Avast Behind

I have been reading up on the topic, since it seems to be a catch-all proposition for people who want to approach mooring fees, mooring rights and privileges and boating in general from a very different and not necessarily viable or acceptable way as the mainstream of boating would view it.

Once I've done some more research, I plan to put the story here on the blog. Warts, organic or not, and all. Comments welcome or offers of links to anywhere that says what they are, why BW has any and why they don't apply the approach evenly to all boaters who pay license fees.

It's one of the enjoyable things about being on a boat. I normally keep the side hatch open looking out on the canal. If boats are passing at a decently slow rate it's always possible to have a bit of a chat with the people aboard. I always ask if the people on hireboats have enjoyed their trip. It's not just polite conversation, I really do want to know what they think of the canal that I think is so wonderful. Mostly the responses are positive, but general. If there's time I try to find out something they liked and reinforce it and the joys of boating. Very few people have strong dislikes of the Rochdale, the general comments on the negative side always have to do with the difficulty of the lock gear and the gates being immovable.

Today one of the boat crew from a Shire Cruiser that was passing at a lovely, slow tickover... sorry, I digress... the lock crew on the towpath passed by looking happy at the lack of rain. One gentleman was intrigued by the 'Manchester - Milwaukee' lettering on the stern cabin side. Once he heard me ask if he'd enjoyed the trip it became obvious that I was the Milwaukee contingent. He asked how I got to the UK, I untied the albatross from my neck and settled in for a quick chat. Once he'd regained full consciousness, we had a chat about the canal. The concensus was that the Rochdale was a challenging but exhilarating trip, worth the effort and supplied with sufficient pubs to make the trip even better. As the boat and rest of the crew had disappeared, I gave him the recommendation of a good pub in Hebden Bridge and released him from conversational durance. He said he planned on a future canal trip at which I recommended the Shroppie. Hopefully the crew will find it as worthwhile as the Rochdale was, although they won't find it any more beautiful.

I've been using ULead's graphics program to redo the pictures on the website, including changing from .jpg to the smaller and quicker .gif format. It takes a while when you're self-taught, some would say by an idiot but what do they know? Eventually I'll have the trip reports written up from the notes scribbled on the calendars kept tucked away in wherever I can find to keep them. Boats don't have copious amounts of space or basements. Or attics.

The URL for the website is:

http://www.cutworks1xs.btinternet.co.uk/index.htm

I've updated the 'Trip Report' album on the TypePad album site. It takes a while to put dates and captions on the photos so be patient. Eventually they'll be finished.

A quick link to the album:

http://avastbehind.typepad.com/photos/trip_reports/

When the wind really decides to make its presence felt in the Calderdale, it's not hard to understand why the Bronte girls went in for such things as 'wuthering' for a descriptive phrase. I should not have so little faith in the ropes that we use to tie to the rings on the quayside, they're probably stout enough to anchor an oil tanker on the Aire, but when the wind really kicks up and the boat begins that dance that ends abruptly as it hits the end of the slack on the bow or stern ropes I always wonder just what the tensile strength of our ropes is. It's this time of year I feel more confident with the centre rope also tied to the quayside rings, just for a bit of extra security.

Several years ago, when I was boating single-handed on the 'All Right Now' the February storms were particularly violent. I'd moored up for the night along the stretch of the T&M above Acton Bridge with a great view of the Weaver. The next morning, while it was still dark the storm hit and hit with enough strength to pull out the pin at the bow in no time flat. I was woken by the clang of the pin hitting the side of the boat. I tried to jump out of bed, the timing was less than perfect as I was thrown back against the wall again as the bow of the boat swung across the canal and wedged itself on the far bank. I was more fortunate than some other boats that had been completely torn from their moorings. When it was light enough, several people from neighboring boats tried to help pull the ARN back to the towpath side with no luck. The BW lengthsman showed up not long after as they were bringing a BW tug down shortly. I had to wait until it arrived, with the boat wedged across the canal with the cross-ways wind and white-capped waves banging against the hull. I was in the kitchen making a brew when the BW tug appeared almost as if from thin air, stopping not much short of the side of the boat. Even with the tug and several people on ropes it took a bit of work to get the boat pulled back to the towpath side and moored up again. This time we put in extra-long pins loaned by another boat, to be sure that the wind wouldn't pull the pins free while the wind was still causing so much trouble.

It's a luxury having a quayside with solidly set-in mooring rings but I think I'll get Mike to put the centre rope on just in case. If we got wedged across the canal here, it's not the wind or waves that I would worry about, it's the boats coming around the corner at a rate of knots that would cause the biggest problem. Not, of course, that anyone ever passes us too quickly.

Several boats have passed by today, two of them hireboats climbing towards the summit. They will probably be returning tomorrow as it's usual for the boats that have to be back in Sowerby Bridge on a Saturday to not go much past Walsden before making the turn for the downward trip. Wednesday sees a regular parade of boats going up, Thursday sees them heading back towards Hebden Bridge.

A surprise today, though. The first Claymoore Navigations boat we've seen in ages. Their bright yellow livery is unmistakeable, as are the bridge bars welded to the bow. It's good to see so many boats coming past, even if at speed, simply because the more boats that use the Rochdale canal the better. The locks will be kept working and the maintenance will seem more necessary as more boaters travel up this 'Everest of canals'. A rather bedraggled crew on a Shepley Bridge boat 'Imogen' wanted to stop to have a pump-out. Unfortunate for them as the nearest facilities are still a few miles and six locks away. I opened the side hatch, feeling like the bird in a cuckoo clock, as they inched past to confirm their fears that this was nota full-service marina. Ah well, I'm sure that they will find the help they require, or else learn to tie up for the night near a pub so that their loos get the majority of their patronage.

It's cold, rainy and windy today, I wouldn't be out boating unless I had to. Fortunately I don't. It's a luxury, I know, living on a boat, you don't feel impelled to travel unless you really want to. And in foul weather, I certainly don't want to.

I came across this link. I'm not sure how a privately owned boat on 'Agenda 21' moorings can be put out for rent, but I'm sure there's a good explanation.

Or not. It's funny, I read the blog of the guy who put the page up, he's pretty down on automobiles who create global warming, but seems very much ok with the diesel engine on the boat, the gas cylinders for the cooking and heating and the coal and wood for the fire.

Ah well.

http://www.gilestv.com/boat.html

I'm working on a new site for the blog, with a photo album. The new URL for the site is:

http://avastbehind.typepad.com
http://avastbehind.typepad.com/photos/trip_reports/

This blog will stay open, until I decide what to do with the new one. The trip reports will be up on the other site too.

Sorry for the delay in posting this but the weather has been so nice and now
we're rather more tan than we were last week.

Where were we?

Once we'd survived the horrendous Good Friday morning sleet-storm, the rest
of the day proved to be quiet. Travelling along the canal below the Chester
city walls has much the same feel as being in a moat rather than a canal.
The walls have a feeling of solidity and overwhelming permanence, when you
look up at the heights it's not difficult to imagine lines of soldiers
standing there watching for invaders. The guidebooks say that Charles I
watched a battle from the city walls, apparently he was the first Royal
gongoozzler.

We'd heard so many horror stories about the Chester staircase locks at
Northgate, we weren't too eager to get there and lock down alone.
Fortunately a boat that had been in view occasionally along the stretch
caught up with us before then, and with the help of 'Chief' and her crew,
including three extremely helpful teenaged boys, locking down was a breeze.
Since we'd arrived at the staircase before them, we'd set the two lower
chambers. Once 'Chief' arrived, it was a simple case of just taking our
lock-full of water downhill with us as we went. It's amazing how much
simpler it is when there is another boat and extra helping hands. The view
from the top of the staircase is spectacular, the countryside drops away
into the distances, not something you see every day on a canal. It's an odd
sensation to take a boat down those locks, somehow they seem higher than
their 30-odd foot rise, it's much like being poised at the top of one of
those log-flume rides, fortunately we didn't have to slide down the lock in
one go, with our hands in the air. I'd certainly have been screaming as we
hit the bottom.

Some of the boats that were heading for Ellesmere were moored up in the
Chester basin overnight, across from the visitor moorings. They set off
early in the morning, the sounds of those wonderful engines adding to the
ambience of the basin and whetting our appetite for more. We did a bit of
shopping for provisions and then, after another fortifying meal of bacon
butties, we headed off down the canal an hour or so later.

The canal from Chester to Ellesmere is full of contrasts, it narrows, it
winds along in parts, it passes the Zoo and military training grounds. It
also has some lovely stretches bordered with reeds where we did mighty
battle with a weed-raft that must have been 40 feet long and 3 feet wide.
It almost won, but our trusty barge pole did good work for us that day. Of
course, once we got the weeds pushed aside, we ran aground on the silted up
edge of the canal. The barge pole took a lunch break after that, as we
managed the remainder of the trip without mishap.

Once we were close to the entrance to the upper basin of the museum, we
could see roadsigns on the highway directing traffic there. It's infinitely
more wonderful to come to Ellesmere by boat, following in the wake of the
old boats who gather there every Easter. Once we passed under the last
bridge and entered the basin, all the cold and tiredness vanished as we made
our way along between the antique boats clustered along the sides. It was
extremely windy as we headed for the lock down into the lower basin, as Mike
got the bow as close to the entrance as possible, I clambered ungracefully
onto the stone edging of the central island. Barely. We got the 'All Right
Now' into the upper lock and took a breather as we surveyed the mooring
situation. The lower basin was full, but a quick chat with some of the
boaters got us an invitation to tie up to one of the boats moored facing the
'Cuddington'. The problem now was going to be how we'd get our boat out of
the bottom lock and into the mooring without being blown across the basin.
The wind, naturally, was blowing in the worst direction. With a bit of
trepidation and a lot of panache, Mike got the 'ARN' out of the bottom lock,
around the curve into the wind and between the moored boats without hitting
anything.

And there we were. Ellesmere Port and the Boat Museum. It was, as
Shakespeare once said:

Oh wonderful, wonderful and most wonderful, wonderful! and yet again
wonderful, and after that out of all hooping.

Go to Ellesmere Port yourself, and see.

-Su (and Mike)

(author's note: while trying to spell using UK conventions, on occasion I
still miss a few. Mike says there's a few in there, ignore them if you
can.)

After having planned this trip for a year, it seemed hard to believe that we
would finally be making the journey from Manchester to London via
narrowboat. Even though we'd just recently bought our own boat, the
'Mandarin' soon to be renamed 'Cu£tural Confu$usion', we were not going to
take her with us. The owners of the 'All Right Now' had been so generous to
us for the last year and a half that when they asked if we minded taking the
ARN for the shared trip instead of CC, we were happy to do so.

And so,with the prospect of six weeks in a child-free zone of boats and
locks, we set out from work on Friday, merrily zooming along on the way to
the marina. Well, perhaps zooming is a bit of an exaggeration, as one of
the tyres on the car decided to give up the ghost somewhere near Sale. A
short time later and a few somewhat half-hearted laughs at the timing, we
were driving past Claymoore's hireboat base in Preston Brook, and meandering
along the last stretch of road to the marina.

Although we'd hoped to just leap aboard the ARN and head off into the
Cheshire sunshine, the weekend was going to be more of a convoy as we took
both CC and the ARN up to Sale, where we would moor near the Sale Rowing
club's headquarters, a short walk from the home of David and Lesley, the
ARN's owners. It was their 25th wedding anniversary that weekend, and a
large two-day party complete with boat rides was planned. Of course, it
rained. Saturday and Sunday. No matter, we ate far too much at the party,
showed some friends around CC, gave boat rides to the intrepid and planned
last-minute trip details with Lesley.

Sunday afternoon, we left the two-day party still in full swing, untied both
boats and chugged off along the Bridgewater in a small and rain-drenched
procession. We have a lot of love for the Bridgewater, it's where our boat
is licensed and where we spend a lot of time cruising on weekends. Most of
the boats are more familiar to us than the people who own them, as we make
our way along the canal it's common for us to note who is gone on a cruise,
who has had work done or paintwork. After all, they're our neighbours more
than anything else, in the waterway village.

Passing under Broadheath Bridge, we noticed that the large lights have been
refurbished and replaced on the bridge. Past it and once under Seamon's
Moss Bridge, we leave the industrial part of the canal behind, the change is
startling from one side of the bridge to the other. The weather wasn't
exactly wonderful, but we put our heads down and kept chugging along,
through the Bollin Aqueduct and Dunham Massey Hall. Just ahead, there was
room for mooring at the Old No. 3, Mike is on CC, while I follow behind on
ARN. The wind isn't too bad, and the weather looks worse by the minute, so
while Mike brings CC to a halt I wait till he gets the pins in before
bringing the ARN beside her. It's an odd experience to have two boats to
breast up, but with the limited mooring there we wanted to use only one
boat-length if possible. We close everything up and head for the pub, where
we spend some time warming up with pints of bitter and a meal. On the wall
behind our table is an original chart of distances and shipping times for
all the old commercial wharves along the Bridgewater Canal, dating from
sometime in the mid-1800s. We spend some time contemplating names of
commercial landings now non-existent or transformed into such places as
Thorn Marine or Claymoore.

Since we'd agreed on an early start on Monday morning, when Wallace and
Gromit started to chide us for being lazy at 7am, we had a quick breakfast
and headed out into stiff winds and rain. Passing Lymm, Thelwall and the
sharp turn at Grappenhall, we began to finally feel that we were starting
our holiday. We stopped in for a few minutes at Thorn Marine, picked up a
few essentials and then moved on.

We had till the following Sunday to get the boat as far down towards London
as we could. Our plans were tentatively to get down towards Leamington, but
if the weather was going to be nasty all week, we thought we might end in
Birmingham and call it enough. Passing Daresbury and the high-tech
high-security research facility that has a nice lawn going all the way down
to the canal edge, the wind started to become worse and the rain made
driving something less than pleasant. Making the turn into the Runcorn arm
and then into Preston Brook marina wasn't going to be fun. We managed it,
Mike going in first with CC, taking her to her mooring halfway across the
marina as I brought the ARN into her mooring just inside the marina
entrance. I managed it with the same panache usually seen by ducks landing
on ice. Once I brought the ARN into the slot and coaxed her near the pier,
disaster struck, almost. With the centre rope firmly in hand, I stepped
from the stern onto the wooden pier, and slid across on one knee and a
shoulder. The only thing that kept me from going into the water was having
wedged myself halfway off the edge between the boat moored opposite and the
wooden edge of the pier. It seemed to take forever to get free and not go
all the way into the water, and eventually I got up, tied the ARN securely,
before sitting in the bow shaking and crying. Mike found me there a minute
or two later after he'd finished making CC ready to be left for the summer.

An unnerving start to the holiday, but probably the worst thing that would
happen during the whole six weeks. We had a cup of tea, I got my composure
back, and then we headed out of the marina and down the canal. A stop at
Claymoore's for diesel and then off through Preston Brook tunnel, one of our
favourite moments as it signals the start of travel away from the familiar.

Since it was later in the day than we'd planned and the weather was not
improving, we decided to moor up for the night in the last stretch of woods
before the Saltersford Tunnel. This stretch of the T&M is simply lovely,
the views down to the Weaver valley are beautiful at any time of year,
especially on a frosty autumn morning with the mist from the river filling
the valley below. After a quiet night, we woke to reasonable weather and no
interference from Wallace and Gromit, who had been left behind on CC, we
braced ourselves for the tunnels, narrow and low and not exactly friendly.
Having made an early start, we made it to the last bridge before the
Anderton Lift in no time at all, only to have a surprise as the bridge was
hidden by a massive tree that had come down the night before in the storms.
There were several boats on the opposite side of the bridge also stopped by
the obstruction. To give the BW work crew their due, which they certainly
deserve, as soon as they were notified of the blockage they were out and
working on clearing the tree. While we waited, we chatted with several
other boaters, including one who had worked for BW a number of years ago.
One of the other boaters had also worked on the canal, we spent a fascinated
half-hour listening to them compare notes about their past.

Three hours later, the bridge was cleared again, and boats started to make
their way along the canal again, in weather that was by turns sunny and
rainy. Marbury Park was beautiful as usual, but the bottleneck at Wincham
Wharf caused by a large number of boats for sale, breasted up as many as
three wide in what is a narrow place at best. Complicating matters was a
boat sunk at a mooring on the towpath side directly opposite a number of
sale boats. There was room for a single boat to pass, two might just squeak
by. I wonder at what kind of mooring arrangements allow for this, creating
a situation that makes passage less than simple for regular boaters. Once
past Wincham, and through the clanging mess of ICI, we had a nice, easy
cruise up to Big Lock, through the Middlewich locks and then the turn into
the Middlewich branch. We decided to spend the night at one of the most
interesting places along that stretch, the Weaver Aqueduct near Church
Minshull. As we approached the aqueduct, we encountered a group of rather
intrepid boaters, with portable sun-shades set up and a grill smoking away
for a barbecue, all in the rain. The intriguing thing was that they were
all from the Lancaster Canal, and had come down in a group for a trip from
the Rufford Branch to Llangollen and back. We moored near them in our usual
place, right over the Weaver. It's such a strange sensation to be floating
in a canal over a deep valley with a river running through it and under the
canal. The section of the canal is subject to irregular surges of water,
presumably from Minshull Lock. The surges are quite visible in the stretch
of the canal just past the narrowed spot between the lock and aqueduct.

We woke early again, and headed for Minshull lock, the canal seemed quiet
when we started out but by the time we reached the lock there was a line of
boats behind us, a collection of hireboats and the Lancaster boats. Not
much traffic was coming down, waiting at the lock for our turn gave us a
chance to talk to the Lancaster group. We found out that not all of them
crossed the Ribble, one of them had their boat winched out, and hauled over
to the Rufford. Mike wants to travel on the Lancaster but is not sure about
the safety of a narrowboat on the Ribble, so we may end up taking CC across
that way instead, when we plan a trip there.

On through the last two locks and off to Barbridge Junction, where, as we
approached slowly, behind a rather long hireboat a lady on the bridge over
the junction was heavily involved in giving a round of tongue sandwich to
someone she felt had 'barged in and made the turn before her boat;'. It was
a bit of a mess with the hireboat we were following wanting to exit the
junction, the lady's
hireboat at the edge of the turn (moored up of all things) and several boats
behind us all waiting for the hubbub to die down. Once the boat ahead of us
cleared the turn, we saw the boat of the hapless 'bargee' come around. We
gave a short beep on the horn to let him know there were boats waiting, and
got a bit of a lecture from the lady on the bridge about our use of horns.
I informed her that we preferred to let other boats know of our presence in
a blind turn, and once she untied her boat and made it through the turn too,
we'd be happy to proceed along with the boats behind.

Boating is so good for reducing stress, I don't know why more people don't
take it up.

Once the logjam at the junction had cleared, Mike made a perfect turn
without having to back up or stop (it always feels good when you can do that
just right, doesn't it?) and we headed for Nantwich, where I was about to
spend a rather odd and exhausting hour in several different phone booths
trying to phone my daughter in Indiana and wish her a happy 24th birthday.
I called Indiana, New Orleans, New York and Milwaukee before finally
tracking her down at my sister's. It was only 7am there, so her birthday
wishes were a bit early, but at least I found her..... finally. Once that
was settled, and we stopped in at Chatwin's bakery for some sustenance
(recommendation in Pearson's guide noted and approved of) we took advantage
of the reasonable sunshine to set the Shroppie Fly as our target for the
evening. It turned out to be a good idea, as the stretch between Hack Green
and the bottom lock of the Audlem flight was about as inviting and warm as
the Canadian tundra on a bad day. It was so cold and windy that at one
point Mike was sure it was going to snow. We found a mooring between Locks
14 and 13, tied up for the night and headed for the Shroppie Fly for a meal
and a few pints.

The next day we started out..... yup, early, after filling up with water at
the point outside the 'Fly'. Some of the Audlem Locks leak a bit, but none
of them really presented much of a problem, and eventually we emerged at the
top of the flight, none the worse for the wear. The five Adderly Locks were
a bit worse, they seemed to be leaking quite a bit, and at Lock 4, a boat
emerged and headed for lock 5, whose gate we'd left open for them. Imagine
my surprise that before I could walk from 5 to 4 I saw the lock gates he'd
nicely left open for us begin to close and the sound of
paddles being raised. I admit that I was fairly displeased as when I
appeared from under the bridge and called that there was a boat coming up, I
was ignored and the person began to open the second paddle. It turned out
that the person operating the lock was a beginner, the man who was on the
boat came down and apologised for the error, saying he was showing them how
to handle a boat and would make it clear that checking for boats coming up
was part of the routine. It's amazing how much difference it makes when
someone takes the time to explain, everyone has to learn sometime and is
entitled to a mistake. Once they were clear, we locked up and continued on
our way, through the Tyrley Locks which are hard to work and hard to get to,
as the towpath always seems like a morass and underwater projections make it
hard to get a boat to the side. Once we were clear of them, the rest of the
day was full of some wonderful and varied terrain, from Woodseaves and Grub
Street cuttings, along the Shelmore Embankment, through Wheaton Aston
(diesel 12.9p per litre, shame we didn't stop there) and on to Brewood, the
last place we think is safe to reasonably moor for the night before tackling
Wolverhampton in the morning.

And on, to the junction that Mike fondly refers to as the 'handbrake turn'
after his performance last year when Aldersley Junction came up on us rather
sooner than we expected. This time we were expecting it and made the turn
in nicely past a boat just leaving the bottom lock.

Unfortunately, Wolverhampton tackled me, I think. Normally, I am careful to
use my windlass at arm's length when possible, I always leave the ratchet
lock on when winding a paddle up, but for once when I began to wind a paddle
up, the ratchet slipped and the next thing I knew the lock handle had pulled
free from my hands and whirred back, missing my jaw by little and coming up
with one very nasty whack on my forearm. The bruise lasted for weeks and
gave me an even more healthy respect for those bits of metal. We met enough
boats going the other way down the flight to make it a reasonable trip,
although one woman who wanted to open the top gate paddles before Mike gave
me the nod was told very firmly that I appreciated her help, but only on the
terms on which we do every lock. I don't open a paddle till I am signalled
to do so. Nor do I open a paddle for another boat until I ask them if it's
all right. She thought we were a bit ..... cautious, but better safe than
sorry is our attitude. And so, once we reached the summit of the flight we
decided to take the old Brindley level as we both felt it was quieter and
less prone to attack from overhead bricks and rocks.

At Factory Junction we turned into the Brindley canal, passing the entrance
to the Black Country Museum (we stopped there last year for a wonderful
visit and trip on the electric boat through the tunnel, well worth the visit
if you have not yet been there) and on along past junctions, abandoned
entrances to old arms or loading bays, and past Spon Lane Junction where it
seems you have far too many choices of where to go. Last year, on our first
trip through, we were completely confused, this year I spent most of my time
memorising our Pearson's, and trying to navigate through all the various
alternatives without getting us utterly lost and ending up in Stratford.
Locking down through Smethwick Locks this time was far easier than locking
up through them last summer, when we were grounded in two of the pounds and
had quite a lot of work getting free of the muck. We made it down through
the three locks in good time, and were feeling very pleased with ourselves
until we approached a bridge that was fairly high up. Such bridges always
make me nervous, and we watch them carefully. Unfortunately, not carefully
enough as two fairly young boys chucked some sizeable pieces of rock at us,
one of them barely missing me and banging against the side of the boat near
my feet, hitting hard enough that the water splashing up was high enough to
get my head wet. As the bridge was quite high and no towpath led up, they
knew they were safe from any sort of response. It's an unfortunate facet of
boating, but what can you do other than be as alert as possible?

Fortunately, Gas Street Basin was not far away, and although it was only
Friday and we'd be on the boat till Sunday, we decided to moor up near the
'Fiddle and Bone', treat ourselves to a meal and a few pints of Theakston's,
and call it a day. Saturday was spent touring the area on foot, including
the museum and art gallery (well worth it for their collection of
pre-Raphaelite paintings). On Sunday, we turned the boat over to David and
Lesley for their two week stint on it that would end up in Lime Street
Basin.

We headed back to Preston Brook and took CC out for a conciliatory trip for
a week, back to the Middlewich branch, where we passed the boat at Wincham
Wharf, still sunk and no sign of anything being done. Otherwise, we had
wonderful weather and a few days out, just relaxing along the T&M.

Next (oh God, there's more?) London-Manchester, via the Ashby Canal

Well, considering that the Saturday weather in Manchester was
absolutely pathetic, Sunday turned out to be lovely. Sunny, cold and
crisp, perfect weather for an afternoon out on the cut.

We left Castlefield around 9:30, not sure when we got to Water's
Meeting if we'd turn down towards the Old No. 3 for a Sunday lunch or
up towards Worsley. The decision was made for us when we couldn't get
near the facilites at Egerton boats to empty the toilet cassette,
which meant a trip to Worsley as the next nearest Elsan site. Not
really a problem, that, since it's always great fun going over the
Barton swing-bridge.

Travelling along the canal from Manchester is always interesting, we
passed the site of the new MetroLink extension, it still makes us
curious as to how they're going to negotiate the right-angle turn
across the Ship Canal at anything other than a dead-slow speed.
Having travelled often on the MetroLink, dead-slow doesn't seem to be
a specialty of theirs, so we plan to take a cruise along that stretch
when they open it just to see what happens.

Looking down on the Ship Canal from the Bridgewater is always
enjoyable, particularly when it's windy. The waves on the Ship Canal
always make me glad that we're not down there in a narrowboat, it
looks as if we'd be swamped in no time. On Sunday, however, both
canals were calm and the Bridgewater was clear as glass. Not that
it's necessarily a Good Thing, as it makes the bottom of the canal and
the massive amounts of rubbish visible. It also makes the huge shoals
of fish visible. I'm always amazed at the variety of fish visible
around the canal from just above Waters Meeting around the turn up to
Worsley. In just a short time we saw several large pike, a number of
immense carp and some schools of roach. I enjoy standing on the step
rail on the side of the boat, my feet only inches above the water as
we cruise along watching the fish.

The stretch from Waters Meeting to Worsley was heavily tinged with the
orange runoff from the mines. Most of the time the water is quite
clear here but there must have been considerable movement of water
down from the L&L towards the Bridgewater to draw the orange water
this far down canal. We passed the back edge of the Trafford Centre,
the domes are clearly visible from the canal but not surprisingly,
there's no provisions for moorings and access to the parking lot from
the canal. Typical.

I always enjoy going over the swing bridge, it seems so unintimidating
now, far different from the first time I crossed it while still
boating single-handed. I have a fear of heights, but after working
hundreds of locks and crossing the Pontcysyllte (I keep a map on the
wall for spelling canal sites, btw) aqueduct, not much else can seem
very overwhelming. As usual, the boatyard past the swing bridge was
full of old boats, any of which I'd happily own if I could have the
pleasure of a private marina full of all the boats I've seen and
wanted over the past two years. Most of the boats in the Worsley
Cruising Club seemed to be closed up for the winter, but several
people were out, readying their boats for a Sunday cruise. It's nice
to see people who boat year-round, Mike and I find that we prefer
winter boating in many ways, it's so lovely and un-crowded but we
dislike seeing no-one else out at all.

The water gets very orange and murky as we approach Worsley, even the
birds carry a rusty tinge including the swans. It's impossible to see
fish in the water, so I usually sit up in the bow and just watch the
world go by until we reach Worsley itself. This trip, with our nice
diesel stove running at low setting, the boat was wonderfully warm
whenever I went inside. It's one of the real pleasures of
cold-weather boating, that heat when you open the doors and step
inside. I could get spoiled like this.

At Worsley, we tied up near the footbridge, with a great view of
Queen Victoria's Boathouse (not, as I would call it.. 'Our Vicky's
Shed'). Instead of a pub lunch, we decided to have something simple,
so it was bacon sandwiches and tea, and a quiet half-hour just
enjoying the scenery and watching the other boats passing by.

Once we'd taken care of the necessities, it was time to consider a
return past the swing bridge before we got stuck on the wrong side of
the canal by the early closing hours for winter cruising. Despite
what Mike claims, the first time I took him out for a cruise on the
canal, we didn't get stuck on the wrong side of the swing bridge on
purpose. Just because he had to get a taxi back into Manchester to
get his car and go home means nothing, I tell you!

The cruise back was as quiet and lovely as the trip out. We passed
the trip boat on its way out with a good number of passengers. It's a
wonderful old boat, the 'Bridgewater Packet Boat' trip boat, with a
massive bow that always looks far wider than a narrowboat should,
especially when it's coming towards you. However, Eamon drives it
with amazing skill. We've watched him negotiate the Castlefield basin
when it's been full of
boats, never even coming close to any of the moored boats, no matter
if he's reversing out or coming back from a trip.

We tied up again in Castlefield, we're leaving there in a day or so,
our visit up to the city over for a while. We love being in the
Castlefield basin though, it's convenient for so many things including
visiting a lot of our friends. Mike and I met at the White Lion, a
pub just up Liverpool Road from the basin, and we spend a lot of time
there with friends. Next week we're off to the wilds of the
Middlewich branch to just enjoy some peace and quiet for a week during
half-term. After that, who can say?

One last note: we're asked very often, since we're a Bridgewater boat
and spend a lot of time in Manchester, if it's dangerous to moor
there. It's a shame that most of the information that people have
about the area comes from outdated sources like the older Nicholson's
guides. Manchester isn't dangerous for boaters. Moorings in
Castlefield are wonderful and quite safe. It does matter where you
moor, of course, since there are a number of night-club style places
built around the basin. In two years of visits there the only problem
with people we've ever had have been from some rather inebriated kids
on their way back to the Youth Hostel. Apparently the boats in the
basin are viewed by many people as some sort of 'window dressing'.
They don't realise, until you point it out at 3am when they've just
finished playing around with your bow-thruster switches, that the boat
is occupied and not a toy.

We've been to Birmingham and London by boat, and in our opinion the
moorings in Manchester compare very well with either of the other two
cities.

-Su and Mike and CC

Part 1

Since I've always, ever since I can recall, been in love with history,
being able to travel the waterways here has been an experience that I
cherish. Being one of those eccentrics who not only enjoy history but
also believe in certain things like the innocence of Richard III, the
chance to travel to see the site of the battle of Bosworth was too
tempting to pass up.

When you're out on the cut, you move to a different pace completely.
Gone are the double-digit speed limits, the pressures of high speed
living and the race to go nowhere. Instead, there is the chance to
hear birds singing, to watch the weather change around you and to
enjoy life at the same gentle pace as people have for most of our
history but the last hundred years. And so it was that I came to
Bosworth at the same pace as many of the participants some 500+ years
ago. Walking pace, seeing the trees as they would, travelling the
same countryside through remote and fairly untouched areas.

We reached Marston Junction and the beginning of the Ashby canal in
the afternoon, the weather wasn't the best but after some of the
downpours we've been through recently, it was more than acceptable.
Just ahead of us, making the turn onto the Ashby in a series of
sideways motions was a hireboat from Ashby Narrowboats. We were
extremely impressed with their technique, which employed three young
men, a barge pole and a startling display of boat-to-shore pole
vaulting. Perhaps this will be a new Olympic sport next time the UK
hosts the summer Olympics. Once they were safely through the bridge
and a decent distance down the canal, we followed in our turn.

The Ashby is as close as we've yet come to boating on a river or other
natural waterway. The towpath in many places is non-existent or not
reachable due to the amount of dredging work that needs doing. Our
goal for the night was to stop at the Lime Kilns and have a decent
meal and a few pints, but the moorings were full. We pressed on,
although it was getting darker than we liked for travelling an
unfamiliar stretch of water and eventually, after a number of attempts
to reach the bank and moor without canting the 'All Right Now' more
than necessary on the silted bottom, we tied up for the night
somewhere past Hinckley. Not the most encouraging place to stop, but
quiet enough to pass the night without any sort of disturbance. After
a hurried meal of fishlips and chihuahua-burgers, we settled in for
some sleep, hoping to not hear anything going 'thump' outside the
boat.

The next morning, with the sun up, the weather moderate and no rain in
sight, we set our sights on finding a mooring for the day somewhere
near one of the two access points to the Bosworth Battlefield site. I
let Mike do all the driving, as I wanted to be up in the front, to
spend the time watching the countryside change as we slowly approached
Sutton Cheyney. The canalside sign enticing us to stop at the 'Dog
and Hedgehog' didn't have any effect, I was insistent that we move on
and assure ourselves of a mooring. They seem to be thin on the ground
along the Ashby for visitors, and having seen the state of the towpath
we weren't sure we'd find anything suitable or available. The scenery
was worth the trip, the sun managed to find its way through the clouds
for the most part. It was almost too picturesque, exactly what I had
hoped for. Cws grazed at the canalside, church towers stood against
the skyline, birds sang, fish jumped, plastic bags made their merry
way around our propeller. In short, the typical day in the country.
We reached Sutton Cheyney Wharf just before a monumental rainstorm,
fortunately there was only one boat moored at the visitor moorings,
allowing us plenty of room and (luxury of luxuries) enough mooring
rings that we were able to get the ARN tied up and get back inside to
have a cuppa while the rain rained down. As it does.

Well then, there I was, history junkie, Ricardian, all set to explore
the Battlefield. Once it stopped raining. If it ever would.

At that point, however, even rain, and more rain, could not dismay
someone who had waited far more than a few years to have the chance to
see an historic site that had been no more than a few words on paper.

Bosworth...
Richard and White Surrey...
Henry Tudor (ptui)...

It was August 21 when we reached Sutton Cheyney. The next day would
be the anniversary of the battle. Would I feel anything as I walked
that field?

I wanted to find out.

Part 2

Well, then.

It's always fascinating to me how much history you can find in one
small place, most of it living side-by-side without ever really
touching. I wondered, during the trip up the Ashby how many of the
working boats ever passed the side of the battle with knowledge of
what had happened there. Were they aware of Richard and his desperate
fight, or were their minds purely on the main job, that of finding
more Measham pottery.

For me, the normal interests in the history of the canal were
certainly overcome by my interest in seeing the battlefield. So, once
the weather had settled and the rain had stopped, Mike and I prepared
ourselves for a walk through Ambion Wood to the Battlefield Centre.
The woods are shady and full of whispers. This is the second major
Yorkist battlefield I've seen, the first was Towton in Yorkshire, a
high hill with nothing to break the view of the battlefield known as
Bloody Meadow. Bosworth is different, the approach is a path through
a woods that fills the swamp of Richard's time. Once through those
woods, the Battlefield Centre sits a little below the crest of the
hill. And there, on the top, just coming into view is the standard of
the White Boar. It snaps and rustles in the wind, marking the place
where Richard and his army stood to look down on the approaching Tudor
army. Once you reach the hillside you can see all the countryside
below, with two more standards to mark where Henry Tudor waited and
where the Stanleys cringed.

It's not necessary to have history dressed up and so carefully
presented with knights in tin armour and hundreds of 'Od's Blood!'s'
echoing around for the tourists. If you want that, Warwick Castle is
for you, or perhaps even Euro-Disney. If you want history to be
something felt clear through the soles of your feet, then it's places
like Bosworth you need. Mike felt is as strongly as I did, nothing in
the world could have been more evocative or stirring than standing
there on a high hill in the wind, hearing the banners thundering as
they flew. It was the day before the anniversary of the battle. Back
in the parking lot of the Centre, groups of people arriving to put on
a display of pageantry for the next day were unloading medieval
pavilions from VW camper-vans. I'd done that sort of thing, it wasn't
what I wanted to see or feel. Fifty men with pikes and bows making do
for the hundreds that fought there wasn't what I came to Bosworth for.

We walked the entire trail around, well-maintained and unobtrusive
markers described various phases of the battle. We were permitted the
luxury of imagining for ourselves what it was like. Once we'd both
had our fill, Mike and I walked back to our boat. The contrast
between the two places, the battlefield and the canal was less than I
would have imagined at one time. Both of them are strands in the web
of history that draws many of us along the canals.

Go to Bosworth if you like. Take the canal to get there, and ride
history as you go.

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

'Never tell anyone you're going to do something until you've done it.
That way you never make an obvious mistake.'

Gone but most definitely remembered by us.

It's been a busy week, and although we've not yet had time to write trip
reports for the first half of our journey from Manchester to the Rochdale
Canal, there's a short moment that needs to be told about on the day it
happened.

For years now I've wanted to travel the Leeds & Liverpool canal, cross the
Pennines by boat and see the Bingley 5-rise. So, on this Bank Holiday
Monday, we approached the staircase locks. Instead of being one of the best
experiences of the canals, it came close to being the one moment that sent
us off the canals completely.

I suppose that even with a lock keeper there's no excuse for not checking
each and every paddle on my own, but with Bingley's locks comes a reputation
for care that makes it seem unnecessary. Even with the regular lock keeper
on holiday, the two men who were managing the locks seemed completely
competent. Except that when they waved us into the top lock on 'CC' along
with the other narrowboat that was to travel down with us, there was a
problem in the making. The locks had been set by them, each one emptied so
that we
could travel down with the water from the top lock. This we did, from 29
into 28. From 28 into 27. And 27 into 26. Smooth going. Except.... there
was a long wait for 26 to fill 25. Which was not filling. One of the
paddles on the bottom gate of 25 was still up, and not noticed until the
boats had grounded in 26. The boat next to us was on a serious angle,
leaning sharply towards 'CC'. The keeper shouted for all paddles to be put
down as he ran down to shut the paddle on the bottom of 25.

A problem, but not a disaster. Until he opened the ground paddle in 26, and
after a minute or so of watching the stream of water along the stern of our
boat, thought to shout down and ask if we had any vents on that side. By
that time, the vent for the central heating and engine exhaust had flooded
the boiler of the central heating plant and water was sloshing around into
the engine compartment. The boat next to us had a list bad enough that the
woman who was at the tiller was ready to abandon ship onto our stern. I
stood on the side of the lock, watching as the boats slowly began to float
again, trying to stay calm and explain to the people who had come out to
watch a quiet Bank Holiday's worth of boats moving smoothly up and down the
staircase locks that this was very rare, that the lock keepers hardly ever
made a mistake and that the boats wouldn't sink. I was hoping I didn't have
to cross my fingers on that one as Mike looked very worried and kept popping
back down under the hatch to keep an eye on the engine compartment. For the
next half-hour with
the husband of the woman on the boat in the lock with 'CC' we watched and
waited as the boats slowly began to rise, as the water slowly covered the
outlets for the ground paddles. Then, carefully, we lowered all the paddles
and let the boats into a depleted lock 25, and then on down and out of the
5-rise.

I would be lying if I said that it was a great experience. Earth-shaking
and many other things. But not great. I stepped onto the bow of 'CC' and
didn't even care to look back at the 5-rise, it had lost any of the shine
and magic that it had held for three years. Now it was just a big heap of
gates and water, a possibly ruined central heating system and a lesson.

I will never, ever take the word of anyone working a lock. If I haven't set
the paddles, our boat doesn't go in the lock. And if I don't work the
paddles, it won't go down or up in the lock. My son and husband were on a
boat that was so far below me in that lock that it might have been the far
side of the moon for all the good I could have done for them.

I'm sure that everyone who boats has memories that they don't cherish, the
sad thing for me is that one of those is Bingley.

-Su Poole
nb 'Cu£tural Confu$ion'