Ashton Boatman

Martin Cox, Clamps and Crooks

Martin Cox was an excellent boatbuilder and excellent person. It must have been about 1978 that I first met him. He was working as an HGV driver and about once a month drove a tankerload of wine to somewhere near Ellesmere Port where Gill Wright and I were living aboard Lilith. Martin would park up for the night near the museum and come to talk about boats and all things boat related.
I don’t recall if Martin actually had a boat at that time, but he had already done some boatbuilding. For many years he owned the small Ricky motor Grus, which was also known as Almighty, a name given to it when owned by the Salvation Army. The number one motor Benevolence was largely rebuilt by Martin, as was the BCN tug Christopher James. For about the last 15 years he followed an alternative career as an Alexander Technique teacher. When the funding for Hazel looked like it might be on the cards I tracked down Martin via the internet to see if he might be interested in working on her rebuild. He was very interested in the whole project, but with a partner and child living in Bristol wasn’t able to move away to work on it. He asked me to keep him informed and he might come and give us a hand some time.
I put Martin on the newsletter list to keep him up to date but heard nothing until this August when I got a ‘phone call from Colin Bowles who has owned Sweden for many years. He told me that Martin was in hospital with a terminal illness and had some big boatyard clamps rusting away in his back garden that he would like to give to the WCBS.
Martin actually passed away just a few weeks later. It was in November that I got a call from Hattie, his partner, to say that I could collect the clamps and possibly some other tools. We eventually arranged this for November 18th.
In the same part of the world I had arranged to collect some crooks. You may imagine that I would have no problem finding crooks in Greater Manchester, but these are special ones. They are slabs of oak that has grown to just the right curve to make knees for Hazel. I was buying them from a little sawmill called Boatbuilding Timber Supplies near Usk in South Wales.

Having arranged to have the van for a couple of days, I hired a car transporter trailer from Fletchers Trailers in Ashton and headed South on a Thursday afternoon. My first port of call was Ed Sveikutis’ old farmhouse at Knypersley, Staffordshire. Ed is a first class blacksmith. When I first met him he had a forge in the Etruria Industrial Museum beside the Trent & Mersey Canal. Over the years he’s made a few bits and pieces for our boats. He later moved to little industrial unit in Biddulph. When I tried to contact him about making spikes for Hazel I found his ‘phone number dead. A search on tinternet brought up only reports about him losing his little forge to a huge new Sainsburys store. Nevertheless, I managed to find him, retreated to a shed at the back of his hobbitland house, and he made the spikes for Hazel. Most of these were delivered in August, but he had a few more for me to collect. Along with the spikes, Ed gave me a copy of Inland Waterways of Britain by L. A. Edwards. We discussed the sad decline of craftsmanship, always a pre-occupation of Eds, and I climbed into the van, carefully manoeuvred the wide trailer through narrow gateways, then made for the M6.
By the time I reached Bristol it was dark and it was rush hour. I needed to find somewhere nice to park up for the night, but had no idea where. It was not really possible to stop and consult a map without causing traffic mayhem. Seeing a sign pointing to Clifton I decided to follow it. I surmised that there could be a car park for visitors wishing to view Brunel’s famous suspension bridge. There was not, and I soon found myself driving up to the toll booth to cross that fine structure. With 50p in the slot, the barrier lifted and I carefully drew the trailer along the narrow wooden road across the Avon Gorge. On the far side I found a quiet little road heading downhill towards the river through broadleaved woodland. I parked the van here and, making sure everything was locked, set off on foot to look for food.
My route took me back over the suspension bridge. On foot I could appreciate its slender grandeur, soaring high above the deep gorge, its high towers like something that the Romans might have been proud of, but its wrought iron chains speaking of the fiery industry of Victorian times. On the approaches are notices about the Samaritans, for sadly it’s a favourite spot for suicides. There is a tale that, when it was first built, ladies in crinolines would sometimes survive a leap from the bridge as their skirts acted as parachutes.

I was looking for a chip shop, but Clifton turned out to be far too upmarket for such an establishment. There were bistros galore, but my funds would not run to that. I bought a couple of pork pies from a posh co-op foodstore and picked my way downhill between grand old terraces, munching my pies as I went.
From the bridge I had seen that it was low tide. The river was virtually dry, with expanses of mud glinting in the streetlights. A little way upstream I had seen a lock, entrance to the floating harbour ( so named not because it floats but because ships can float in it at any state of the tide) and I thought I would go and have a look.
My meandering route through alleyways and down steeply sloping back roads brought me to a busy traffic island at Hotwells. Once upon a time this was the terminus of a railway that ran through the Gorge alongside the river from the Avonmouth direction. Long ago its route was converted into the A4 road, but still some blocked up single track tunnels through rocky outcrops can be seen.
I crossed the bridge over the harbour entrance. I was looking for a place where I could park for the night as I liked the idea of being near water. I crossed another small bridge to get to the lock, and even thought about parking on the lockside. I then thought about what a nuisance it would be to be woken by a bored policeman in the early hours and discounted the idea. I wondered if it might be possible to park facing the sea in nearby Portishead, and decided to return to the van to drive over there and have a look.
Portishead was a disappointment. As I entered the town I came to a roundabout. To the left was the town centre, to the right the industrial park, and straight ahead “The Haven”. Straight ahead seemed most promising, so I headed for “The Haven”, only to discover that it was the name for a posh housing estate with red brick roads. With some difficulty, and to the consternation of other road users, I turned round my little rig in one of the side turnings and headed back towards Bristol, parking up a little further down the little road next to a viewing point and interpretation board. I spent an hour or two enjoying planning an itinerary for Hazel, using the book that Ed had given me as a guide.
The front seat of the van is remarkably comfortable, so I slept well and awoke to a bright morning in a jumble of coats and sleeping bags. The flask that I had made before leaving home was still hot enough to drink, then I got up and enjoyed my breakfast standing by the interpretation board looking across the gorge.
I had told Hattie that I would arrive between 9 and 10 AM, so I set out about 8.30 with only a vague idea of the location of her house. My route took me alongside the Floating Harbour, with a fine view of the Great Britain across the water. This time I found myself in the milling traffic of the morning peak and had to keep my wits about me to haul the wide trailer along the maddeningly crowded urban tarmac without incident. I found myself in St Pauls, of which I knew only its reputation for riots connected with local dissent over the siting of a new supermarket. There were indeed very prominent No Tesco Here signs plastered on buildings, but rather than a dangerous concrete jungle, it appeared to be a very friendly place. Much more welcoming than the conspicuous affluence of Clifton, it had a post revolutionary utopian air, rather like Clifford Harper’s early drawings.
Navigating with the aid of friendly pedestrians I entered an area of tall terraced houses separated by narrow streets of parked cars. I became very aware of the fact that the trailer was somewhat wider than the van. In places The gaps were so narrow that I had to inch through with an anxious eye on each mirror. I began to wonder if I would find myself stuck at an impossible gap at the end of a long road with nowhere to turn.

I found myself on Hattie’s street almost by chance, then accidentally turned off it, only to realise that I was actually passing her back garden. A car was coming the other way and there was absolutely nowhere to pass. A rare parking space became apparent and I drove the van into it, stopping centimetres from the bumper of the next car with the trailer still blocking the road. As I started to fumble with the trailer lock the car began to hoot. Before I had fully released the trailer from the van, its smartly dressed lady driver came over to politely inform me that I was blocking the road. It did occur to me that she was also blocking the road (and could have pulled over with far less difficulty), but instead I explained the manoevre that I was attempting to clear her way. I released the trailer, swung it round and backed it in by hand to sit behind the van and clear the way for the polite lady. There was just enough room for the trailer, but it was blocking some lines painted on the road with a notice saying “Keep Clear”.
It was bang on 9 AM, so I rang Hattie to explain where I was. I was a little apprehensive about meeting Hattie. I had known Martin for over 30 years and had a high regard for him, both as a boatbuilder and as a person, but we had only met a handful of times. This often happens with friendships on the cut. I had totally lost touch for a long time and knew nothing of Hattie, or Rueben, their son. I am very aware of the phenomenon of circling vultures after the death of someone with items of value, and had no wish to be seen in this light.
Hattie emerged from the rickety back garden gate and greeted me with a smile, which put me at ease. She knew the man who had painted “Keep Clear” on the road to make space for his electric wheelchair and knocked on his door. There was no reply so, with no alternative parking places, we decided to simply keep an eye on the situation. She led me up some steps into the little back garden. A huge beech tree had recently been felled, letting light into what must previously have been a rather shady patch. She showed me the huge old clamps, seized with rust, lying in a corner of the lawn, and asked if I would also be interested in the various bags of nails and spikes that were with them. Having just spent thousands on spikes for Hazel and still not sure if we had enough of some categories, I answered in the affirmative. She went to make coffee as I started to carry the clamps and bags of spikes out to the van.
Over coffee we talked boats. Hattie asked if I knew anything of the wooden boats that she used to live aboard. Irritatingly, as I recount this, I can’t remember the name of one of them. It was a wooden butty which, unusually, had been shortened by taking a section out of the middle and fitting the two ends back together. No mean feat! The other was the small ricky motor Isis, also known as Jimmy. I remember this boat being on the Bridgewater briefly in the 1990s but have heard nothing since. Another past owner contacted us about it a few years ago but we could find no trace, so the chances are that she has become firewood.
Hattie led me up two stories to a spare bedroom that was piled high with old fashioned toolboxes. She started opening them one by one and asking about which tools would be most useful. We selected a range of useful items, but it was obviously a little difficult for Hattie as she juggled between wanting to send the tools to a place where they would be useful and wanting to keep things that connected her to Martin. After a while she went downstairs to make more coffee and left me sorting through a box of augers. It felt very odd to be rooting through Martins tools.
I remembered that I hadn't checked the van for a while. I went down to have a look and found the old man who had marked the road standing in his doorway looking confused. “I can't get out” he kept repeating in a high hoarse whisper that was barely audible. Luckily another parking space was now available and I manhandled the trailer out into the road and back a carslength to slot it into this new vacancy before another vehicle filled it.
After another cup of coffee, Hattie and I carried the boxes of tools that we had selected down to the van. I hooked up the trailer again and carefully negotiated the narrow streets of Montpelier.
I decided to head out of Bristol down he old A4 through the Avon gorge rather than by the motorway. As I drove along I noted the remains of the old Hotwells branch, then followed the still active commuter line out to Avonmouth and Severn Beach. Feeling hungry, I turned off the main road at the beckoning of a sign that said “Fish & Chips 80 yards”. The distance quoted was inaccurate, and, after at least 200 yards I parked up and paid £1.50 for the worst bag of chips I have ever tasted. Vowing never to go there again ( I probably wouldn't anyway) I returned to the main road. Passing Avonmouth Docks I remembered a conversation with John Gould. He told me that, as part of his campaign to keep the Kennet and Avon open he once loaded a pair of boats (presumably Colin & Iris) with grain at Avonmouth and had the unnerving experience of waves coming over the butty's stern and flooding the cabin as he headed upriver towards Bristol.
Following the meandering road across low lying ground, part agricultural, part industrial, I eventually came to Severn Beach, then reached the roundabout that marked the way on to the Severn Bridge. After driving across a vast expanse of tarmac I reached the toll booth, paid my dues, and set off across the great bridge. Big sister of Brunels pioneering structure that I had crossed the previous day, it spans not only the Severn Estuary but also the mouth of the Wye. On the Welsh side of the river I left the motorway and, after skirting Chepstow, set off along a B road through arcadian countryside. This brought me to the town of Usk, but I had a problem. I remembered that Boatbuilding Timber Supplies was on a road out of the other side of Usk, but I wasn’t sure which road. I plumped for another B road which meanders towards Abergavenny.
I was pretty sure to begin with that I was on the right road, but after a couple of miles my confidence dwindled. I decided to turn round, but had to find a suitable place. Eventually I diverged up a tiny lane, then turned round by backing into a farmyard. When I had nearly got back to Usk I pulled into a gateway and rang Gavin who runs the sawmill. He said he had seen me drive past, just before I went up the side road. I had been so busy looking for somewhere to turn round that I missed the sawmill. I turned again and soon I was carefully backing the trailer between stacks of timber towards Gavin’s crane.
The log that I was interested in was sawn into 4” thick slabs. One by one Gavin lifted them with his crane, a hiab mounted on a bare lorry chassis, so that I could examine them and select the ones that I wanted. The three that I wanted were then swung forward, with the crane at its full reach, and placed carefully on the trailer. With the load tightened down with ratchet straps and a wad of cash handed over, I carefully drew the heavy trailer out of the yard. Gavin took photos for his website as I left http://www.btswales.co.uk/ but they don't seem to have appeared yet.
I thought I would head home the pretty way, and check out another sawmill on the way. I had been told of a sawmill at Whitney on Wye, so I turned left on to the road towards Abergavenny, then carried on into Brecknock, driving between high dark mountains, then into the gentle Wye Valley which goes in a great loop via Hereford before it reaches Chepstow. Going via the book town of Hay on Wye I carried on along a winding road, then crossed the river on a timber decked toll bridge, the piers of the old railway bridge standing parallel to my left. I had been racing the lowering sun as it was now past 4 PM, and soon it would be finishing time at the sawmill. Whitney on Wye seemed to be off to the left somewhere according to the map, so I looked for left turns. I didn’t have to look far, as a tarmacced lane running uphill announced itself as the entrance to Whitney sawmills.
I parked up and walked towards a forklift truck that was loading some sticked timber into a drying shed. The driver got out and greeted me. We discussed different kinds of timber, prices, availability etc and gave me permission to go and look at the logs that they had in stock. It was certainly an impressive place, though the prices are slightly higher than sawmills that I’ve dealt with before.
Curiosity satisfied, I set out again into the fading light, driving North across country. Leominster, Ludlow, Craven Arms and Church Stretton, then on to the Shrewsbury ring road and sheared off to cross the Shroppie at Market Drayton. Via Newcastle under Lyne and Congleton then a little bit of the M60 I got back to Ashton and, after checking the boats at Portland Basin, arrived home, where Emuna had a meal ready for me.
Next day I took the trailerload of wood to Knowl St where Ryan , Stuart and I unloaded and stacked it before I returned the trailer to its owners.