a 74-mile circular route taking in Bromsgrove, Worcester, Kidderminster, Dudley and Birmingham, has 105 locks on three canals and one river. Barring any crashes or a sinking, it would take us one week to complete.

Two hours later we were moored up, on the Worcester and Birmingham canal, outside the Eagle and Sun pub at Hanbury Wharf, near Droitwich. The beer was average, the food a bit less than average but, with our new-found freedom, we were on a high. There is simply nothing to match cruising on the inland waterways of England (speed limit 4mph).

The first morning set a precedent; sore head, big breakfast. Blessed with good weather we set off towards Worcester, our arrival coinciding with us running out of water. Toilet, tap and shower gurgled, coughed and spluttered and my memory recalled the instructor's injunction: "Fill the water tank daily from points marked on the map". It was time to go down the pub, again.

At Worcester the canal joins the River Severn through the 18ft deep Diglis locks. Our passage upstream was sublime. Cormorants perched on spindly branches as we cruised between banks of alder and willow, with only the occasional caravan park to spoil the view.

Our day river cruising ended at the pseudo Blackpool of the Black Country, Stourport-on-Severn. To moor up in the Upper Basin will make you think about selling your house and living on the water forever.

The next day we woke to the sound  of  the  clocktower's sonorous bell and the Staffordshire and Worcester canal beckoned. Our river days over, we set off north towards Stourton, outcrops of sandstone loomed above us, we were real people in a model village.

Lunch arrived at a forgettable pub near Kidderminster, and then an absolutely blissful cruise through Wolverley, Cookley and Kinver. Darkness came before Stourton did, maybe it was our leisurely pace or maybe we spent too much time in the pub. The night was spent, pleasantly, in the middle of nowhere.

At 7am we were up and off. It was going to be a long day. Fellow boatman Richard decided he would try his hand at steering, his manipulation of the throttle a lot less subtle than mine - it wouldn't be long before we hit the metropolis, Birmingham, or hit something at any rate. The scenery changed from fields to factories, hedges to houses, the canal, though, lost none of its grandeur, although it gained a bit more flotsam.

We made short work of The Stourbridge Sixteen, not a gang of imprisoned Black Country revolutionaries, but a flight of locks on the canal of the same name. Half way up the Red House Cone, a giant kiln preserved by Stuart Crystal as part of their glass-making visitor centre, reminds you of the canal's industrial heritage.

Although the urban sprawl was all around, the canal, with its green borders, keeps its tranquillity. It was around about Black Delph  junction that the tranquillity turned to eeriness. "I don't like it, it's too quiet," Richard half shouted from the front of the boat. There were signs of life; graffiti, old shopping trolleys, empty beer cans bobbing towards the canal side as the boat slipped past, but not a soul in sight, even the birds had disappeared. Was this our Heart of Darkness? No, it was worse... it was the Merry Hill Shopping Centre.

Zombies with bags from Bhs and M&S stuffed with trousers and blouses, wine racks and sling backs, watched goggle-eyed as we made our way through the murky water that cuts a curvy path through retail hell. The girls, busy down below; never even noticed. Now there's a bit of divine intervention for you.

The Netherton tunnel was an experience; it's a mile and a half long. I stared, entranced by the ever-in-creasing speck of light in the distance, trying to steer the boat in a straight line, the sound of the engine echoed from the dark damp walls, the shock as the occasional drop of water fell from the tunnel roof and exploded on my head. Travelling through the Netherton tunnel is such a weird sensation you expect to come out the other end on a different planet, but you don't, you come out in Oldbury, and Oldbury is as down to earth as you can get.

Birmingham is the centre of the inland waterways of England and the canals around here could tell a tale or two, unlike the new wine bars, bistros and restaurants that now surround them. The stories here are of property and prices, careers and croutons. Mind you, our boat might have been burgled if it wasn't for the high-tech, high-price CCTV security. You can't have everything can you?

We left the second city with second city-sized hangovers and were soon moored up outside the Cadbury's visitor centre. While the others visited, rod, reel and I stayed to look after the boat.

On through Bourneville, King's Norton, Hawkesley and Hopwood; this lock-less stretch of the Worcester and Birmingham Canal is a lazy, dreamy, whistling jaunt, which, for us, ended in Alvechurch. The night was spent trying to remember the night before.

A giant stood between us and the place this journey started. The Tardebigge flight, 36 locks along four miles, raising the canal over 200 feet. Luckily we were going down, not up, and there's a pub at the start and at the finish, not to mention the Queen's Head in the middle. Back at Stoke Prior we stepped from our boat and onto the tow- path for the last time, our conversation bouncing around where and when our next narrowboat holiday would be.