Avast Behind

Almost three years ago in April,I was offered the chance to spend six
months in the UK on a narrowboat. Now, I'd seen photos, most of which
looked like something taken from the conning tower of a submarine.
You know, long flat steel deck disappearing into the distance. (The
photos turned out to be those of the roof of the 'All Right Now', not
the 'Red October'.) With very little hesitation, I said I'd love to
try six months alone on a narrowboat.

Having had to come over to the UK that May for other reasons, I
stopped for a visit with David and Lesley, the owners of the ARN.
David took me to see the canal there at the long straight that runs
through Sale. Since I'd been used to a very different style of
waterway the canal didn't look nearly big enough to me to be capable
of carrying a 55' boat. As there wasn't a single boat in sight, there
wasn't much for me to use as a yardstick to compare the width of the
canal to the size of the boats that normally were on it. Even so, we
agreed that I would come back in October and give it a six-month try
during the winter.

And, despite all the panic, cold, frustration, frozen mooring ropes,
culture shock and other variations on a theme of 'Innocents Abroad', I
not only managed to survive my experience of learning to boat
single-handed on the Bridgewater, but I managed to meet Mike. He'd
never been on a narrowboat before I met him. So, offering to take him
out for a simple Sunday cruise in late February should have been
simple. Erm... well...

We left Castlefield basin around 10am on the Sunday. Immediately the
wind kicked up enough that the downdraft through the stove sent ash
flying everywhere. The front doors also blew open and a stack of
carefully organised pages of a proposed book flew through the entire
boat. That was while we were still in Castlefield. It got better.
Or worse.

I'd decided on taking Mike for a nice trip up the Leigh branch to
Worsley, so he could experience the joys of the Barton swing bridge.
The Nicholson's guide book listed the hours for the bridge, we had
plenty of time to go to Worsley and back before it shut for the night.
Or would have, if it hadn't been winter. Now, for people who boat on
BW waters, the concept of winter closures and early hours isn't as
foreign as it is on the Bridgewater, where there are no locks and
little to maintain that requires notices of closure. Except, of
course, the swing bridge. The Nicholson's guide neglected to mention
the tiny fact that on Sundays the bridge closed at 4, not 7. Eeek!

Imagine my total and overwhelming embarrassment when we arrived back
at the swing bridge to find it shut for the night. Mike was very
casual about the whole thing, despite the fact that he was some
distance from his car and he had promised to meet some friends later
to listen to them play at a local pub. I denied strenuously that it
had been a ploy akin to running out of petrol on a date, stranding us
both in the middle of nowhere.

So, with it getting dark, we were hailed by the people at the boatyard
next to the bridge. After sorting out a taxi for Mike, I was helped
to moor up for the night among the boats in the boatyard for safety.
I settled in for a quiet evening, hoping the bridge would open in time
the next day for me to get back to Manchester in time for a train trip
I'd booked for my birthday.

The bridge opened at 11am. My ticket for the train was for 10. I
headed back to Castlefield, decided to give the trip up as a loss and
treated myself to a solo birthday lunch at the pub where I'd met Mike.
It took a bit of convincing the bar staff I'd not kidnapped Mike and
drowned him, since he didn't show up on Sunday evening. He arrived
after work with a birthday surprise for me, an egg custard tart for a
birthday cake.

The rest, as they say, is history.

-Su and Mike and CC