I haven't been posting much because, well, nothing very exciting has happened. I've been plodding away at repairs and improvements to Hazel. Just lately this has mostly been in the electrical cupboard. This is under the foredeck and it's where the batteries and all the fuses and switches go. I was never very happy with it as the woodwork was rather thrown together (under pressure to get the boat finished) and the fuses etc were very inaccessible. The need to replace the batteries gave an excuse to rip it all out and do it better.

The new LiFePo batteries are now installed and charging nicely off the solar panels. The switches and fuses etc are being re-fitted in a much more ergonomic manner. There will actually be more storage space inside the cupboard too. 

Joe the Tree Surgeon has finished docking his boat Benevolence  at Guide Bridge and has tied her next to Hazel while he returns to Cumbria where he has work. He's looking to base himself aboard Benevolence  half the time and try to get work around Greater Manchester. 

Joe the tree feller bought himself a wooden narrow boat called Benevolence. She was built in 1938 by Nursers of Braunston for John Green of Macclesfield. In the 1980s my late friend Martin Cox was given the Keay Award for his work on her, but, since then, she's been rather neglected. Joe brought her from Oxford to Ashton, narrowly missing getting stranded by the breach at Bosley.

This week Benevolence has been on dock at Ashton Packet Boats. Joe said he was just going to have a look, put some patches on leaky bits and measure up for future replanking. Instead he ripped out a substantial length of rotten plank. I wondered if he was going to be ready for launching on Saturday, but, today he let in a substantial length of temporary pine plank. He's still cutting it fine, but Joe is a grafter! 

When he gets back to his native Cumbria, Joe will be looking out for some nice big oak trees that need felling. 

Once upon a time Lancashire was packed with cotton mills. Each one had a huge steam engine to drive the looms via cotton ropes and line shafting. One of the main traffics of the Ashton canal was short distance runs of coal from local pits to feed the boilers of the mills that lined it's banks. Tropical plants grew in the water because of the amount of hot water flowing out of the mills. 

In the 1950s and 60s, one by one, they closed down.  Amazingly, in the deepest Lancashire village of Haslingden one survived in production, steam powered, up until 1979. The engine and one of the weaving sheds are still there and are being restored and developed as a museum. Yesterday I paid it a visit. The weaving shed wasn't open but I got to see the magnificent mil engine and the exhibition of bikes, cars and smaller steam and internal combustion engines .It's not a highly polished professionally presented museum but a reflection of the volunteer's love of old engineering. I rather like that. It's only open once a month, but well worth a visit.  Here's some pictures.

I've just come across some photos of Southam  on a recycling trip in summer 2012. Work on resurrecting her is currently paused while we concentrate on Hazel,  but will soon resume. 

Sorry! I'm afraid I haven't been posting much lately. To be honest, I've been a bit down and depressed. Usually irrepressibly optimistic, all I've been able to see is all the things that are wrong, starting with me, not having the energy that I used to have, and going out into the whole world, which seems to be increasingly run by psychopaths intent on destroying eveyrthing that is beautiful.

While my pessimism may be, as pesseimists always claim, mere realism, staying in that mindset is counter productive. You drive all the positive people away and find yourself surrounded with Eeyors. 

Nevertheless, we've been making good use of the sunny weather to get on with work on the boats. 

Work started on fitting Southam's  missing top strake.

We started boarding Southam's  Conversion.

Tony and Nessie got the plank fitted.

Unfortunately further stripping uncovered more problems with the conversion.

Tony has mostly been working on Forget me Not, particularly painting.

The sitting room window had been leaking on Hazel  so that was taken out and refitted.

Joe the tree surgeon moved his boat Benevolence  to Knowl St, Stalybridge. He winded above lock 7 and backed the rest of the way to the boatyard.

The electricity cupboard under Hazel's foredeck had to be stripped out. The wood was deteriorating and has to be replaced and the main batteries need renewing after 10 years. The opportunity is being taken to make it a bit more ergonomic as the switches and fuses used to be very inaccessible.

Nessie set to work removing the cabinside by the bathroom as some of the wood was getting soft. 

The side bedroom window had been refitted and well sealed. Extra insulation was added to the inside. 

The old AGM batteries had lasted well. They were removed from the boat to be replaced by LiFePo batteries.

The gaping hole in the side of the bathroom was a bit of a surprise for Helen when she came to stay.

But it's now been filled in.

About every 3 months we run a short trip so that a man with a long squirty pole can clean the windows at Cavendish Mill, which is now flats. There's no towpath access since the retaining wall started to collapse in 2002. Since then CRT (previously BWB) and Tameside council have been arguing about who should pay to repair it. For the most recent trip, on Thursday, John Tickner came to take some of his excellent photos. As the gearbox is stil not quite ready I had to shaft the boat there and back.

On this occasion, Matt, the window cleaner, forgot to turn on a valve in his van, so I had to climb out over a spiky fence to turn it on for him. I'm not complaining but it may occur to some people that it was the 72 year old cancer survivor who did the climbing. Anyway, here's John's photos. They're his copyright.

Emuna alerted me to the fact that a traditional Pace Egging play was to be performed at Heptonstall on Good Friday. "Let's go" I said, so we set out over the Pennines, passports at the ready, into Yorkshire. For those who don't know about pace egging, let me explain that it's a form of messing about in silly costumes that goes back into the sands of time.

https://www.timetravel-britain.com/articles/history/pace-egging.shtml

On our way we stopped at Todmorden, another lovely stone town, for coffee and cake. This turned out to be a mistake, though the coffee and cake were nice.

        We're taking a break on work on Southam to get Hazel ready for the summer. There's a motorway bridge that makes excellent shelter for working on cabins, painting etc at Guide Bridge. We moved Hazel there so that we could work on the cabin.

Unfortunately, a day or two beforehand the pump on the central heating failed. I ordered two replacements, one as spare so that I could do a quick change if another failed. I get them from a company called Solar Project in Lancashire. https://solarproject.co.uk/  . I used to use Chinese made pumps which were about half the price, but noisy and used twice the amount of electricity. I was a bit disappointed that this one had only lasted two years though.

The pumps arrived and I fitted one, but struggled with leaks. Nessie fixed the leaks the following day. The downside of being under the bridge is that we need boatsitters every night to make sure nobody messes with the boat or our tools etc. Helen Kanes stayed for a couple of nights which was very helpful.

Part of the reason for staying under the bridge is the anticipated visit of Kira to repaint the name on Hazel's  stern. She arrived on 25th March and immediately set to work. Like many of our volunteers, Kira is camera shy, so only her reverse side appears in the photos!

Life was getting complicated. We're short staffed at the shop after Mike left (he got a job driving executives around in posh cars (he says), but it always seems to be at night, Mona Lisa springs to mind). Anyway, the upshot is that I have to run the shop one day a week and do deliveries in the van another day.

Joe Hodgson is a tree surgeon from Cumbria. He helped us to get some of the oak for rejuvenating Hazel . Since then he's been trying to get established on the cut. After several false starts he bought the 1938 built Nurser motor Benevolence from Oxford. After a journey of several months, including sinking once and getting held up by stoppages, he finally arrived.

Benevolence seems to be pretty good but has an iffy plank on the waterline (hence the sinking). She had lots of work done on her in the 1980s by Martin Cox. If I remember rightly, Martin was ousted from the job by others who offered to do it cheaper. Being a generous spirited person, however, he told me they'd done a good job.

Joe had to return to Cumbria, but he left me the code to the lock and permission to use the boat for towing.

Battery technology has moved on and the replacements are Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries (LiFePo). These have the advantages of lithium but without the risk of thermal runaway (which is a posh name for fire). We have to extract the old batteries, which will probably have further use on Southam, then insert the new ones and rebuild the woodwork around them, making it all rather more ergonomic (and properly sealed). Most of the wood used will be reclaimed mahogany rather than T&G. At present, changing a fuse or checking the state of charge is very awkward, so that needs to change,

One problem with being under the bridge is that if we need to work on the other side of the boat we have to take her to the winding hole, wind, then bring her back. One day, when I was working at the Knowl St boatyard, I asked Nessie and Aaron to do this. As Aaron shafted the boat under Hanover St bridge on the return trip, Nessie noticed that somebody was throwing our stuff into the canal. He made a death defying leap to the bank and ran round to confront the culprit, a man in his forties.

Nessie is no stranger to physical confrontation. He met the man at the top of the steep wooded slope that leads down to the canal side. He er, persuaded, the fellow to return to the scene of the crime and help to bring back our power tools and firewood from the bramble bushes where he'd stashed them. The man claimed that two others had run off with our generator (the good solid old fashioned one).

Over the decades Nessie has learned to moderate his anger, and so the man lived to steal another day. It was tempting to tie him up and throw him in the brambles,  but, aware that false imprisonment is a serious offence, he was let go. It was then that Nessie spotted some yellow metal lurking in the water and managed to fish out the generator.

I stayed on the boat that night but, the following night, the boatsitter, hearing of the aforementioned incident, decided not to stay "in case he came back". I had to go there at short notice.

On Wednesday April 2nd I spent most of the day meeting potential new volunteers before returning to Hazel to boatsit. I cooked myself a nice meal then just fell asleep, exhausted. April 2nd 2025 would also have been the 40th birthday of my son Dylan. I had intended to spend a little time sitting in the woods remembering his short life, but it didn't happen.

Now, all the boats are back at Portland Basin. I have so many jobs on the go that I don't know whether I'm coming or going. I think some people imagine that when they can't see me I'm at home with my feet up. Chance would be a fine thing!

When you live and work on and around the water you always have an awareness of rats. Long long ago when I was living on Forget me Not on the bank at Guide Bridge I had a long term battle with the rodents. I used poison to begin with. A terrible smell developed in my cabin, which I eventually traced to the decomposing remains of a poisoned rat that had crawled under my bed to take its final breaths. When I saw a rat dying from poison I resolved never to use it again. I don't like rats, but I've no wish to see them suffer like that. I decided that using traditional traps that rapidly smack them over the head was preferable, I despatched many in this way, but each one left the raiding rights to my cabin to a relative in its will.

When I first became romantically involved with Emuna I was living in the monstrosity of a back cabin built by a previous owner. For insulation I had lined it with old carpet. The first time she stayed over, in the middle of the night, I heard a rat scrabbling about between the carpet and the roof and started punching the carpet to get rid of it. After that, if I wanted to spend time with her, I had to cycle over to her flat in Royton!

At Portland Basin we've never really had much of a rodent problem. For many years Captain Kit Crewbucket, our resident cat, saw to that. We sometimes have had a problem with mink. Tackling one of these once resulted in Kit having an expensive trip to the vets. Since the Captain moved to Emuna's home for aged cats, and later on to pussycat heaven, we did have some of the vermin living in a brick shed on the wharf. They didn't stray on to the boats and were dealt with by the council.

Wherever I go I like to grow some of my own food. In recent years I've been growing potatoes in upturned road cones at the boatyard. To facilitate this I take all our kitchen waste there for composting. For many years the boatyard has been the happy hunting ground of many local felines. In fact, whenever I entered the yard they stared indignantly at me as if I were trespassing. Just lately they seem to have disappeared. I know some of their elderly "owners" (nobody owns a cat) have died. Possibly surviving cats have been rehomed.

This has caused a problem. My compost bins have turned into rodent feeding stations. I bought some rat traps, but these rats seem to be wise to these. I think they've learned to use a stick to spring the trap before enjoying the bait. I was at a loss to know what to do, but, suddenly, all evidence of rodent activity ceased. Today I discovered why. Basking in the sun on the roof of the woodstore was a fine big tomcat. I've no idea where he lives, but, I'm going to encourage him to spend time in the boatyard.

Apparently this week is Long Covid Week. The idea is to raise awareness but it looks like the activists are too knackered to do anything.

The only reason I know about it is that someone rang Any Answers on Radio 4 to raise concerns about how the government's targeting of the post pandemic long term sick would affect Long Covid sufferers. The big problem is, when you're knackered all the time and find it hard to get active, it's all too easy to be written off as a lazy bastard. This is particularly galling when you're actually feeling really frustrated by your inability to get anything done, I feel like I'm a lazy bastard if I don't get out every day and do a bit on the boats. Luckily I'm past the age when I'm expected to earn my keep. As far as I know, the government has no plans to cut my pension, but I feel like I'm being lazy, and letting people down, if I don't do my bit.

I don't even know for certain if I have Long Covid, or even if I had Covid. My conspiracy minded friends say I have vaccine damage, but then, some of them don't even believe that viruses exist (well, I've never seen one!)

Starting in 2018 I had to have 2 years hormone therapy to combat prostate cancer. This leached the testosterone out of my body. making me feel a lot weaker and short of stamina than previously. Prior to that I used to enjoy bowhauling a butty through a flight of locks when people half my age struggled to haul a single pound.

Just as the pandemic was starting in early 2020 both me and Emuna had something. We don't know it was Covid because there was no testing, but it probably was. It actually wasn't too bad. I had my final hormone injection in the spring of 2020 and through the summer I was looking forward to getting my energy back. It didn't come.

While I've never been super athletic, running marathons etc, I used to be pretty fit. I walked tremendous distances exploring the hills. I would cycle 100+ miles in a day. Now, the mile from Portland Basin to our house had become a daunting walk and, while I still cycled, my range was down to a few miles and I struggled with the smallest hills

Other symptoms persisted, aches and pains, getting out of breath, tinnitus, brain fog to the extent that some people started saying I had dementia. It comes and goes. Sometimes I think it has gone away, only for it to come back and hit me again. Sometimes people suggest it's my age. Now, fair enough, I can't expect to be able to do things I did when I was 25, but I don't think this is to do with age particularly. There are too many odd symptoms.

Today has been a really difficult day. It actually started with a really nice dream in which I had a load of problems but people rallied round to help, unasked. I hope that was predictive as I'm feeling in need of help right now. I struggled to get out of bed and was aching all over. I took most of the morning to have my breakfast and send a few messages on Facebook. About 11 I went to the boatyard and cut a bit of firewood, but I couldn't seem to get much useful done. As I hadn't made myself any butties I decided to go home for my dinner. Emuna was busy cooking and so restricting access to the kitchen. I lay down to read the excellent book she gave me for my birthday (Tales from the Tillerman by Steve Haywood). I was actually too tired to read much. I fell asleep for several hours.

It's now ten past six and I'm awake again, but feeling I've wasted a day. I think I'll carry on with that book, if I can remember where I've put it!

Having been on Earth for 72 years I decided to have 2 days off for my birthday. On Sunday I opted to go for a ride on the Keighley & Worth Valley Railway over in Yorkshire. Unfortunately Emuna was having a relapse from her ME so couldn't have a full day out. I could have gone on my own, but I enjoy it more if I'm with someone likeable, so I invited Helen Kanes who loves steam trains and is good company.

We caught a 409 bus from Ashton to Rochdale, then got a train to Hebden Bridge. I like Hebden Bridge. It's one of those places where strangers smile and start pleasant conversations with you. There was a 40 minute wait for the 'bus so we explored the path by the river, busy with walkers, runners and cyclists.

The "Brontebus" from Hebden Bridge to Keighley was waiting when we got back. The driver was a young woman who hardly looked like she was out of school yet. That's my age talking. She's probably someone's granny! She was certainly skilled at 'bus driving. The steep road up to the delightfully named Peckets Well was made for pack horses rather than 'buses, Nowadays it is lined with parked cars and vans. There's scarcely room for a 'bus to pass. At one point some cars had to reverse quite a distance to let us through.

Over the moors the 'bus rattled and banged over the rough road before descending into Oxenhope. Here there was a narrow 90 degree bend with inches to spare for the 'bus. We debussed on Station Road and walked down the station approach. The ticket office was small and dark with a coal fire burning in an open grate.

The diesel train had not long departed and there would be a bit of a wait for the steamer. We had a look in the museum. which is really a store for stock that is out of service. Much of it was taken up with the Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway coaches that form the vintage train set for the summer season. Of locomotives there were an 8F, a 'jinty', an LMS 4F, a standard 4MT tank and a Lanky 'pug'. That sentence will mean nothing to the uninitiated!

A tannoy announcement brought us scuttling back to the platform just in time to see the steam train arrive.

The locomotive was that stalwart of the line, number 41241. I remember her as station pilot at Leamington Spa, shunting parcels vans etc, in the mid 1960s.

I discussed the coal situation with one of the engine crew. I had chosen not to visit the closer East Lancashire Railway as they are having their steam trains pushed by diesels to conserve coal stocks. There are now no coal mines in Britain. 41241 was burning a mix of coal from Kazakhstan and ecocoal. The ecocoal, which is briquettes made from a mixture of anthracite dust and crushed olive stones, doesn't burn too well on its own. The Kazak coal is of variable quality and sometimes clinkers up badly. Clinker seals up the grate and stops the fire getting enough air to burn well.

After a while the engine moved to the end of the loop to run round its train, watched by an embracing couple.

We climbed aboard a BR Mk1 open second and remarked on the surprise of sinking into the old sprung seats, very different from modern plastic foam. Soon we were trundling down the valley to Haworth. My stomach was telling me it was feeding time and, though we'd both brought butties, it seemed sensible to leave them for later as it looked like we'd be quite late back. Opposite the station here there's a nice little cafe, so we got off the train and walked over there to enjoy some lunch.

We waited on the platform to see the steam service pause on its way up the line to Oxenhope, then waited some more for it to return, Keighley bound, The day was dull, the wind cold. I explained to Helen that the whole purpose of Yorkshire was to keep the wind of Lancashire. I'm not sure if she believed me.

Oakworth is the station where they filmed The Railway Children starring a young Jenny Agutter. There's a huge stone mill straddling the river, part of its roof fallen in. Damems is a tiny request stop. Ingrow West is home to the Vintage Carriages Trust museum, Sadly, we didn't have time to get off and explore that.

It's Ingrow West because there used to be an Ingrow East. This was on the Great Northern line from Keighley, through tunnels and over viaducts to divide at Queensbury (of boxing rules fame) into routes to Bradford and Halifax. This closed in the 1950s. As we trundled down the valley towards Keighley the trackbed of the old route was visible, descending steeply from its high moorland way.

At Keighley the train terminated. Electric trains whirred in and out of the Network Rail half of the station as the engine ran round, took water, then backed on to its train again;

Our seats were now in the leading carriage. As we started off I went to the vestibule and opened the window to enjoy the barking exhaust of 41241 as she hauled her train uphill round the tight bend out of the station. Helen was sitting in her seat, so I beckoned her over to have a look. She was entranced by the experience, so I went to the opposite window to get my share of the action. Here I stayed for most of the ride up the valley.

By the time we reached Oxenhope the light was beginning to dim. We left 41241 to be admired by her many devotees and caught the last 'bus back to Hebden Bridge, repeating the morning's journey in reverse. It was a lovely day out.

Today is my actual birthday. I had a day off, or tried to! I got a sweater, a T shirt and a book! Emuna took me out for lunch in a cafe in the nearby community centre. As I went to get more coffee and cakes a well dressed little woman came over and asked to pay for them. She said that for lent she was doing something nice for someone every day. Why she picked me I don't know. I told her about Hazel. Afterwards we planned to head for the moors. We both enjoy moorlands, We drove the pretty way through Park Bridge and got stuck on a steep hill of unmade road. Eventually we got as far as Greenfield, but Em had started to feel poorly so we headed home. ME is a bugger like that!  I started to read the book, Tales from the Tillerman by Steve Haywood. 

Nessie started work on the cabinsides. This was started pre pandemic and got stalled by that catastrophe. He then put his foot through the roof. I knew the roof needed renewing at the fore end but, unfortunately, it looks like we'll have to do the whole lot. When Nessie started removing the old roof, guess what! We found that the rot had spread into the other side, last renewed in 2010. Looks like that will need replacing too. "Oh it all makes work for the working man to do". 

The team have also started fitting the greenheart top strake that was prepared back in 2019.

We're doing all this work as economically as possible, using up stocks of wood, donated wood and reclaimed timber, but we still have to buy sealants, screws etc. It's amazing what that can mount up to nowadays. You can help by donating to our Go Fund Me.

https://gofund.me/9f6c11ab 

Here's some photos.

The range in Forget me Not's  back cabin obviously needed repair so we took it out.  When we moved it, it fell to bits. I believe new ranges are still available, but they cost thousands, so I asked Dave to rebuild it. Not possible he said. I left the bits in a wheelbarrow for over a year, then asked again. Dave seems to like declaring something impossible, then doing it anyway. Dave and Kim are now busy reconstructing the range.

For as long as I can remember there's been a lovely cherry tree at Portland Basin. One day I arrived to do some work and found tree surgeons busy cutting it down. Apparently it's roots were interfering with the nearby new flats. Well, the tree was there first! 

There was nothing we could do to save it. Nessie had already blagged the branches for firewood (not that we're short). I was more interested in the trunk. I'm well aware of how cherry is sought after by furniture makers etc. The tree surgeons agreed to give us the trunk as well as the branches and we moved Forget me Not   forward so that we could load it all on to her deck.

It's sat there for a couple of months, but now it's in the way. We couldn't move it whole so I got out the chainmill to plank it.

Unfortunately the chainsaw suddenly packed up part way through the job (probably expensive) but we cut enough for now. Today me and Nessie took the planked pieces up to Stalybridge to be stacked and seasoned. We've kept the branches too as these will be of interest to woodturners. In a couple of years we'll advertise it all in the hope of selling it to woodworkers.

Southam came out of the water on 28th December. As I write this we have  1 more day before she returns to her natural element. This phase of work is virtually done now. Next we have to install the engine and rebuild the cabin.

The main job so far  has been to strengthen up her stern end so that it will last, perhaps another 10 years, before we have to bite the bullet and rebuild it. Southam is a heavy boat and tends to sag over the blocks when taken out of the water. Last time she was out, in 2019, we replaced 4 straight sideplanks, but, as she emerged, there was a crack and the side bulged out at the point where the forward bulkhead of the back cabin used to be.

Southam is a 'Big Ricky', built as a butty in 1936 for the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company. In 1965 she was converted and motorised in 1965. We bought her, sunk at Hillmorton, in 1992. By co-incidence, she's named after the town where I went to school when I was a kid.

 Since then she's been a very useful boat, but with periods out of use awaiting repair. Her latest period of disrepair has been about 10 years. We started work on her refurbishment in 2019, but completion was stymied by the covid pandemic and its aftermath.

For some time she has been in the arm at Portland basin, with fellow ricky Elton sunk alongside her. I thought she was trapped by the sunken boat so it seemed urgent to raise it. Again we failed. Again it was because one of the pumps wouldn't work. Lilith had to spend a couple of nights breasted up to the CRT work boat whilst we tried to raise Elton.

Nessie reckoned he could get Southam out. This he succeeded in doing. Southam is now free and waiting to go to Guide Bridge for slipping just after Christmas.

She looks a mess. She is a mess, but work is starting on her again. We just need more people to come and work towards her renaissance so that she can become a really useful boat again, towing, providing accommodation for volunteers, visiting waterway events and possibly becoming a mobile craft outlet.

                                                            MORE VOLUNTEERS NEEDED.

More money needed too-

https://gofund.me/b1cd6613 

Here's a picture of Southam in happier days. With your help  she'll soon be up and running again and doing a useful job.

It's usually October when we cut the hedges at Knowl St. This year it really needed doing, but, the complications of life got it put back to the very end of October.

Brian, Tom, Hayley and me set to work with all kinds of implements of destruction. As well as doing the front we removed the ivy etc that was spilling over on to the woodshelter. This revealed how dilapidated the woodshelter has become. It wasn't intended to last this long really, but we lost a few years with all the difficulties of 2016 to 2022. Never mind. Things are looking up again now. The woodshelter will get covered with a big tarpaulin for the time being.We could really do with a regular volunteer to pop in weekly to look after the garden and keep it looking nice though. Any offers?

I recently had a bit of time to wait for a train at Manchester Victoria, so I spent my time taking some arty farty photos of trains and people. So here they are.

"Forget me Not" needs a mid life overhaul, but she's needed for towing, and, anyway, we just don't have the resources just now to do it. However, the cabin has been in a disreputable state for far too long. Happily, Tony Ellams keeps showing up and quietly getting on with work on it. Here's a few pictures of what He's been doing lately. Could do with someone handy with a paintbrush to do the painting and signwriting next!  

The waterways have a foliage problem. Inevitably, every autumn trees and shrubs spread their seeds, and some of them land and germinate at the edges of the waterway. Once upon a time there were lock keepers and lengthsmen who would tend their allotted bit of waterway, cutting off or pulling up interlopers before they could get established. The age of the accountant put an end to such labour intensive practises and regular tending of a loved length of waterway was replaced with occasional  visits by teams of weed whackers and sprayers. Modern management don't like to employ people if they can possibly help it, so employees have been replaced with contractors, and, with the waterway grant support fast diminishing, their visits have become less and less frequent. 

The problem affects both rivers and canals. It would be impossible to use the towpath for its intended purpose on most rivers nowadays as there is a veritable forest between path and water. Horse haulage or bowhauling is getting increasingly difficult on the canals because of the size of the bushes on the towpath edge. On the outside sizeable trees are forcing boats to go so close to the towpath that they stem up. Low branches sweep loose articles off boat roofs. One of our volunteers had what could have been a serious accident when a branch caught in his lifejacket and nearly flung him off the stern of the motor into the path of the butty.

At the moment we have no functioning motor boat, so, we have to bowhaul. The towpath edge trees are a big problem. 

With a bowhauled Hazel trip coming up, we decided to tackle the foliage between Asda and the winding hole at Eli Whalley's that had been a problem on the last such trip. While I was using Facebook etc to organise a team, Nessie decided to just go and do it himself. When the team assembled the job was already done, so we decided to go and tackle the bushes beyond Walk Bridge, on the way towards Guide Bridge.

As we crossed the junction bridge, who should show up but the contractors with their big industrial strimmers. They went ahead of us whizzing off the tops of the plants and leaving the devastated brash in the water or on the towpath. If a bush extended too far out into the waterway they just left most of it.

Such treatment causes long term problems for the infrastructure, and short term problems for any hauled boats. If you're bowhauling or horse hauling a boat, bushes are bad, but truncated bushes are worse.

 A medium sized bush will bend beneath a rope as the boat is hauled along and eventually release it. A truncated stem of such a bush will snag a line and bring the boat completely to a stop.

If trees are allowed to grow, then cut back, they will throw out new shoots and grow again next year. with each year's growth the uncut portions, and the roots grow bigger. The strength of them is so great that they will force masonry apart, the eventual repair of which will be very expensive. A stitch it time saves nine.

Here's some pictures of the mess they made.

Our team followed after the contractors, cutting back the trees right to the roots and making nice habitat piles in the hedge from the offcuts. It was very slow and hard work though. We only got about 50 yards.

Once upon a time we did regular working parties for CRT. This stopped because of a combination of things. One was their excessive bureaucracy and their ban on us pulling rubbish out (no-one seems to know about this now, but it happened. You can't pull shopping trolleys out because it might disturb the wildlife). Then came covid, and we've generally struggled for volunteers since. It would be good to get back into it, particularly dealing with foliage and sunken rubbish. It would also be nice if someone other than me did the organising!

Works4U is a school for young people with Autism in Stalybridge. They bought a small steel narrowboat called Murphy from Preston Brook. It's engine wasn't working so they had to arrange a tow. This got it to Castlefields. We arranged to bowhaul Murphy up the 27 locks from Manchester to Ashton.

Key to doing this was the remarkable Aaron Booth, who did most of the bowhauling, but the cast also included

Geraldine Buckley,

Glyn Ford,

Tony Ellams,

Brian Bloom,

Rhona Mapperley,

Helen Kanes

and Nessie.

Photos taken from the boat by Helen Kanes, from the land by me.

Canal St Lock

Between Canal St and  Chorlton St Lock the boat had to be shafted because the towpath is now the fashionable Canal St.

After Chorlton St the canal disappears into concrete caverns under modern office blocks.

We emerge from the gloom into Dale St Lock. The adjacent basin was once packed with trading boats, but is now a car park.

Geraldine and her miniscule dog were waiting on the lockside

Aaron was working the lock. Rhona had been steering.

Aaron had to shaft across the basin to the little rathole that is the entrance to the Ashton canal.

The interior of Murphy will need a bit of work.

We'd been concerned about getting through Lock 3 of the Ashton as contractors were supposed to be starting work that day and closing the canal. It's all part of a scheme to put a new bridge across the tail of the lock so that the heavy foot traffic from the tram stop won't be disrupted by people working the lock. It all looks rather over engineered to me. Bear in mind that making a ton of concrete releases 1.8 tons of CO2.

Several locks further up we got to the new Co-op Live concert venue, famous for it's opening fiasco.

On the other side of the canal is the Etihad, where more building work is in progress.

We carried on working upwards.

Rhona had to leave us as she had work in the afternoon.

The view down the flight can be quite dramatic.

We reached the summit at lock 18 shortly before dusk, Aaron forged ahead, hauling us at a fair lick, arriving at Portland Basin well after dark. A long day, but very enjoyable. We were lucky with the sunny winter weather.

In order to keep the Canal & River Trust happy that we are fitting in with our licence conditions, all Hazel guests have to have a trip. While Forget me Not  is out of action this has to be human powered. We bowhaul a short way then throw the line onboard and the boat is shafted past the towpath blockage. This is where, 22 years ago, the retaining wall became unsafe so they tipped in truckloads of stone to support it. Since then, as I understand it, the waterway authority and the local authority have been unable to agree about who is responsible for repairing it.

Anyway, at the end of this the boat reaches the Asda tunnel. The shafter lays down their implement and lies on their back to stretch up and walk upside down along the roof (not easy, especially when the water is low). We use an old chair on its back to help support the legger. Beyond the tunnel a bit more shafting is required as the towpath has been closed off to make a nature area. Then it's back to bowhauling under the railway bridge and past the Sea Cadet moorings to the winding hole at Eli Whalley's. We wind there and repeat the process in reverse.

Bang on 06.30 I carried my rucksack to my allotted breakfast table, hung my hi vis jacket over the back of the chair and got busy on stocking up on breakfast. Outside it was dark and windy with just a spittering of rain. I consumed cereal, croissants, sausage, bacon, brownies,  beans and some of the strange Scottish meaty mush that I've never come across before.

It was still dark when I unlocked my bike and set off from the Castletown Hotel, lights flashing to make sure all drivers noticed me. The wind was mostly to my side and gave me little trouble.

The booking office wasn't yet open at Thurso station so entry was round the side through the car park. Though I was early there was already quite a crowd huddled under the overall roof. I struck up a conversation with a couple who are teachers on the Orkneys and had just travelled in from Stromness. Originally they came from Dumfries. Clearly keen travellers by surface transport, we discussed many journeys that we have each undertaken. The spittering turned to a mizzle. The indicator display told us the progress of the train from Wick. As train time approached more and more people arrived, making the covered area quite crowded.

The train trundled in. I headed for the cycle space and loaded myself in.

As the train ground to a halt at Georgemas Junction I noticed that a man in orange overalls was working in the high security compound. One on the gates was partly open. He appeared to be cutting grass. I changed seat so as to be facing forwards again as the train changes direction here.

On my journey North I was surprised that there was no mention of the station at Altnabreac. I was aware of this because my friend ,and WCBS patron Ian Marchant, got off there, had an adventure, and wrote about it in his book Parallel Lines https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/1968075.Parallel_Lines  . I though it odd that the option to stop there had not been mentioned on the PA system as the train rattled though at full speed. Had it closed I wondered. No, it hasn't, but the service has been suspended because of a dispute with a landowner.

It seems that a Christian couple from Manchester way have bought the old station house and some land. They also claim to own the platform, the level crossing and the approach road and that Network Rail and Scotrail have no right of access. They've even chained themselves to the crossing gates to stop vehicles coming in. Scotrail say that, as they cannot do essential safety work on the platform they have to suspend services until the dispute is resolved. The couple claim that Scotrail are bullying them and have published various rather silly videos on You Tube. Meanwhile, the 280 passengers a year who used to use the station, mostly to go walking in the flow country, can't go.  I must say, my sympathies lie with the public body who are trying to allow public access rather than anyone's property rights, real or imagined.

https://www.pressreader.com/uk/the-railway-magazine/20240401/281715504617357?srsltid=AfmBOophbXvFTAhxAe92azB4ulhC2TjWPOFGBUPkD4U7LiUuSQwt2I95

https://www.youtube.com/@ALTNABREAC

We rattled through Alnabreac again without it being mentioned on the tannoy. I enjoyed watching the landscape slip by, remembering to look out for things I'd noted on the way up.

It's a long journey, but I didn't stop enjoying it. I could sit on trains and watch the world go by all day. As a matter of fact, that's what I did.

Eventually we reached Dingwall where I had to change. I heaved my bike and luggage over the footbridge to get to the other platform. I had over an hour to wait on this delightful but mostly deserted station. I tucked into my butties. I thought it amusing that someone had gone to the trouble of making a brass plate to record the number of servicemen served with tea during the Great War.

My train was a 2 car unit. I was the only passenger boarding at Dingwall.

 It curved away westwards towards the delightful Victorian Spa town of Strathpeffer. The route was originally intended to pass through there but, because of the objections of a local dignitary, it takes an abrupt turn to skirt round the town. Later, a branch line was built to carry the once considerable tourist traffic. It had its own delightful dedicated tank engine. Happily, the terminal station survives as a museum and there's a scheme to re-open the railway.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strathpeffer_railway_station

https://www.hattons.co.uk/directory/vehicledetails/3144959/0_4_4t_strathpeffer_class_hr?srsltid=AfmBOoolkVHZqr6a8XkGPqL5J8IdufNP6dGfcvM0UvygQQ_iiWK7ADv1 

The train started to labour up the steep gradient into the hills. This must have been quite a hard climb in the days of steam trains. It's clear from looking at the contour lines on the OS map that, but for that 19th century NIMBY, the railway would have taken a much easier route.

I noticed that many of the passengers were fairly elderly couples, many of them American.

The scenery was an endless reel of natural beauty. Mountains, rivers, loughs, forests all slipped by. 

I particularly enjoyed slipping along the edge of Loch Luichart, looking out over the water to mountains still slightly touched by wisps of mist.

The line eventually descended to sea level and took a tortuous course along the edge of the water, first the semi  enclosed Loch Carron, then the open sea, before cutting through hard rock to end facing the sea at Kyle of Lochalsh.

The railway was built under the title of the Dingwall and Skye railway. I don't know if there was ever an idea to build a railway bridge to Skye. Probably not, as the traffic wouldn't justify the huge expense, but the tracks couldn't really go much further. It looks like the railway came along, running up to take a long jump over the water, then dug its heels in at the last moment. I imagine that, before the road bridge was built, ferries would have set off almost from the platform end. Most of the older couples walked off the station and straight on to a road coach. Clearly a trip on the railway was part of the itinerary of a coach tour.

https://www.railscot.co.uk/locations/K/Kyle_of_Lochalsh/

I had a look at the big modern fishing boats assembled in the harbour, then went looking for the Skye Bridge Hotel. I soon found it, a white angular building with something of a downmarket Bauhaus about it.

https://www.guestreservations.com/the-skye-bridge-hotel/booking

I was welcomed into reception by a tall blond South African woman of about 50.  She showed me where to stash my bike, gave me the room key, directions to the room and instructions on how to get in after hours. I went up to my room. It was modern, angular and delightfully asymmetrical.

Once I was installed in my room I went out to explore the town and found that there really wasn't much of a town and what there was was mostly closed. After a bit of walking around I came upon a Chinese takeaway. With a hot aluminium tray of food I went looking for somewhere to eat it. I had passed a sign pointing to the signalbox, which now seemed to be a museum. The points and signals are now controlled remotely. I descended the steps, thinking I'd eat there, but it looked like someone lived in it, so, feeling like I was trespassing, I came out and headed for the station.

I got there just in time to see the Inverness train leaving.

I ate my beef chow mein on the station platform, then headed back to the hotel. Up in my room I dealt with some emails. I was thinking of visiting the hotel bar but, remembering my £8 pint in Perth, I decided to read instead.

I woke to see that nearby roofs glistened with rain, Not a good omen when I was about to embark on a 23mile bike ride. I nipped out to the minimarket across the street to buy bread, made my butties for the day, then went downstairs. The hotel does not do breakfasts so I decided to return to my usual practise of fasting on several mornings each week.

As i handed in my keys I happened to mention my plan to cycle to Armadale. The South African lady looked concerned. "Oh" she said, "you know the roads aren't very good over there". She added " the road from Broadford to Armadale is OK but from here to Broadford is a bit, you know". She made a hand wiggling gesture. I didn't know, and I've ridden on some pretty rough roads in my time.

It had stopped raining and the sun was shining, but the mountains across the water on Skye were ominously shrouded in cloud.

 I rode out on the Skye road.

 A fishing boat was setting out from the port.

As I rode up the slope of the hump backed Skye bridge I could see a complete rainbow hanging over the sea. The clouds rolled back to the tops of the mountains.

My route took me, initially in a roughly South Easterly direction, along the North coast of the island. Just before Broadford I had to turn sharp left to head South, over a low ridge then down a long finger of the island to the ferry port.

The road was fine. Modern, well surfaced and quite busy with cars and lorries. On my left was pine forest, on my right, mostly grazing ground then the sea, with the little island of Pabay visible in the distance. The sun was shining through a light drizzle.

I stopped. Silhouetted against the sky were two hawks perched on the gateposts on opposite sides of a field gate. 

I wondered if they were real. It seemed a strange way to decorate such a humble gateway, but, they were very still. I walked up and down a bit, then I thought I saw one's head move. I'm still not sure. After all, I've met scousers who swear they've seen the Liver Birds flap their wings.

I don't know why the South African woman was dubious about this road. It was just a normal road. Nothing wiggly handed about it at all.

Eventually I came to my turning, sharp left on to the road to Armadale. Immediately I started going uphill, though not very steep. The countryside was that typically Scottish gently sloping brown moorland. Emuna wanted pictures of Skye, so I made this little video.

The road was wide, modern and fairly busy. An earlier narrow road ran parallel and I wondered about riding on that instead, but stuck to the main road.

A lough and mountains hove into view on the right. The mist and mizzle cleared and the sun began to shine.

Eventually I reached the summit and started descending towards the sea with pine forests on my left.

The courtesy from drivers continued. It seems to be a Scottish thing, and very welcome after the aggressiveness of many English drivers.

I stopped at a layby overlooking a bay to take a photograph and drink from my water bottle. I shared the layby with a camper van inhabited by a Scots couple. They asked me if I needed more water. We had a chat about the weather etc. They had come over on the ferry and were heading to the North of the island in the hope of seeing the northern lights.

I carried on along the coast, the road dotted with loose settlements and the odd distillery. Between each bay the road rose up into the rocky wooded landscape, then down again to the next bay.

In the distance I saw a ferry setting out across the water towards the mainland, so I knew I was close to Armadale. My battery was showing one flashing light, It was nearly out of power.

At the ferry terminal I booked my ticket for a refreshingly low price, £3.50 if I remember correctly. I had the best part of an hour to wait, so I went to the end of the pier to sit, eat my butties and admire the amazing view of mountains across the calm water.

A man wearing a camouflage kilt joined me on the pier. It seemed a strange conjunction of sartorial cultures. He pointed out a group of kayaks paddling close to the rocky shore and explained that they were a group of American girls on an adventure holiday. He hurried away to meet them at the end of their trip.

I watched the ferry making its journey over from Mallaig and, as it swung round to reverse on to the ramp, I made my way to join the queue of pedestrians. My fellow foot passengers seemed to be mostly from the United States. One was much taken with my appearance and asked if he could photograph me. I granted permission, amused that he probably thought I was some kind of native Highland character, rather than just another tourist. We walked down the ramp and I secured my bike before climbing to the higher decks to get out of the way of the oncoming motor vehicles.

A typical tourist, I spent most of the crossing trying to get good photos of the surrounding mountains.

We passed a little ferry bound for one of the smaller islands.

After docking, we waited for the cars to clear, then, us pedestrians walked up the ramp, I mounted my bike and rode the short way into the town centre. I had booked a night in the Mallaig Mission Bunkhouse.

https://www.facebook.com/TheMissionBunkhouse/ 

I soon found it, on the main street opposite the station. On the ground floor there's a cafe and a secondhand bookshop which, unfortunately, displayed a handwritten sign to say it was was closed. I rang the bell on the bunkhouse door, then realised that it was before the earliest checking in time. My bike was locked to the railings outside, so I went for a walk to have a look at the main street and the harbour. The latter seems to be divided into 3 parts, the ferry terminal, the fishing boats area and a little marina with floating pontoons. I was surprised to see a little repair yard belonging to Harland and Wolff, closed like it's big brother in Belfast. 

Back at the bunkhouse I rang the bell, then I rang it again. The warden opened the door. He was a sporty looking East European chap in his thirties. Made me think of a PE teacher from long ago (always hated PE). He invited me to follow him up the stairs, then showed me round. My room was basic, bunk beds, a high window, all grey. It made me think of a prison cell. The tour continued, shared toilets, shower cubicles, Outside on to a verandah then into a communal kitchen, peoples names written on cornflake packets etc. Next to the kitchen was a lounge with old sofas, a small dining table and a TV.

There were lots of tourist brochures lying around. All was clean but rather institutional. It was the cheapest place to stay at £50 a night. Most hotels here are over £100 for a single room.

https://the-mission-bunkhouse-hostel.highlandshotelspage.com/en/

Once I'd unpacked my rucksack I decided it was time for a brew. No eating or drinking allowed in rooms, so I went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and sat in the lounge. The warden appeared with a young, short, slim, bearded Indian man who was receiving the grand tour. The warden left and the young man sat down on another sofa. I tried to start a conversation but it was hard going. I ascertained that he came from Southall and had just completed his MBA at Coventry University. I told him about how my parents came from Coventry and lived through the blitz. I sort of anticipated that he would respond with something about Coventry, but nothing came. There was no reciprocation. It was a one sided conversation. Perhaps he was shy, but I gave up, drank my coffee and returned to my room.

After reading for a bit. I realised that I was hungry and I'd better do something about it. I walked down the main street (there are few others) and decided to try The Tea Garden. On an extensive menu, including much seafood, I spotted the dish of Sherried Herring, so I ordered that. I sat outside on the terrace in the evening sun. https://hiddenscotland.com/listings/the-tea-garden-cafe

Once upon a time Herring was widely eaten in Britain. In 1913 12 million tons were landed. Fishery workers used to follow the shoals of herring southwards each year, including fishergirls who were experts at gutting and filleting the fish. It's my theory that the rugby song "Four and twenty virgins", which I couldn't get out of my head as I rode the Inverness bound train, derived from this migration. It's a very healthy food, being full of fish oil. For some reason it's gone out of fashion in Britain, in fact it's often difficult to find. Much of the British Herring catch is exported, whereas much of the fish that we eat is imported, some  even coming from China!

The Sherried Herring was wonderful. Here's the recipe-

https://www.foodiesite.com/recipes/2000-09:marinateherring

 Later in the evening I felt the need for some beer. I had noticed a pub called the Steam Inn when I was looking for somewhere to eat, so I went to it. only to discover that it had closed down. The only option seemed to be the Marine Bar, which looked like a bit of a lager and football pub, not really my scene.

I was right about the pub, but, nevertheless, enjoyed watching the other customers. Sitting by the bar were 3 middle aged men with a maritime air about them, engaging in lively conversation and banter. I guessed they worked on fishing boats. One had a dog with a husky look about it. The middle one of the three was one of those Scots whose face has a fixed smile even when he's not happy. Andy Stewart of "Donald Where's your Troosers" fame had such a face. In fact, this probable fisherman was pretty much his double.

He was doing most of the talking and joking, holding court over his friends.

The barmaid was a tall elegant young woman who joined in the chatter, but at the same time remained a little aloof. She was going on a journey to a city shortly and much of the conversation centred around that.

Near the door sat a young man who was constantly having conversations on his 'phone, which he had plugged in to charge. He seemed to be involved in some sort of telephonic crisis management, fueled by regular top ups of lager.

I suddenly realised that I had a crisis of my own. Access to the bunkhouse was through a keycoded door. I had saved the code on my 'phone, but it's battery was on the brink of running out of puff. Using virtually it's last breath I had a look in the hope that my memory would hold the code long enough for me to get back to my room.

Luckily my memory didn't let me down and I regained my room to enjoy a pleasant nights sleep on the top bunk.

The warden had put my bike in the laundry room, which was locked. With my gear packed and butties made I pressed the buzzer for the warden to unlock it at 09.30. He was a bit miffed that I'd  buzzed him so early. I'd told him that my train was at 10.10, but I like to be in good time.

There was quite a crowd of intending passengers at the station and it wasn't long before the train arrived at the terminus. It was made up of two units, so it had two bike areas. I headed for the one roughly in the middle of the train, but the guard told me to use the other one, at the very rear. I don't know why.

The line from Mallaig to Fort William is another catalogue of amazing scenery. A constant moving collage of sea views, mountains, Lochs and woods. This route is a little more craggy than my earlier jouneys. Apparently it's been voted the world's most scenic railway.

At Arisaig I was pleased, and surprised, that we crossed the Jacobite steam train. The last I heard the service had been suspended because of a ruling by the Office Rail Regulation that it must be fitted with central locking on its doors, a near impossible demand for historic coaches. (but we must make the world idiot proof at all costs).

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cz7z6xnpyn6o 

One of the highlights of the line is the tightly curved Glenfinnan viaduct, famous for the train carrying Harry Potter to Hogwarts school being frozen by dementers as it crossed. It's other claim to fame is that it was the first railway viaduct to be built of concrete, this line, not opened until 1901, being quite a late one.

Approaching Fort William the railway crosses the Western end of the Caledonian Canal, over a swing bridge at the foot of the Neptune's Staircase locks.

The train reverses at Fort William, putting me and my bike at the very front. This was to be significant later on

Fort William is quite an industrial are, having both a paper mill and an Aluminium smelter in its environs. Sadly the paper mill no longer has rail traffic, but, I understand, freight trains still serve the British Aluminium site, which our train passed on its way out.

After the spectacularity of the Mallaig line, our route now became fairly tame, running through the Leanachan Forest. The first station was Spean Bridge. From here there used to be a branch to Fort Augustus at the western end of Loch Ness. There was little prospect of such a railway ever being a commercial success, but it was hoped to extend the line alongside Loch Ness  and onward to Inverness to challenge the Highland Railway's monopoly of that town. The Highland managed to block these proposals and the branch lingered on, losing its passenger service in 1933.

From Spean Bridge the railway follows the dramatic valley of the River Spean. At one point the train traverses a spectacular gorge. I was too slow with my camera to photograph this, but I did get a picture of the waterfall at its head.

After passing Loch Treig and it's hydropower station 

the line climbs on to the vast expanse of heather and moss that is Rannoch Moor.

I was surprised at the number of passengers who boarded at the isolated stations of Corrour and Rannoch.

The station for Tyndrum has the suffix of Upper. There is a Tyndrum Lower on the Oban line. The two routes join at the next station, Crianlarich. Once upon a time the Oban and Fort William lines had separate routes out of the Highlands, though there was a spur for freight traffic where they crossed at Crianlarich. In 1963 Dr Beeching came up with his infamous report on the railways. In it he proposed that the Oban line was to be closed completely and the Fort William line was to be terminated at the tiny village of Crianlarich. The great and good doctor believed that all the traffic for the West Highlands would thus be concentrated on this single track, from the end of which passengers would simply get off and walk. This is the way in which an economist's mind works!

Wiser counsels prevailed. The connecting spur was upgraded and the Oban line East of Crianlarich only was closed.

Gradually the train winds its way down from the heights. It runs high above Loch Lomond, then cuts through a gap in the hills to run high above Loch Long. Suddenly it cuts through another gap and passes mysterious sidings for a military depot at the head of Glen Douglas. Possibly this is connected with the Faslane nuclear submarine base, which we passed a short while later.

At each station on the way, considerably more passengers had joined the train than had disembarked. I was scheduled to change trains at Dalmuir, so that I would reach Glasgow Central, for my train to England, rather than Queen St. As mentioned above, the location of my bike at the front of the train would be significant.

As we drew near to Dalmuir I readied myself for unloading by carrying my rucksack etc through the crowded carriage and moved my bike so that I was poised to go. The train was rattling along on old jointed track, so I was unable to catch much of the guards announcement, which was long and said something about doors. I asked another passenger, but she hadn't been able to understand either.

The train stopped. I waited and waited but the light on the door opening button stayed stubbornly unlit. The driver came out of his cab and asked "Did yer no hear, he's only opening one door". I explained that the announcement was drowned out by the noise of the train and anyway, how was I supposed to get my bike past all those passengers? He got on to the guard via the intercom and the button suddenly lighted up.

I've no idea why the guard was only opening one door, but now I had another problem. It was a 5 minute change, but there were 4 platforms and absolutely no information about which train stopped where. I asked a waiting passenger if the next train went to Central. She said she thought it did. It actually said Larkhall on the front, but I got on and was reassured by the internal display panel that it was Larkhall via Glasgow Central.

The electric train sprinted between frequent stations. A young couple apparently ended their relationship publicly in the carriage. He was skinny, scruffy and monosyllabic, she much tidier, healthy looking and able to express coherently condemnatory sentences. He was clearly pissed and wilting under her verbal assault, before she strode off to the other end of the train.

I  saw a short stretch of the Forth & Clyde canal. I kept looking out for more, but, from consulting the map later, learned that we had actually passed under it.

The station of Anniesland fascinated me. I wondered who Annie was and what she grew on her land. A quick internet search turned up the answer- "it is derived from the Gaelic 'annis' meaning destitute or from 'anfhann' meaning 'weak and feeble', thus Anniesland was a place for the old and infirm who could no longer earn their keep".

The train dived below the city centre and drew to a halt at Glasgow Central Low Level. Popping up into the main line station above, I went looking for information on my train. The concourse was crowded with people anxiously scanning departure boards mounted above the platform ends. The long distance trains were clearly in chaos. I had about an hour to wait anyway so my train wasn't displayed yet.

When the information on my train eventually appeared it was suffixed with the dread word "cancelled"

I went to the booking office to enquire about my next move. The booking clerk was clearly feeling harrassed by constant enquiries from desperate travellers. He told me it was nothing to do with him and I should go to the Avanti office round the back.

I remember in the 1970s British Rail were (mostly in vain) desperately trying to promote business travel, at the expense of everyone else. In copies of Modern Railways I saw pictures of plush modern facilities, unattainable by me. The Avanti office was just such a place. An elegantly dressed lady behind a mahogany reception counter received me and looked up a replacement train. Unfortunately I couldn't get the next one because there were no bike spaces available on it. I would have two hour wait, but I was welcome to wile away the hours in the first class lounge.

She issued me with a revised bike ticket and explained that the service had been disrupted because a lorry had struck a low bridge and the line had to be closed for a while to carry out a safety assessment.

I wheeled my bike into the inner sanctum of the first class lounge. This was similarly plush but starting to get a little shabby. The seat I sat on was very comfortable but threadbare and starting to come apart at the seams. It's a shame these things are dictated by fashion. All the place needed was a few repairs but, instead, they're replacing it all, inevitably at great cost to our environment.  https://www.networkrailmediacentre.co.uk/news/new-ticket-office-and-first-class-lounge-to-be-created-at-glasgow-central-as-part-of-gbp-5m-upgrade

The best thing about the first class lounge was the unlimited supply of coffee and posh biscuits. I was a bit miffed when someone came to replace all the biscuits, taking away the ones I really liked. I hope the ones she took away don't go in the bin, I abhor the waste of food.

At last, time came for my train. It was a Pendolino unit at platform one. As a result of one of Emuna's delightful malapropisms, henceforth I will refer to these high speed tilting trains as Peccadilloes. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Rail_Class_390

Bikes are loaded into a locker in the guards area to which passengers have no access. I suppose this precludes the possibility of thieves unloading your bike at the wrong station, but I dislike not being able to get to my bike.

It had now been dark for several hours so I missed the dramatic landscapes of the run South over Beattock and Shap summits. I enjoyed watching the lights of the world slip by, trying to guess where we were, and feeling the train lean into curves like a motorbike.

My next change was at Preston. I collected my bike from the peccadillo and made my way to platform 4 to catch a late running Northern service. Happily, Northern don't seem too bothered about bike reservations.

I had booked only as far as Bolton, just inside the Greater Manchester boundary. From there my old codger's Greater Manchester bus pass would carry me the rest of the way. Never let me be accused of extravagance! I reached Bolton at 22.00, just over 2 hours late.

At Manchester Victoria I changed on to a local train, now electrically powered, first stop Ashton. From the station it is but a short uphill ride to our house, where the wonderful Emuna had a meal ready for me.

I love travelling by train, especially on interesting and remote railways. I haven't had much of a break from the boats for years, so, we hatched a plan for just after Emuna's birthday. 

For her actual birthday celebrations we went to see June Tabor and the Oyster Band at the Royal Northern College of Music. This turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. We didn't know the Oyster Band, but their You Tube videos are fine. They're a folk rock band. Emuna has been a fan of June Tabor since the 1980s. Unfortunately the sound engineer did a terrible job, all too common I fear. The singers and fiddlers were drowned out by the drums and bass. 

This is how it should have sounded-

The plan then was that we would travel to York, where Emuna would explore the Viking history etc and I would visit the railway museum. After that we would travel to Aberdeen, I've always wanted to go up the East Coast route to Edinburgh. She has an invitation to stay with a friend in the Granite City, I would carry on travelling North to Thurso, the most Northerly station in the British Isles.

When Southam was motorised and converted back in 1965 she was fitted with a BMC Commodore diesel engine.

These big 3.4 or 3.8 litre engines were also fitted in various BMC commercial vehicles. In fact, we're pretty sure that Southam's one was an ex vehicle engine that had been marinised.

Emuna has a contraption that she uses to get about on in spite of poorly knees. It's a bit like the old hobby horses, what people used before they invented proper bikes. This one has 3 wheels and a comfortable saddle that you sit on and scoot yourself along. The advantage of this is that it takes the weight off her knees but, unlike the disability scooters, (or electric chairs as my mum called hers) you actually get some exercise. The downside is that she has to get off and push up the hill from the town centre to our house.

I bought an electric motor, intended for helping mountain bikes up hills, to help with this problem. It can be connected or disconnected by the operation of a little lever on the handlebar. The frame needed some modifications for fitting this. I took it to our friends Dixon & Smith (motor engineers) in Dukinfield, who did various bits of cutting and welding to make a suitable bracket for it. I collected it and  now have to fathom out fitting a battery and control system for it.

Pushing the contraption from Dixon & Smith's workshop to Portland basin, I came to the top of the cobbled slope that runs down off the bridge over the arm to the marina. I thought I might as well sit on it and ride down. The contraption took off like a rocket ( I'm sure gravity shouldn't be that strong). Rather than using the brake I thought I'd let it run and lean into the curve at the bottom of the slope. Big mistake! 

The contraption isn't made to ride like a bike. I went one way, the contraption went another. I landed heavily on my right shoulder, giving myself a nasty and painful bruise. 

One of the tasks that Emuna has set for me while she's away catsitting  is to collect a laptop from Moston. This was lent to someone who offered to help with the treasurers job, but, changed circumstances meant that she had to drop out. This seems to happen a lot.

I could have gone in the van, but, is it really responsible to use 2 tons of fossil fuel burning metal just to collect a little laptop?  Pre-covid I would have cycled, but, since having long covid I've been wary of doing all but the most local of rides. I decided to take my bike on the train, changing at Victoria.

First I had to visit Hazel and change over from solar to reserve batteries to keep the fridge going overnight for our guests. It had been raining. Everything was wet, but, careless of this, I hopped over the gunnel into the fore end, slipped, fell and sustained a bruised bum to go with my bruised shoulder.

The journey by train to Moston was straightforward. The trains were running like clockwork, all bang on time. Information on the platforms at Victoria is not great though. I just missed my Rochdale train and had a 30 minute wait. It was a very tight connection but I would probably have made it had I been able to instantly see which platform to go to.

I was hungry and hadn't drunk much all day, so, at Moston, I bought fish and chips and a carton of orange juice at exhorbitant prices. I must admit, the chips were very good though. I found the relevant house, picked up the laptop and headed back to the station. A train was scheduled in about 20 minutes. It said 'delayed' on the departures display, but I wasn't too bothered.

The loudspeakers kept apologising for the 19.16 to Rochdale being delayed.  Soon a young man in working attire, wearing a baseball cap, joined me. We struck up a conversation. He told me he was a kitchen fitter. The job he was working on was a complete nightmare because the designers had given wrong measurements.

The loudspeakers warned the non existent people on the other platform to stand back as the approaching train didn't stop there. The only intending passenger had just given up and left. The train did stop and several passengers got off.

The clockwork mechanism seemed to need rewinding.

With a few minutes to go, our train was cancelled. Next one 20.36. I wasn't bothered. I was quite enjoying sitting on the platform bench chatting. I mentioned that my wife was a retired probation officer. He told me that he had been on probation and it was not fair. Strangely, I was not surprised. It turned out that he was just defending his brother who had been set upon by a gang of bigger men outside a club. They said he'd used more than 'reasonable force'. Well, he did put that guy in a coma, but I sympathised with him. The conversation turned to the subject of violence, which seemed to suit him. He told me that, by law, if an intruder comes upstairs to your bedroom you are allowed to use any amount of force to repel them. Perhaps I have some legally qualified friends who can confirm this as it's a new one on me. Of course, the infamous recent airport incident came up. The kitchen fitter thought the copper was justified in kicking in the head a man who was tasered and on the floor. He's not racist, he has an Indian aunt, but the bloke who broke the officers nose will get away with it because he's Asian. I disagreed, but it's amazing how many think like this. Fertile ground for rabble rousers. At least he didn't use the P word.

The time crept towards 20.36 and another passenger arrived. "You timed that well" I said, but he didn't seem to understand. A slightly built bearded man of Middle Eastern appearance, he spoke English, using all the correct words, but, not necessarily in the correct order.

The minutes ticked towards 20.36. I stood up in anticipation of boarding the train. At 20.35 the time expected shifted to 20.37. At 20.36 it shifted again to 20.38. For several minutes this pattern was repeated. They were still announcing that the 19.16 to Rochdale was delayed. Then appeared the dire words "Delayed" for our train rather than an estimated time of arrival. We were then given the helpful information that the train was at Victoria, which presumably meant that the unit had not yet made the journey out to Rochdale, where it would terminate before heading back towards Manchester and picking us up on the way.

After a few minutes dithering I started clipping the lights on to my bike, as it was now proper dark. I said goodbye to the kitchen fitter (the Middle Eastern man had already given up and gone) and wheeled my bike up the slope to the road.

Not so many years ago I used to cycle up to 150 miles in a day, so it's rather galling to be daunted by a ride of 6 or 7 miles. My strength seems to be gradually returning though. I picked my route to minimise hills, as I'm still finding these challenging. I enjoyed the ride,though I was getting a bit hot and I was anxious that I might run out of oomph part way.

The first bit was a busy dual carriageway, then, from Failsworth, a small suburban road, followed by a bit of countryside along the dark Coalpit Lane to join the main A627 at Bardsley.

It was along this road that my evening's adventures nearly came to a disastrous end.

Bardsley Brew is a steep hill leading down into the valley of the river Medlock.  Nearly at the bottom there's a turning to Park Bridge called Waggon Road. The sight lines at the junction are not very good. I enjoyed whizzing down the hill, keeping up with the cars at about 30mph. Suddenly I realised that a car was pulling out of Waggon Road right in front of me. I swerved and shouted and, thank the gods, the driver braked and I missed his front bumper by a midges wotsit.

After this scare I just had a brief climb into Ashton and more suburban back streets before I could unlock the gate, park the bike and go indoors to brew up and flop in Emuna's reclining armchair.

Job done, just in time for Emuna's return.

  We've done a few trips up the Peak Forest recently. Some commercial trips and some wellbeing trips. Mostly we went to Marple aqueduct but on one we went all the way to Bugsworth. The most recent one was up to Gee Cross for a family of wonderful kids. Here's some photos of the trips.

Leaving Captain Clarke's.

Gee Cross.

Gee Cross,

Gee Cross,not sure what "Forget me Not" was pushing!

Gee Cross.

Approaching Woodley.

Scaffold Bridge Woodley.

Scaffold Bridge Woodley.

Woodley.

Joan and Helen on butty.

 Woodley.

Woodley.

Romiley.

Chadkirk

Chadkirk.

In Hyde Bank Tunnel.

Leaving Rose Hill Tunnel.

Bra and other rubbish removed from propeller, hence so much smoke.

Marple aqueduct (by John Tickner)

Marple aqueduct (by John Tickner)

Marple Aqueduct (by John Tickner)

Rose Hill Tunnel (by John Tickner)

Captain Clarke's Bridge by John Tickner

Hyde Wharf (by John Tickner)

Hyde (by John Tickner)

Dunkirk Turn (by John Tickner)

Gee Cross Turn.

Under Globe Bridge

Em was pricing up some books for the charity shop when she came across The Times Inland Waterways of Britain. She passed it to me to have a look. Inside I found 2 pictures of Portland Basin dating from when Forget me Not was still nicely painted and signwritten. Since then the boats have deteriorated rather, particularly since Covid, but now they are on the up again. I'm hoping that Forget me Not will soon be looking decent again.

It's holiday time so everyone seems to be jetting off to some far flung destination. I don't know if it makes people any happier, but it certainly puts a lot of CO2 into the air.

Kim has gone for a month in Australia. Before he went he made another new deck board for Forget me Not . Meanwhile, Nessie and Aaron cleared out another section of hold. We collected some free paving slabs. They are intended for Southam but are being stored in Forget me Not for the time being. That should stop her hogging!

Recently we ran a trip for Works4u college students. /https://works4u.org.uk/ They asked for a 4 hour trip, so the idea was to go to Hyde and back, normally about 3 hours, then see how much time was left, probably enough for a trip through the Asda tunnel and back. The lift bridge in Dukinfield had some fresh rubbish in it and we were stuck there for over an hour, so it was just a trip to Hyde.

Our guests seemed to enjoy it, especially seeing us struggle to get through the bridgehole.

Here's a picture of the boats near Well Bridge. Aaron is steering the motor, Nessie on the butty and Helen being a figurehead.