Ashton Boatman

"Southam" is one of our younger boats, built by Walkers of Rickmansworth as a butty in 1936. She finished carrying work in 1962 and in 1965 was motorised and converted. She had a second life as a pleasure boat and residential craft until she sank on Braunston Puddle Banks in 1992. We bought her off British Waterways who had raised her and taken her to Hillmorton, where she sank again. After carrying out some repairs she housed a series of live in caretakers and did lots of work towing on recycling trips and on an epic trip to Lincoln to collect timber for "Hazel".

Various repairs have been carried out over the years. She's the best of our unrestored boats. In 2019 we replaced most of one side. 2020 was supposed to be the year when we sorted out the falling apart cabin, but because of that nasty virus, 2020 didn't really happen.

The engine fitted in 1965, a 3.8 litre BMC Commodore, was pretty much worn out, but a similar engine, hardly used.  was donated by Tameside College. Stephan, our engineer has rebuilt it and transferred the marinising parts.

Now work has slowly restarted on the boat. Nessie has been armour plating the stern end ready to receive the engine.

Nessie has been busy clothing up "Queen"s cratch.

For the last 25 years or so I've been passing this lovely big beech tree at Guide Bridge. Often I would remark "one day there's going to be a big rumble and a splash and all that lot will come down". The beech was in the grounds of a catholic church, converted from a cinema. For most of that time the church has been out of use. Clearly there were once terraced gardens on the steep bank down to the canal. For all the time I've known it the gardens have been overgrown. I imagine the volunteer gardener died and nobody else wanted to be bothered. Parts of the bank are gradually subsiding towards the water.

Last night it was a bit windy. It's been much much windier and the tree stood, but perhaps last nights wind was in a particular direction that didn't suit the tree.

n 2010 Chris Leah and his friends Bex and Garry took the wooden narrow boats “Southam” (1936) and “Lilith” (1901) on a trip to Liverpool to collect surplus timber beams to use in the restoration of “Hazel” (1913). “Southam” has an engine and so towed “Lilith” which is a butty (unpowered narrow boat). This is the tale of their arrival in Liverpool. In the 1980s Chris worked on grain barges travelling in and out of Liverpool docks and it was Tony, his mate on the barges, who set up the timber deal.

With the boats tied up, rubbish bins and toilets emptied etc, I unloaded my bike and set off through Litherland along a road that didn’t seem to have changed much in the last 50 years. The shops had a decidedly 1960 look, but at least they were mostly still open. So many old shopping streets are now 50% or more boarded up or in non retail use. As I approached Bootle the surroundings took on more of a defensive atmosphere. Shops and other buildings dared not show a glazed facade to the outside world. Their windows were firmly blocked to intruders with hard brick or steel. I passed the New Strand shopping centre, a 1960s pile of square concrete, and crossed the canal. Soon I turned right and, over the canal again, freewheeled downhill to turn left on to the Dock Road.

This thoroughfare runs from Seaforth, the most active docks today at the very Northern end of the system, past the Pier Head and along the length of the obsolete South docks to Brunswick, now a marina. At one time it was paralleled by the Liverpool Overhead Railway, known locally as the “Dockers Umbrella”. When I worked with Tony on the grain barges I sometimes caught the Number 1 bus from Dingle, the length of the Dock Road to join the Parbella early in the morning. Usually I was the only passenger and the driver offered a reduced fare if I wasn’t bothered about having a ticket.

The road had changed surprisingly little in the past 25 years. As I pedalled along I passed a cavalcade of run down industrial buildings to my left, whilst on my right ran a high wall, and behind it glimpses of grain silos, cranes, mountains of scrap metal and of course, the new feature, huge wind turbines. There were even one or two ships to be seen.

I turned my bike into a wide unguarded gateway and turned along the end of an empty dock to inspect our beams. I was disturbed to see that 3 of them had been newly marked for cutting. As I was looking, one of the beam’s owners walked over from his office. He explained that they had decided that they needed to keep back some shorter pieces of the beams for another job but that we could still buy the offcuts. I told him that the whole point of this timber for us was its length, so I wasn’t interested in pieces only 10 feet long. Luckily, the longest one was not to be cut up, and we went on to discuss the logistics of moving the two remaining beams and loading them on to the boat. This would involve a huge man called ‘Tiny’, various large vehicles and a tub of palm grease.

With these arrangements put in train I rode on to the next gate. This one had a security guard, but a wave and a smile were enough to satisfy him that my business was above board. I found the workers at the engineering works, who were somehow involved in the deal, on their teabreak. I sat at a long old table with them in their dingey brick brew hut, dark with nicotine stains as this building is somehow exempt from anti smoking legislation. I explained the arrangements for moving the timber to the best of my ability, then listened to advice on horseracing that would probably be very useful if I were a gambler. My hosts returned to work, handing me a packet of cakes and leaving me to finish my coffee.

My next destination was a waste transfer centre located about a quarter mile away. The main business of the owner of the wharf that we intended to use was skip hire and rubbish disposal. I found the man in an armour plated office in the middle of the yard. He was a large avuncular fellow, who turned out to have an interest in transport history, and especially old boats. He took the leaflets that I proffered with interest. His long term aim is to turn the wharf into a marina, but for the time being it is used for storing lorry trailers. He asked me to let him know when the timber was on its way and he would send someone round to unlock the gates.

With all the arrangements made, I pointed my bike back towards Litherland and, on arrival, reported back on my journey to my fellow boaters, Bex and Garry. I suggested that we walk down to Seaforth and I would show them round the Docks. We made our way to the very Northern end of the Dock Road, but I found that I recognised nothing. We perambulated along a very secure fence but found no way in. Eventually we gave up and headed back through brick terraced streets. Later I found out that access to Seaforth docks is now by pass only, and the holes in the fence that were once used by ladies of the night to reach visiting ships were now firmly closed.

On our way back to the boats Garry entertained us with tales of extreme mischief from his schooldays. Clearly, Dennis the Menace had nothing on the young Garry!

We were expecting at least one more person to join us that evening, but it was not until I was about to go to bed that a carful of people arrived. They turned out to be someone who I shall call “Speed King”, his friend “Spanielface” and his 5 year old son “Whizz”. Whizz suffers from ADHD, or, to be more precise, those charged with his care and safety suffer from his ADHD. Mrs Speed King had driven them over from Manchester, and, by the time the potential difficulties of the situation had sunk in, she was speeding back home with the prospect of a quiet few days.

Whizz was soon charging about inside Southam and we began discussing sleeping arrangements. Bex and Garry were very keen that the new arrivals should sleep in Lilith’s back cabin. Having introduced them to their quarters, I climbed into the forecabin and went to sleep.

The new arrivals had brought no food, but they had thought to provide a vast stache of strong canned lager. Between them they began to consume this, steadily subsiding into semi delirium as Bex did her best to keep Whizz occupied. Eventually the situation got too much for Bex, so she took the toxic liquid into her custody and chased the new arrivals over to Lilith .

I arose at dawn and set off with the boats breasted up while everyone else slumbered. In Bootle the canal briefly turns west as it runs past the New Strand centre. Straight ahead loomed one of the slowly spinning wind turbines, its blades glinting in the morning sun as the old wooden boats chugged towards it. A yellow and silver electric train whirred and rattled across the scene as it set off from New Strand Station.

We passed the wharf and carried on to the junction with the Stanley Dock branch which ran off down a flight of locks to the right. Ahead, the canal ran to a dead end in a modern housing estate, the original terminal basins having been long ago filled in. I started to wind the boats in the wide entrance to the branch canal. I noticed Tony on the towpath. Once facing back the other way I brought the boats over to chat with Tony. He asked why I had come down so far. I explained that there are no other winding holes, but he pointed out that the whole canal was more than 70 feet wide. It had never occurred to me that you could wind anywhere on this canal, but I wanted to go as far as possible anyway.

I set off again with the breasted up boats, and before long we had arrived at the wharf and tied up with Lilith on the inside.

People began to emerge and soon breakfast was in production, Bex, as usual, providing platefuls of bacon and egg. When this was all eaten we set to work taking down Lilith’s cloths, mast and stands etc, for the first time in many years. We cleared the bags of firewood that the boat had been carrying out of the way and laid down some lengths of 3”X3” timber for the beams to sit on.

Whizz was now awake and needing entertainment. We had discovered a football in Lilith’s hold, so this was put to use to keep the little boy occupied and out of harm’s way. Every now and then a lorry would arrive to leave or collect a trailer, so Whizz had to be kept firmly in check as it manoeuvred. Lilith’s top planks were used to form a barricade and Whizz was ordered to stay on the safe side of it. I made ‘phone calls every now and then to check on progress. I was promised that I would get a call as soon as they were ready to bring the wood. This would be necessary to get the gate unlocked as each lorry driver had diligently locked the gate again behind him.

Without warning a crane appeared outside the gate, hooting. I rang our friend at the skip lorry yard, and very soon the gates were opened and a mobile crane set itself up on the wharf. A huge tractor and trailer parked alongside it and, after a little discussion of positioning in the boat, the first beam was lifted and swung into Lilith’s hold. The second, shorter, beam followed. Initially the trim was not quite right, so I got the crane driver to move it a few inches so that it balanced the longer one. Once I was satisfied with the trim, the crane and tractor quickly left and we went to work re-assembling the stands etc in the hold.

With everything reassembled I started Southam’s engine and we set off. I let Speed King steer as he seemed to be quite a natural at it. We took the boats singled this time, with Garry steering the butty, and I explained the need to take greater care when setting off as there was now a lot more weight hanging on the back of the towline. I showed him how to slip the line round the T stud and use the friction to start the butty moving gently rather than snatching it.

The following indicates why you should never be fooled into believing that nothing can go wrong. Speed King settled down to a speed that I felt was uncomfortably fast. However, we were making no wash and the canal was wide and free of traffic or moored boats. I couldn’t see what could go wrong, so I moved to the fore end away from the engine noise and started catching up on ‘phone calls that I had missed while we were loading the timber.

In the middle of a conversation with a woman who had spent all her savings on a wooden boat and was now beginning to have cold (and damp) feet, I looked ahead. A large dog was swimming confidently across our path on its way to rejoin its master on the towpath. I gestured to Speed King to slow down, but, instead, he steered towards the towpath to try to head it off. The timing was all wrong for this maneouvre. The dog got to the towpath first, having just missed Southam’s speeding stempost, but was struggling to climb out as 20 tons of historic boat threatened to crush it. When the boat got within leaping distance of the copings I jumped off, grabbed the dog’s collar and heaved it out just in time. The boat ground against the stonework where, moments before, the dog’s back paws had been clawing for a grip.

I looked up to see the inebriated dog owner laughing to see such fun, oblivious to the fact that he very nearly had an ex dog to carry home.

Looking back at the boats I saw that Southam had stemmed up (canal speak for run aground) and Lilith was rushing ahead on the outside of her. When a motor boat stems up and the butty runs alongside some quick action is required by the motor steerer in releasing the tow line. Trainee steerers tend to forget that they have a butty, until it hits them. On this occasion Speed King was too pre-occupied with trying to get moving again to think about the hurtling butty. I ran over, but too late to help. The line snatched tight as the butty overtook the motor. Feeling his boat start to move again, Speed King wound on full power and Southam shot forward like Lewis Hamilton was driving. I shouted to slow down and Speed King Knocked off a few revs, but not enough to avoid another horrible snatch on the line.

The boats hurtled on along the canal and I was stranded on the towpath. Only pausing to briefly berate Mr Drunken Dogwalker, I set off in pursuit at a trot. Whilst this was undoubtedly good exercise, ameliorating the effects of the daily fried breakfasts, I was concerned lest something else might go wrong while I was divorced from the boat. I got Speed King to slow down and move near enough to the towpath for me to leap aboard. On regaining the sterndeck I noticed that the 4” thick plinth that supports Southam’s back T stud now had a huge split right down the middle.

Note for steerers. If you do even the slightest bit of damage to the boat, I will notice. The best strategy is to own up, apologise and look humble. The worst strategy is a combination of excuses and denials. These make your error far more likely to become public knowledge.

Soon we were at Litherland again and I took charge to breast up and tie. A good bit of the afternoon still remained. I rang the Link Lads to find out when we would be able to arrange the leaving of Liverpool. They told me to ring them when we set out the following morning and they’d meet us at the first swing bridge.

Whizz was getting restless, so most of the afternoon was occupied with an impromptu game of football, All Adults v Whizz. There were no goals as such, but Whizz seemed to be doing his best to get the ball in the water, while the adults did their best to keep it out. The game ended at teatime and, after eating an excellent meal, I decided to go out to the Liverpool Subud house as there was a latihan that evening. I cycled to Seaforth and Litherland station and caught an electric train into the city centre. Emerging from the underground lines at Lime St Station I discovered that I had just missed a train to my destination, Mossley Hill, and there wasn’t another for an hour. I took to my bike and had a nostalgic ride through the city centre then through Toxteth and across Princes and Sefton Parks and on to Mossley Hill, where I met up with friends old and new for a very pleasant evening.

Next morning we had a fairly slow start, setting off at about 10 AM. I took charge of the motor boat, keeping a careful eye on the T stud every time it took some strain, and Garry steered the butty.

After a while we came to the narrows where on the way into Liverpool I had spotted some huge stainless steel stars dumped among other rubbish at the back of some unkempt gardens. I carefully slowed down and allowed Lilith to nudge alongside the motor’s stern as I brought them to a halt. I thought they would look great in our charity shop. I went over to the stars and tried to lift one. It wouldn’t budge. I tried another, with the same result. I looked, puzzled. The stars were bolted down. Suddenly it dawned on me that the stars weren’t dumped, they were a sculpture that had been allowed to become overgrown and covered in garbage. Laughing at my mistake I returned to the boat and set off.

I chuckled to myself at the situation as we travelled along. As we Mancunians had approached Liverpool there had been a series of jokes passed around based on the alleged tendency towards dishonesty of Liverpudlians ( a persistent but most inaccurate stereotype) and yet we had tried to steal their sculpture!

Soon we reached the first swing bridge and saw that the smiling link lads were waiting for us. I eased back as they searched for a break in the road traffic to allow them to start the swinging procedure. As soon as the bridge began to move I wound on the power again and the boats surged ahead.

Soon we were passing Aintree racecourse where preparations were in hand for the forthcoming Grand National meeting. Bex emerged from the cabin with tea and butties to share around. She had some prepared for Garry but, with no bridgehole in sight, there was no easy way to pass them over to him. I decided to break my usual rule and pull in to the side to hand over Garry’s vittles. This was achieved without stemming up or completely stopping. Round the next turn we saw the next swing bridge Our friends were already there, but the traffic was so heavy that I thought that we were going to have to stop and wait. With this in mind I moved over towards the towpath. Suddenly Southam’s fore end lurched upwards and sheared away to the right. I heard a splash, but when I looked I could seen nothing in the canal. Back on the butty, Garry was shouting and gesticulating, but with the noise of the engine and at a distance of about 90 feet I could understand nothing.

The bridge started to swing and, with the boat still rocking from her underwater encounter, I increased the revs and moved forward into the bridge. Waving goodbye to the BW men, the two boats moved on towards Maghull. Speed King came out to ask what was going on. He had been sitting on the toilet when the boat ran over the obstruction.

Bex came out on to the sterndeck and took over steering while I stood nearby to give her guidance. Speed King and Spanielface were on bridge swinging duty for the day. The engine revs suddenly started hunt, a sure sign that the gearbox is slipping. I pulled it out of gear and pushed it back in again, which solved the problem.

With the swing bridges of Maghull behind us we moved out into the fertile coastal plains of Lancashire. I rang our friend Cookie from Burscough to let her know that we intended to tie there for the night. Slowly the miles slid by. Every now and then the gearbox slipped again and I had to have a play with the gear lever to encourage it to bite once more.

Scarisbrick Marina is a huge square lake full of pontoon moorings, some of which have boats attached to them. I imagine that cost has something to do with the amount of vacant pontoons. The entrance to the marina is a new bridge, not far from the main Ormskirk to Southport road. As we approached this entrance the engine started to hunt again. I performed my usual gyrations with the gearstick, but this time, to no avail. It simply would not resume its grip. I cut the engine and pulled Lilith alongside, then looked for the long shaft to use to guide the boats to the bank. “That’s what I was trying to tell you back at the swing bridge” said Garry, “It fell in”.

Using the surviving, shorter, shaft, I moved the boats over to tie up next to the marina entrance. As soon as we were secure I took the top off the gearbox to see if I could see anything wrong. I was totally mystified about how the thing worked. I ran the engine and put it into gear with the top off. I got sprayed with oil for my trouble, but was none the wiser. I concluded that there was nothing that I could do to fix it. I would have to consult Frank the engineer, and probably remove the box.

Everyone was milling about in the cabin wondering what to do with themselves. Bex cooked a meal and then nagged Speed King, who had been very reluctant to deal with domestic matters, into washing up. I saw no point in everyone staying another night as it was obvious that the journey would not continue for some time. I had seen regular buses passing on the main road, so I insisted that most people should avail themselves of one of these to get into Southport and catch a train home. Bex and I stayed behind to clean, tidy and make secure the boats. We headed home the next day.

Chris Leah and his Wooden Canal Boat Society colleagues were on a trip to Liverpool with the boats “Southam” and “Lilith”. They had spent a night at Wigan Pier on a canal whose water was steadily leaking away.

As I hauled myself out of “Lilith”s forecabin into a sunny morning I looked down anxiously to check the water level. It would be an exaggeration to say that my worst fears were confirmed, for there was still water in the canal, but not much. Southam’s fore end was noticeably higher than her stern. I climbed down into Southam to light the range. Bex and Garry were soon up and about, so I decided to start the engine and have a go at getting the boats free.

I found that it was quite easy to get the pair to pivot across the cut, but with all the revving and thrashing and rocking and shafting I could muster, the fore end would just not come free. Fiona and Carlos emerged from Lilith’s back cabin, the engine’s roar proving an effective alarm clock. I was just beginning to wonder about strategies involving lines from the far bank, when a couple of steel boats appeared, heading uphill. I hailed the first one and the steerer agreed to give us a snatch off. I passed him a line from Lilith’s stern end T stud. He tied it on to his dolly, backed up and then went ahead, so that, when it reached the end of the slack, his boat was going at a fair lick. The line held and our pair started to move backwards off the obstruction. I gave our Samaritan a thumbs up and shouted my thanks, then I noticed that the T stud was now at a strange angle. The sudden tug had pulled out the spikes holding down the sterndeck from the rather decayed planks.

As I contemplated the damage I heard a shout from our helper. He threw me back the line and asked me to go ahead as he was now stemmed up (canal speak for aground) and needed to back off. I engaged forward gear and moved the breasted pair along the middle of the canal, throwing up black silt in our wake. Almost immediately Southam picked up some rubbish on her blade. I gave a burst of sterngear to clear it, but straight away she picked up more.

Fiona came to ask to be put off on the towpath as she and Carlos needed to go and catch a train. I explained, shouting over the roar of the engine, that I would stem up if I took the boats anywhere near the towpath, but I would endeavour to unload them at the first bridgehole. I glanced back and saw that the steel boat was still struggling to get free, the steerer pushing with a shaft . There was nothing I could do, but I imagine that we were now none too popular.

As we turned into the first bridgehole, the engine stalled as the blade picked up an extra large pile of garbage. I looked back again and was pleased to see that our helpers were on their way again. I shafted the bows over to the towpath under the bridge so that Carlos and Fiona could scramble off. A little work with the cabin shaft removed the blockage and I restarted the engine and continued, still breasted, while Bex and Garry, the only remaining crew, organised steaming cups of coffee.

At the first lock, in a rather bleak and barren area beside an industrial estate, Bex and Garry got off to work the lock, while I steered the breasted pair into the wide lock. Bex distributed bacon and egg butties, which we ate hungrily as the lock emptied. I decided that it would make sense to carry on breasted up (canal speak for having the boats tied tightly side by side) as there would probably not be much traffic and it would be easier to keep the domestic side of things ( ie regular brews and sandwiches) going if everyone was on Southam. Conversions are not so convenient as back cabins when it comes to steering and cooking at the same time. (“Southam” originally built to carry goods, was converted with a full length cabin in 1965)

The next pound was also low, but after the next lock there was a nice full pound. As the dreariness of Wigan slipped away behind us, we threaded woodlands through the narrowing Douglas valley. I had to lean hard on the tiller to swing the breasted pair round the many twists and turns. The distant high level M6 viaduct grew steadily bigger until, almost underneath it, we reached Dean lock. In the tail of this lock is a water point, so we stopped the pair and filled Southam’s tank.

Once again we had a low pound to plod through. I asked Garry to run ahead as there were swing bridges marked on the map. They turned out to have been swung out of use for many years, until we reached Appley Bridge, where Garry got off again to swing a new looking swing footbridge. Meanwhile Bex was inside the cabin making everything cleaner, tidier and less of a biohazard than before.

We passed a new housing development with a steep bank down to the water side carpeted with astroturf. How long, I wondered, before that lot lands in the canal and gets wrapped round someone’s blade. As we approached the next bridgehole, on a bend, the bows of a wide beam trip boat appeared. I pulled back the gear rod and the pair, with the momentum of the butty on the outside pulling them round, swung towards the towpath. I pushed the tiller to the inside and engaged forward gear again to straighten up. Southam’s fore end rose up and we juddered to a halt as the passing passengers smiled and waved. We had stemmed up on something big and solid. I pulled the lever back again and wound on power in sterngear. With black smoke from the exhaust and frothing water round our stern they came off surprisingly easily, but then the engine coughed and died.

I dived into the engine room and reached for the tools to strip down the lift pump. We had come a long way since the last time she stopped because of muck and water in the fuel, but I guessed that the agitation caused by stemming up had disturbed more residue in the tank. Soon I had the water and yuck purged from the fuel system and, engine restarted, I climbed back on to the sterndeck bearing a heady aroma of diesel.

Soon we were approaching Appley Lock, the last one before Liverpool. Like all the locks since Wigan, this one is paired, such was the volume of traffic at one time. At Appley the lock currently in use is the original single one of immense depth, while the later additions, now out of use, used two shallower locks for the same fall. As the emptying lock revealed the sill, the reason for the lack of water revealed itself. From under the top gates emanated not just a leak, but jets of water that the fire brigade would be proud of. The back ends of the boats, which had to back right into the deluge to get the bottom gates open, got drenched, and Lilith’s cabin flooded.

Below the lock a boat was waiting. A lockside conversation with its crew revealed that they were new to boating and, intimidated by its gargantuan proportions, were in two minds whether to risk working through this, their first lock. Bex and Garry offered to help them through, so I loosely tied the pair below the lock and had a go at cleaning the blade while I waited.

Although through the last lock, there remained 27 miles of canal to our destination. It would be important to get as far as Maghull, a suburb of Liverpool, that night in order to be ready to be ready for the link lads in the morning. I was eager to get a move on.

Back in the 1970s and 80s, when I had more links with Liverpool, the canal beyond the Mersey Motor Boat Club moorings at Lydiate was hardly ever used, except for an annual campaign cruise. Sometimes, on my way to join my barge, Parbella in the North docks I would cycle up the towpath, but I don’t think I ever saw a boat on the canal. We speculated about the possibility of setting up a working boat base on this unwanted backwater and dreamed of restarting carrying. Tony Syers my mate on the grain barges, had worked on the last regular traffic that went this way and always thought that it may be possible to restart the supply of grain by boat to Burscough mill, which had stopped in about 1960. The closure of a swing bridge in the docks, cutting off the canal from Seaforth grain terminal, put paid to these ideas.

Now, by contrast, with the opening of the link, via Liverpool pier head, to the South docks and maritime museum, the canal has become a destination, part of an urban regeneration strategy. However, just swanning into and out of Liverpool by boat is no longer allowed. It is controlled, and there are forms to fill in.

As we were arranging the trip , Tony gave me some numbers to ring to make the arrangements. I rang the office and tried to explain that I needed to take a pair of boats into Liverpool. “Oh” exclaimed a cultured female voice, “Have you had an information pack?” I tried to explain that I wasn’t interested in entering the docks but simply wanted to cruise the canal. I am visiting a friend who lives by the canal I explained, fearing that any hint of carrying goods may spark suspicion and bureaucratic hurdles. Nothing seemed to compute, so I ended the conversation as quickly as was decent and rang the mobile number that Tony had given me for the link lads. Here I got a far more sensible response. “Er yeah, we’ve got some boats going in on Wednesday, so just be at Ledsons swing bridge, Maghull, for 10 AM and you can go in with them”. It was now Tuesday dinner time and there was still a lot of ground to cover. This is why I had been pushing the boats ahead and refusing to stop for anything.

There was something on the blade that I just couldn’t seem to shift, so, when Garry and Bex returned, I decided to leave it and hope it would wear away and drop off. We hadn’t gone a mile though when it picked up something else. I stopped in a rural bridgehole where a wooded slope separated canal and railway. A little more poking with the shaft loosened the rubbish, and we proceeded unemcumbered by urban detritus.

The valley steadily widened and soon we were approaching Parbold. A pleasure boat was coming the other way and racing us for a bridgehole. I could see that it was his bridgehole, but I really didn’t want to give way after the problems it caused back at Appley Bridge. I blew a long blast on the hooter and set our bows for the bridge, unashamedly hoping to intimidate the smaller boat. It didn’t work and the plucky cruiser kept ploughing on straight at us. It was my turn to blink. I went astern and swung over to the inside. The cruiser, steerer head down like a motorcyclist inside his wheelhouse, growled past. I swung the pair back into the channel and just managed to straighten them up in time to get through cleanly.

At Parbold there is a tight turn where what was intended as a Wigan branch would have left the more direct trans Pennine main line. As things worked out the direct main line was never built and the Wigan branch became the main canal, the stub of the main route becoming a dry dock, now abandoned. We swung round this turn , passed the pub, then crossed the Douglas aqueduct and headed into the flatlands. We settled into a routine. When I thought a swing bridge was approaching I gave a couple of beeps on the hooter and Garry would come out of the cabin. I would let the bows brush the towpath and Garry would jump off and run ahead to swing the bridge while I let the boats drift slowly ahead. As the bridge swung clear, a burst of power took us through, then drift along the towpath again while Garry regained the boat .

Soon we were in Burscough, interestingly lined with moored boats, many of them wide beam. Garry had a long walk because I could not get near the towpath to pick him up. He climbed on at the entrance to the Rufford arm, now a source of traffic rather than the little used backwater that it used to be for it is now part of a through route to the Lancaster Canal as well as boasting a huge marina. We passed the mill that once kept the canal busy with grain boats, but is now sad and silent.

Though our need for water had been dealt with, there were toilets to be emptied, and the Nicholsons guide showed such facilities in the centre of Burscough. As scanned the towpath for suitable place to stop I noticed a familiar looking boat. Northern Lights is a steel boat of about 50 feet inhabited by Cookie, her partner Kenny and daughter Cara. Although they mostly stay around Burscough for work, I seem to bump into them all over the canal system. I steered over to the towpath and, as I hauled back on Lilith’s lines to absorb the last bit of momentum a smiling Cookie greeted me. She knew Southam well, as Dan, a mutual friend, had lived aboard her at Burscough some years ago.

It turned out that the elsan emptying facility was now closed as it was being redeveloped into posh housing. Bex and Garry were, however, keen to visit the shops, so they headed for the supermarket , while Cookie and I caught up on the news. Cookie told me that a friend had gone through the Liverpool Link but it was a bureaucratic nightmare as you have to convince two dock authorities as well as BW of the safety of your boat. I had entertained in the back of my head an idea of just nipping through to the South Docks if we found ourselves with time to spare, but this news put paid to that idea.

When Garry and Bex returned I was eager to get moving again. Time was moving on and it was still a long way to Maghull. Garry and I fell back into the same routine over swing bridges while Bex started cooking a meal. As we meandered across the West Lancashire plains we laid a trail of woodsmoke as Bex kept feeding the big ex army range. Before setting out I had loaded a good stock of ready cut firewood into Lilith so there was no anxiety about fuel supply.

The countryside around here reminds me of Belgium with wide, gently undulating, hedgeless fields of corn, cabbage and carrots. Here and there the odd spinney or row of poplars lends variety to the scene. The canal carefully follows the contours, though a straight waterway could have been built with minimal earthworks. Westwards, towards the sea, the land gently falls away. In between bridges, Garry had a go at steering the breasted boats, though at first I had to take them through bridgeholes. He went in to consume the product of Bex’s labours, while I enjoyed my portion at the tiller as the boats chugged into the evening.

It was dusk when we passed the Mersey Motor Boat Club’s Lydiate moorings. In the 1970s I had a girlfriend called Gill, still a good friend, whose parents had a 40 foot steel boat moored here. One midwinter weekend they let us go and stay on Rambler and take her for a trip. I think the idea was to do a Sunday trip into Liverpool. When we rose on Sunday morning the cut was locked solid with a good inch of ice. Nevertheless, being young, we began icebreaking our way towards the city. This is when I learned that, if using a shaft to break ice, you have to podge it down vertically, never whack it lengthwise on to the ice surface. Unfortunately the victim of my youthful error was an old wooden oar that Gill’s dad was very attached to. Beyond Maghull our progress was slowed as the ice thickened in the bleak countryside. At the first winding hole we gave up and headed back to Lydiate before our shattered trail hardened again.

This time Maghull was reached in the dark. I knew that we had to meet the link lads at a swing bridge, but I couldn’t remember the name of it, so consulting Nicholsons was of little help. At each swing bridge, of which there are a series through Maghull, I expected to see a queue of waiting boats, but there were none. Eventually , as we worked through what appeared to be the last swing bridge in Maghull, I decided to call it a day. We tied up to the towpath opposite a line of moored craft, at least one of which was occupied.

In the morning, as the bright sun started to lift the early mist, I unloaded my bike and set off in search of the elusive swing bridge. As I rode along I exchanged “good morning”s with many early dog walkers. Electric commuter trains rattled over a bridge taking the faithful to work. Soon I was out into the last fling of countryside, recognising it from my excursion so long ago, though on this spring morning it had lost the bleakness that I remembered. I passed a swing bridge giving access to a farm, and the winding hole where we had smashed our way round all those years ago. A couple of boats were tied up near the bridge, but I didn’t think this was the one so I carried on.

Suburbia began to encroach and a motorway roared overhead. The canal crossed a shallow valley on a low embankment and, at the far end of the straight I could see boats moored and beyond them a low crossing busy with cars and lorries. This, I thought, must be it, and headed back to see about breakfast.

I guessed that the bridge was about an hours boating away. Why it had been described as being in Maghull I’ve no idea. I would have said Kirkby. Perhaps it’s just that British Waterways don’t want to be associated with Kirkby. We decided to set out at 8.30 to give us plenty of time. As we passed the boats moored by the first swing bridge they started their engines and followed us.

As we approached the swing bridge I brought the boats in to the towpath behind the waiting craft and jumped down with Southam’s mast line to check the last bit of momentum. Two smiling BW men walked towards me. They were very interested in the history of the boats. I imagine they make a change from their usual stream of steel pleasure craft.

The skippers of the two boats that had followed us came to ask if they could go ahead of us. “No Problem” I said, and they returned to their boats. The BW men had now gone back to the bridge and were looking for a gap in the road traffic so that they could swing it. Eventually the barriers began to fall and there was a flurry of activity as engines were started, lines untied and pins pulled out. The BW men waved us forwards and the steel boats surged through the concrete narrows. As soon as the last boat was past us I pushed Southam’s gear rod forward and wound some power on.

As we cleared the bridge it started to close behind us. Round the first bend we ran along one side of Aintree race course for a good half mile. I was eager to keep up with the other boats, and for some time there was no difficulty about this. Bit by bit the exhaust got blacker and the wake frothier as our deeper draughted boat picked up more and more rubbish. Every now and then I gave a burst of sterngear, which usually cleared the blade briefly , only to pick up more rubbish. The other boats moved steadily into the distance until I lost sight of them, then, as we were passing under a railway bridge, the engine grunted, shuddered and stopped. Some work with the short shaft soon had the blade cleared again and we got moving once more.

No-one is likely to write poetry about the scenic delights of this canal, mostly light industry and sprawling housing estates, but I was really impressed by the wildlife. Each side of the channel there is a bank of reeds and lilies, inhabited by moorhens, ducks, coots and a surprising number of swans.

Eventually we came to the second swing bridge and the smiling canal men swung it open for us as we approached. As we passed through the bridge I tried to explain, over the roar of the engine, that we had been delayed by a bladeful. They smiled and waved and we headed on towards Liverpool.

Soon we were travelling along an open stretch of canal. To the left was a 1950s council estate with gardens backing on to the canal. To the right a border of bushes demarcated the edge of the Rimrose Valley country park, soft grassland gently falling away. We reached a narrows where once there had been a bridge. On the outside, inaccessible except by boat or by climbing over someone’s back garden fence, was a pile if rubbish, overwhelmed by brambles and ornamented by the corpse of a duck. Underneath this mess something gleamed to attract my eye. There seemed to be, incongruously, a pile of two foot high stainless steel stars dumped with the rest of the rubbish. Bex and I looked at each other. Why, I wondered, would anyone dump them here.

I knew Litherland well from my Liverpool barging days. Over to the right I could see the distant cranes of Seaforth container port and some of the wind turbines that now line the dock wall. Below a high concrete road bridge sat a pleasant canal cottage, once housing the bridgekeeper for the lift bridge, a meccano like structure that used to take a main road over the waterway. Beyond the house a couple of the steel boats were busy taking water but as we approached they set off again. We brought our boats to a halt on the moorings beyond the water point and sanitary station. This was the safe place, surrounded by a high fence and only accessible with a BW key, where we would stay the night, travelling on into Bootle to load in the morning.

I thought it was going to be a nice sedate weekend. Five Girl Guide leaders had booked "Hazel" for 3 days. They were all experienced boaters, with certificates to prove it, but had never worked a motor and butty. They wanted to go through a few locks, so, the plan was to go up the 3 locks to Staley Wharf, spend a night there, then back to Ashton and up the Peak Forest to the bottom of the Marple flight, before returning to Portland Basin on the Sunday.

Because they were all boaters we wouldn't need  any of our usual crew. The trip was set up by our trustee and Guiding official (she also finds some time to work for a living) Liz Stanford. Her husband, Peter, came along to add some much needed muscle power, returning home each evening to tend to their animals.

I realised that things were going to be more raucus than anticipated when I was showing them the hand signals that we use for communicating instructions. In my innocence it had never previously occurred to me that the signal that I use for 'untie' was suggestive of the sin of onanism. The ladies fell about laughing.

We set off and negotiated lock 1W very competently. At the far end of the long opened out Whitelands tunnel a downhill boat waited for us to clear.

As we passed its occupants told us that the water was low above the next two locks.

The long pound between locks 3 and 4 has been a problem since the canal re-opened in 2001. The main reason is that the top gates of lock 3 leak like sieves. Why on earth this problem has not been addressed over the last 20 years I have no idea.

At lock 2W we found that the balance beam on the top gate was on the verge of breaking free as a result of rot. I confidently predict that, when this fails it will be blamed on a boater.

Above number 3 the water was a good foot down. I decided to give it a try, but got no more than a couple of boatslengths before the motor stemmed up. I had a few goes at freeing her, but it seemed futile without raising the water level. I got on my bike and rode into Stalybridge town centre.

The pounds above 4 and 5 were low but the longer one past Tesco was brimming. As a couple of boats were tied in this pound I couldn't steal too much water, but I dropped it nearly a foot then headed back to the boats. The water had made little impact on the level in the long pound, but I thought the few inches gained might help.

I added an extra line to the back end line for Peter, as the strongest person present, to pull on. The line broke and Peter fell backwards on to his windlass, giving him a painful bruise.

The boats remained resolutely stuck. We discovered that the culprit was a large piece of submerged industrial machinery, similar to a very large washing machine drum.

Our team of Guide ladies was joined by various tough looking men who had been walking the towpath. We tried pulling and shafting in all directions. We attempted to remove the offending item, all to no avail.

A few years ago we offered to clear submerged rubbish from this location but were prevented from doing so on the grounds that it might disturb the wildlife!

A hire boat had followed us up the locks. It's crew kindly agreed to let lock 4 fill by leakage (that's how bad it is) rather than deliberately draw off more water. They were clearly keen to get past but our boats were blocking the way.

A knight in shining armour arrived in the form of the Grand Union motor "Bargus", heading down towards Ashton.. Normally operating as a fuel boat, "Bargus" had been relieved of her tanks and other paraphernalia ready to go on dock, so she was riding high in the water. She was loosely tied stem to stem with "Forget me Not" and backed away vigorously. Each time the line snatched "Forget me Not" moved a little, until finally she was free. Meanwhile "Bargus"s skipper, Jason, organised our ladies and Peter to haul "Hazel", which draws almost as much as "Forget me Not", over the underwater debris.

We set off again, with the hireboat in hot pursuit.

Nearing Clarence St bridge we stemmed up again. I let the following boat past then managed to back off the obstruction, almost scraping the moored boats in order to avoid it as I drove the motor ahead again. One of the ladies was standing on the gunwale next to me as I steered. She had quite a shock when the boat rolled violently as it rode over a sunken coping stone.

Rosie was the cook for the trip (I have yet to ascertain whether her husband is called Jim). During the delays she had been busy preparing a meal, which she was now anxious to serve.

The problem was, where could we stop for tea and enable Peter, who was on the towpath, to get aboard. I suggested the Tame aqueduct. This is narrow, so we would be blocking the way, but it was unlikely that more boats would be passing through that evening. There was nowhere else that Peter could get aboard.

We made the boats fast on the cast iron trough over the river Tame. This structure, revolutionary at the time, replaced an original stone arch that was washed away by floods before the canal was complete. Everyone clustered around the table in "Hazel" to enjoy a wonderful meal.

Stomachs quietened, we plodded on, stemming again at a narrows that is notorious for fly tipping, though in this case I think the problem was rocks from a tumbledown stone wall.

It was getting dark by the time we reached the winding hole at Staley Wharf. The boats were reluctant to turn because they were virtually on the bottom. When we finally got round we were confronted with another problem. Tying towpath side is not possible because a ledge of rock prevents boats from getting close. In previous visits we have tied on the outside but, since our last visit a couple of years ago, this has become a jungle. I aimed the bows for a small gap in the foliage at one end of the winding hole. It was possible to get "Hazel"s bow in here and get off. An attempt to drive in a pin was unsuccessful as the ground was solid. We threw lines over the top of the greenery and made fast to the top of a high factory fence. The lines were high enough to avoid the risk of decapitating anyone with the temerity to explore the rough path that ran through the area.

Peter got on his bike to head for home. The rest of us went inside "Hazel". The ladies got out the gin.................

In the morning we woke to a rainy day. I walked up the locks with my windlass to try to gain a little more water. As I approached Armentierres Square a rush of water from lock 7's paddles showed that a boat was on its way down.

Wrapped up in waterproofs, we set off into proper Peter Kay rain.

Ally joined me on "Forget me Not". Immediately the motor boat stopped as it ran on to a solid object.

We got her free and carried on to the first bridgehole,

where we were stopped again.

The following boat caught us up and stopped, presumably having a rest whilst we fought our way forward. We got the boat free and carried on.

I steered and carefully avoided the objects that we'd encountered on the way up.

There was no avoiding the obstruction at lock 3, though I now knew more about its nature and location.

Inevitably the motor stemmed up. We let the butty drift past her but she jammed nearer the lock.

During efforts to free her Peter fell in at the head of the lock, which mercifully was full and no water was running. He gained another bruise, but climbed out of the water and was soon at work again. I employed the risky practise of inserting the shaft under the boat and using it to lever her free. A very good way of breaking your shaft, so I only do this as a last resort.

"Hazel" came free and was worked down the locks.

I managed to get "Forget me Not" moving and into the refilled lock, picking up the butty again below lock 2.

At lock 1 I showed Ally the trick of holding the motor in sterngear against the bottom gate as the butty works through. This gets exciting as the paddles are opened and the counter dips into the resulting maelstrom, but the boats are perfectly positioned for exiting the lock.

The aforementioned lorry scrapyard is no longer there. I had to go to Darwen in deepest Lancashire to seek a replacement. This was a more modern part and needed modification, which was done as a donation by North West Propshafts of Salford. http://www.northwestpropshafts.com/

The plan had been for Stephan to meet us at Staley Wharf to fit the part, but, we had got there too late in the day. I rang him and he agreed to meet at Portland Basin. We dropped "Hazel" on the towpath side at the basin for Rosie to serve up another wonderful meal. I maneuvered "Forget me Not" to the outside for easy access by Steph.

With the aid of many blasphemous words, Steph worked  face down into the black and oily bilge to exchange the components. He then rushed off to rapidly wash and change for he had a date to fulfil. The timing had not been good.

With another excellent meal consumed we made the turn on to the Peak Forest, now much easier to navigate after much needed dredging.

At the far end of Hyde is Captain Clarke's Bridge. A turnover bridge that also carries a small road.

https://oldhyde.blogspot.com/2011/08/captain-clarke.html

As we approached the bridge I thought about how difficult it used to be to get through before the dredging. I was surprised when the motor boat bounced on something in the narrows. The engine began to struggle, then stalled. We clearly had a bad bladeful.

We pulled "Forget me Not" to the bank and I started poking under her counter with the cabin shaft. At first I thought we had picked up a roll of tarpaulin, for the object was tough but had some give in it, with no obvious way of getting a grip on it. I was just thinking I'd need to get in the water when my hook caught on something. I pulled hard but it wouldn't come free. A small round gold coloured plastic container floated to the surface. Liz picked it up and opened it, just as the item released.

"There's a bullet in this" said a surprised Liz.

I dropped the offending item, a child's school rucksack, on the deck, with a clunk. Liz investigated. She found inside the bag a set of electronic scales,

handy for measuring out small quantities of expensive substances. Underneath this there was a plastic carrier bag. She opened this to reveal 3 guns, two pistols and an automatic.

There was also a quantity of ammunition, some of it spent. The cache did not appear to have been in the water very long.

We set off again. Cookie and Liz steered the motor while I sat in a canvas chair on the deck patiently trying to get through to the

police. At last, someone answered and we arranged to meet an officer at Woodley.

We stopped at the tunnel entrance and soon the officer arrived. Somehow they selected for this task probably the only constable in Greater Manchester who is terrified of canals. Rivers, lakes or oceans hold no terrors for her, but she won't go near a canal if she can help it. She stepped forward gingerly to peek in the bag, which was now residing on "Hazel"s foredeck.

Her role was obviously simply to ascertain that the was a genuine find and not just some discarded toys. She said that the firearms team would have to examine it and could we wait there until they arrived. We explained that it was impossible to stay there as we were blocking the canal. The real reason was that we wanted to get further on so that we were poised to get back to Ashton the following day. She managed to negotiate with her bosses that we would meet the experts at Chadkirk.

We said goodbye to the officer and set off into the dark wormhole of Woodley tunnel

(originally known as Butterbank tunnel).

Chadkirk is a secretive gem.

Our nice canalaphobic constable had never heard of it even though it's right next to Romiley. From the towpath some steps lead you to a narrow lane lined with old houses. If you turn left, down a steep hill you come to St Chad's holy well, then the mediaeval chapel, set among well tended gardens.

If you turn the other way it takes you under a low aqueduct then uphill into central Romiley, handy for shops and pubs. Where we tie the canal is carried in a concrete box channel, a repair made about 30 years ago when the waterway started to slip down the hillside. On the outside the impressive gardens of some of Romiley's more prestigious residences reach down to the canal. The towpath is normally busy with friendly dog walkers.

I met our helpful PC and her sergeant at the bottom of the steps and led them to the boats. Soon the towpath was buzzing with police. They took the bag of weapons and carefully opened it on to a tarpaulin laid on the towpath some distance away. Some of them donned white overalls to avoid contaminating the evidence. The constable took a statement from me, written on her mobile 'phone.

Rosie produced another culinary miracle, which we soon demolished. The gin had run out so we had to make do with wine. After dinner some of the ladies enjoyed standing in the forward well watching handsome young policemen coming and going along the towpath.

I don't know when they finished their work. When I retired to "Forget me Not"s cabin it was getting dark and they were still working by torchlight.

Some guests were concerned about getting back to Ashton at a reasonable time. We started on Sunday morning at 9 instead of our usual 10. Steering was done by our most confident steerers to ensure a quick trip up over Marple aqueduct,

wind, then heading back along the lower Peak to Ashton.

Captain Clarke's Bridge was approached with some trepidation, but we went through smoothly and collected no more guns.

Steady rain got heavier and heavier until it felt like the gods were having fun tipping buckets of water over us.

We did have something on the blade as we approached Ashton.  I gave a 'chuck back ' (briefly engaging reverse gear) to try to clear it. One of the bolts broke in the new gear change mechanism. I had to travel the last couple of miles in the engine 'ole, ready to change gear at Peter's command.

We reached the basin at an acceptable time. I breasted the motor up to "Lilith", then positioned "Hazel" where she could be unloaded easily into cars.

The ladies want to come back for a longer trip.

https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/rucksack-containing-machine-gun-carrier-21076074

We trundled on up the lovely Peak Forest canal. I steered the motor, Aaron the butty and Elizabeth worked the bridges. I thought we'd lost her after she swung the bridge at Furness Vale as she didn't wait at the next bridgehole, thinking there might be another swing bridge further up. Luckily she was sensible enough to turn back when she reached the junction of the Bugsworth branch. It's a fascinating place but a bit noisy because of the A6 nearby.

                                                                      Up the Peak Forest

With the cancellation of the Lymm Historic Transport Day we scrubbed the plan to go along the Bridgewater and took a trip with "Forget me Not" and "Hazel" up the Peak forest canal instead. I was a bit disappointed that so many people pulled out at the last minute, but this tends to happen with well being trips. We had a late start from Ashton because of engine problems on "Forget me Not" eventually I had to call in the cavalry in the form of Stephan the engineer. There was an awkward moment when it looked like the starter motor had given up, but Steph persuaded it to go again and eventually we were able to set off with Kim steering the motor, Joan steering the butty, Aaron helping out wherever necessary and me just pottering about and enjoying the ride.

It was wonderful to be navigating the lovely and recently dredged canal. With the starting problems sorted "Forget me Not" ran well with her overhauled injectors.

Hyde Bank Tunnel.

A couple of pictures of Dave Buxton making a new cupboard door for "Hazel" at Stalybridge today.

When the Dutton Dry Dock Co donated their Land Rover we stopped our Go fund Me appeal for a van and said we'd spend the money so far raised on trailers for it to tow. The first one was a box trailer for deliveries and collections for the shop. The price of trailers suddenly went through the roof and we had to go all the way to Kent to get a reasonable deal on a box trailer.

Some people thought they might be able to repair the old van, but, really it wasn't going to happen. The rust had eaten too far into the bodywork. We needed the space at the boatyard for the second trailer. This is a big sturdy plant trailer, in need of some TLC, obtained from Portland Basin Marina. The old van went via Car Take back.

Stephan got to work on the plant trailer, stripping away loose bits to get it ready for its first job, transporting a little cruiser called "Miss Maggie" from Lymm to the River Ouse , a few miles downstream of York.

The boat was one of several abandoned boats donated by the Bridgewater Canal during the winter which we sold via Ebay. This helped to see us through the winter lockdowns. Many thanks to Paul and Lynnette of the Dutton Dry Dock Co for arranging it. The difficulty was that it needed to go on a long journey to meet it's new owners, Amanda and James. This was difficult with no suitable trailer and the inhibitions of a third lockdown.

I set off to collect the boat with the Land Rover, plant trailer and two outboards, a little air cooled one and a vintage Seagull. I tried the air cooled one first but, though it started easily, it would immediately cut out. I tried the Seagull, but the transom was too thin for it's clamp. I inserted a piece of wood to make up the gap, tightened the screw and spun the engine. It started first pull.

I had about 3 miles to go along the Bridgewater canal. My difficulty was that the engine had a short tiller. If I sat down to steer I couldn't see where I was going. I stood up and briefly let go of the tiller while I tried to work out how to solve this problem. The engine note changed and I looked down in horror as the Seagull leaped off the transom and disappeared into the middle of the canal, leaving "Miss Maggie" to drift into the brambles.

I refitted the air cooled engine and tried to start it. After a while I realised that it would only run if I fixed the throttle on to full power. It would not tick over. Luckily, full power was not very powerful. I slowly proceeded through the centre of Lymm, standing up and steering with my foot. The arrival at Hesfords boatyard was not very elegant as I had to aim the boat, cut the engine at just the right moment, then leap off with a line before it drifted away again.

I backed the trailer into the water and guided the boat on to it. One of the boatyard workers told me what a nicely kept boat it was just a few years ago. I don't know why it was abandoned, but my guess is that its loving owner died and their relatives either didn't know or didn't care about the boat.

The boat fitted snugly.