I wasn't sure what to call this piece. My first thought was The Curse of Cassandra, closely followed by What's the F*****g Point.  I settled on a derivation of the phrase The Elephant in the Room. That seemed most appropriate because it's dealing with a subject that is so big and scary and bound to change our lives fundamentally that most people prefer to ignore it, or claim that it doesn't exist.

I must admit that I have a tendency towards depression. Some people will use that last sentence to dismiss all that I say, but no, there's a lot of factors behind my occasional mood disorders, one of them being a tendency to face and try to work my way through problems rather than shy away from them. Despair and depression come from an inability to find a solution. Kitten videos just don't work for me.

I woke up this morning full of things that I was going to do today, perhaps too many things, but my mind was also working away at apparently unsolvable problems. Strangely the last straw was to find that we'd run out of toilet paper, a very unusual problem as Em usually stocks up for about 6 months ahead. I could simply have gone to the corner shop to get some, but instead I lay down in the spare room and wrapped a duvet over my head.

Back in 1973 I had a job driving a little van for TV hire company Multibroadcast. My friend Geoff Monaghan also drove for them. I'd already pretty much rejected the usual path through life, career, mortgage, marriage, 2.4 kids etc and had my concerns about what our species was doing to our planet. I came across 2 things that underlined my concerns. One was the Club of Rome. Limits to Growth report, one of the first major computer modelling exercises that concluded that, unless our species controlled growth in population, pollution, energy use, etc etc, sooner or later everything would screw up and we would suffer a population crash. The other was that our species was churning out carbon dioxide into the atmosphere faster than the plants and oceans were absorbing it.

I told Geoff about this. He didn't believe me. I didn't know what the consequences would be but I could see that they wouldn't be good.

 The Limits to Growth  report was a warning. It should have been mailed to every person on the planet. Instead it was hardly mentioned in the media, dismissed, ridiculed and ignored. In the 50+ years since its publication the actual graphs of uncontrolled growth have closely followed the doompath projected by those old computers if we were to change nothing. 

Being aware of this, I've tried to live my life with a pretty low impact on our planet. Now, people may think this would make me miserable. I have admitted to a tendency to depression, but I believe that I would have that I would have that same tendency even if I lived in a mansion and travelled in a private jet. So many rich people I have met who live sad lives of tension and conflict in spite of, perhaps partly because of, their wealth. Happiness and contentment come from within, provided that you have the basic needs of life.

Some people may say that my efforts to live simply, so that others may simply live (Gandhi) were futile. Perhaps so, but at least I don't have being a big part of the problem on my conscience. 

Humans are good at solving problems. Remember the problem about fridges causing a depletion of the ozone layer that would cause us all to get skin cancer?  All the countries of the world got together to ban the offending refrigerants and replace them with something less harmful. The ozone hole is still there, but it's shrinking.

Remember acid rain killing Europe's forests? I recall being at a talk about acid rain. The lecturer pointed out that the first sign of acid rain damage was "a sudden outbreak of blindness among foresters", ie, they just didn't want to see it. That's an important observation. By international agreement coal fired power stations now have scrubbers to remove the offending chemicals from their chimneys. In Britain we no longer use coal for power generation anyway.

So, what's the big problem about tackling the climate crisis?   For most people it seems too big and its consequences too dire for them to dare to take their heads out of the sand. It also threatens their ambitions. Rich people want to get richer, poor people want to get rich and the destitute want, quite rightly, to stop being destitute. They're all in competition with each other and the fear is that, by stepping aside from that competition they'll slide back down to destitution again. This is particularly so in countries, even rich ones like the USA, with no viable support system for "losers" in the fight for wealth. 

Everyone is locked into a struggle for resources. As John Lennon put it, "There's room at the top they're telling you still, as long as you learn how to smile as you kill". Of course, for most people it's not as stark as that, but everyone knows that the people who 'get on in life' are often the ones who are good at networking and buttering up the boss. Yes, I know, working hard (or getting your staff to work hard) to get results helps too. The result of this is people wearing themselves out, mentally and/or physically to be cast aside when they can no longer perform.

The same thing happens between nations, trapping their citizens into a rat race and often fostering distrust and hatred of those living in other lands. I grew up during the Cold War. The Americans and the Russians were competing to build more nuclear warheads than the other, even though they could each end life on Earth several times over. During the Cuban missile crisis I was 8, and terrified of what was likely to happen. Happily, they pulled back from the brink and I've lived to be a septuagenarian. 

Some limited sanity in this area came along when Ronald Reagan watched a film called The Day After. This shows how getting out the true information rather than the propaganda can change things. Reagan's military top brass had been telling him that they could win a nuclear war, because their careers were boosted by him believing that. 

https://collider.com/the-day-after-ronald-reagan/

This conversion of Reagan led eventually to the SALT talks etc, scaling down each country's nuclear arsenal. However, a major factor in the Soviet Union agreeing to reductions was that it did not have the economic capacity to carry on competing militarily with the USA. Capitalism had shown itself to be capable of superior economic growth to the USSR's command economy (masquerading as socialism). 

Here's the big problem, which I don't have a solution for. Economic growth is bound to make our planet uninhabitable, but, our planet is divided into nations. If any nation eschews economic growth it will become less able to manufacture or purchase the latest weapons. Without the latest weapons that nation will become unable to deter and defend against aggressor nations. This is currently being demonstrated in Ukraine, where the greater resources of Russia has allowed it to gradually take over large parts of Ukraine, in spite of fierce and brave resistance. To many politicians, aware of the dog eat dog nature of international affairs, stopping economic growth would be suicidal, but so is carrying on with economic growth.

Strangely enough, Margaret Thatcher (who I despise) was one of the first major politicians to raise the issue.

Of course, then there's business. The rich want to keep on getting richer. They own the media and so control what information is shared with the rest of us. In the short term they can make more and more profits by selling us more and more stuff. They've got most people convinced that if they buy things that are bigger and better, if they fly away on holidays and cruises that are further and further away then they will become happy. Of course, to afford these things we'll have to work harder and harder (for them). In order to prevent change that may threaten their short term profits they pour vast amounts of funds into lobbying governments and promote online memes spreading disinformation about  what David Cameron famously referred to as "green crap". This has led to politicians consciously moving away from the very solutions that could save our collective bacon even though they clearly understand how vital a transition away from fossil fuels is.

I don't get it. Oil company bosses are not stupid, though they may be a bit crazy. They understand the science. They have children and grandchildren. Perhaps they think that somehow their wealth will protect them from mass extinction. Certainly it is rumoured that the world's richest person has a bunker in Alaska. Talking about crazy, he seems to live in a sort of Dan Dare version of reality where escape to Mars while the Earth boils is a possibility.

The climate crisis seems to have become the issue that dare not speak its name. Frustratingly it's become a political issue between left and right, with the right currently gaining traction.  I don't understand how atmospheric physics can possibly be a matter of political debate, any more than gravity or electrical conductivity can be. These are things established by scientific research and mathematical equations. I am clearly of the left, but like to maintain friendships among people of all political persuasions, as long as they're not actually promoting hatred. You may note that the two politicians that I have cited are right wing, but they accepted the evidence.

The most powerful person in the world claims to believe that climate change is a Chinese hoax, despite his own scientists having done much of the work on understanding it. It's a very personal thing. I have a friend who apparently understands the problem and lives a low impact life. He sometimes gets work on dairy farms and does not believe that bovine emissions are part of the problem, and yet the evidence is solid on this. Belief is a problem. I don't believe in belief. When someone says you just have to believe they mean that you should suspend all rational thought. I have friends who regularly fly, who drive everywhere, who go on cruises ( the absolute most polluting form of holiday) and yet I say nothing. Many of them understand the science but clearly think that somebody else should deal with the problem. How can I constantly be criticising my friends lifestyles. 

If I talk about climate change, particularly if I mention the need for immediate action, I'm seen as a Jeremiah, a spoilsport, a party pooper etc, and yet, how can I not talk about it when it hangs above us like a tidal wave about to break and wash away our secure and comfortable lives. The dinosaurs didn't know the meteorite was coming. We know what's happening, but choose to pretend otherwise.

I plant trees, partly to replace the ones I use, partly to absorb a bit of carbon. I wonder what the point is. Probably they'll die in a catastrophic drought or get burned in a forest fire, but I have to hope that my little bit will help.

I just found this article lurking in the deep crevices of my computer. I think I wrote it for Waterways World but i don't think it ever got published. At the time Forget me Not had no engine so Southam  was towing her as well as Lilith. 

I miss the recycling trips, I think a lot of people do. Unfortunately they had to stop because of covid and it's not been possible to re-start them. Nowadays we are having to turn donations away at the door of the charity shop sometimes. i think this is because so many similar shops have closed for lack of volunteers. 

“Southam”s fore end was now crammed with people. Someone had taken the
initiative to make tea for the masses. It was time to get people organised.
Sitting on “Southam”s roof I gave the obligatory safety talk, then selected
people to steer “Forget me Not” and “Lilith” (which were to be towed) and
work various lines as we set off. People moved to their action stations and I
went to “Southam”s engine room to fire up her huge old BMC Commodore.
I suddenly remembered the cat. Celebrity canal cat Captain Kit Crewbucket

had been following me around and trying to trip me up since I arrived. He
wanted his breakfast, but, had I fed him earlier he would have then gone to
sleep in one of the boats, only to wake up in a strange place, panic and
potentially disappear into the bushes. I picked out a sachet of catfood and
squeezed it out on to his dish, before giving last minute instructions to the
crews, untying “Southam” and putting her into forward gear.
The propeller stirred black mud and white carrier bags from the depths of the
arm as it pushed the boat forward then, as soon as she was into the main
canal, I engaged sterngear to avoid hitting the other bank. Moving the gear
lever to neutral position, I walked up the roof and used the shaft to swing the
bow to face in the right direction. “Southam” is very good at towing, having a
powerful engine, but, being a motorised butty, her manouverability is limited.
With the stern against “Forget me Not”s bow I take her line and shout “OK,
untie everything” to the boat crews before taking a turn on the T stud and,
with one hand holding the line and the other holding the tiller, I use my foot to
push the gear rod forward, a little grunt from the engine acknowledging that it
is properly engaged. As “Southam” moves forward I slip the towing line to
accellerate “Forget me Not” without a snatch. As she starts to move someone
walks back along her length with “Lilith”s line. As they hand it to the steerer I
move the gear rod to neutral and drift while they tie it on to the dollies. As the
steerer stands up and “Lilith”s line tautens I engage gear again and the boats
straighten into a line along the canal and past the new flats. The boats follow
dutifully as “Southam” swings round the first turn to enter the narrow confines
of Walk bridge.

It was busy at the boatyard. It's been quiet there for a while as Dave has to spend more time looking after his wife and Kim is sometimes away at his Spanish casa. I've been struggling to get the place sorted for ages, slowly but carefully getting stuff organised, weighed in or sold. Now Tony has got involved with this and I know he's frustrated by my careful sorting of everything. He's done a great job sorting out the non ferrous metals though. We just need the van back on the road so that we can weigh it all in. 

After a bit of a mix up about dates and times Geraldine and Helen showed up. I had planned to ask them to sort out nuts and bolts and screws but, as time had passed, they got on with cutting up all the brash from the foliage clearance and putting it into bulk bags. Dave has been repairing a stove and Kim was processing reclaimed wood for various jobs and painting Forget me Not's deck boards

There seems to be some progress on getting our mooring arranged with CRT at last. We seem to have a bit of a team working on it, including a civil engineer. The big problem has been that they just keep coming up with hoops that are very hard to jump through if you don't speak civil engineerese. 

MOT time for the charity's van is always a bit of a worry. Big vans are expensive even when they are quite old, but so are repairs. Repairs are getting particularly tricky as vehicles get increasingly complicated and full of electronics. Our Transit is 17 years old and it's little electronic brain had a nervous breakdown long before we got it. It has about 180,000 miles on the clock

We've had the van for 2 years, and it's due for its second MOT in our ownership. Last year I took it to a chap in deepest Lancashire who often does repairs for us. He doesn't rip us off and he does a good job. I asked him to get it MOT'd. It had a few minor issues which he dealt with, no problem!  

I thought I'd do the same this year. I drove it to the relevant place and left it in our mechanic friend's capable hands. Next day he phoned me with a long list of faults, lots of welding needed, there was an oil leak that would involve dismantling the engine to fit new oil seals and it had failed on emissions. Emissions is a big one. Worn old diesels get dirty and it's very difficult and costly to get them to run clean again.

I contacted our trustees to explain that we were going to have to spend a few thousand pounds on a replacement van, then got a bus to the little Lancashire town to pick up the vehicle. 

When I saw the fail sheet from the MOT station I began to wonder. The oil leak was an advisory, not a fail. It had actually had that leak as an advisory on the last two MOTs and it hadn't got any worse. I wondered if the engine had been properly warmed up. Cold engines are smoky and it pays to have a good drive round before an MOT.

Next day I called at a local MOT station that I've used before and explained my dilemma. They told me to come back in an hour and they'd do an emissions test. I drove about to get the engine warmed up and lo, the engine did pass.

My conclusion is that our mechanic friend in deepest Lancashire had simply driven the short distance to the MOT centre and had it tested with it's engine still fairly cold. He then bigged up the faults, I suspect because he didn't fancy doing the welding. I don't blame him. It's not a job I've ever done, or ever wanted to do. Grinding out rusty metal with bits falling on you, then welding in new metal in awkward corners, with hot bits falling on you, doesn't really appeal. I'd rather be pecking wood.

Of course, passing an unofficial emissions test doesn't get us an MOT. All the other faults need to be rectified, but, if we know it can pass on emissions then they're worth doing. 

I took the van to see Canis. Our new trustee rejoices in the handle of Canis Fortunatis, latin for Lucky Dog. He has long experience of vehicle repairs and seems to revel in rejuvenating rustbuckets. He had a look under the van at the faults noted on the MOT sheet and declared them perfectly repairable. Today I delivered the van to him loaded with likely bits of metal from the boatyard and a bottle of CO2/Argon mix for his mig welder. I backed the van on to his ramps then cycled home from Chadderton. Fingers crossed for a successful MOT test sometime soon.

The van is a vital tool for the WCBS. We use it most days for ferrying stuff between the boatyard and Portland Basin and it's essential for our charity shop, collecting and delivering furniture etc. We could do with more van driving volunteers, especially for shop deliveries and collections. Don't worry if you're unable to carry furniture. We have a couple of hefty lads to do the hard work, we just need drivers.

                                                        Any offers?

                                                                             Let me know.

Yesterday there was a terrorist attack on a synagogue in a suburb of Manchester. Two men, plus the perpetrator, died. Others are seriously injured in hospital. The media, quite rightly, are full of condemnation of the atrocity. They talk of an upsurge in antisemitism. I saw a video where a young Jewish man claimed that it was all Keir Starmer's fault for recognising Palestine, which he saw as an act of antisemitism in itself.

I must admit that I've been going off Keir Starmer, but he seems to be the current scapegoat for everything, including the failings of his predecessors.

I don't know how many civilians in Gaza died yesterday. The total since October 7th 2023 is over 66,000. Some put it higher. The average is about 91 per day. Lets say it was 91. 

Stalin once said "One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic". Stalin was a psychopath. 

The three deaths in Manchester yesterday were tragedies. They left grieving friends and relatives. I very much doubt that the perpetrator will be met in Paradise by 72 fawning virgins. 

Are the 91 who died from hunger, bombs and bullets in Gaza yesterday merely statistics. I suppose if you polish off the whole family at least there's no-one left to grieve!

I imagine the man who carried out this attack was motivated by the genocide (call a spade a spade) in Gaza. How he came to imagine that killing some Mancunian Jews would change anything is beyond me. 

How did all this hatred between Jews and Palestinians start? Well, after the right wing genocide of Jews in Europe, survivors sought a Jewish homeland and, based on a vague declaration by Lord Balfour, they headed for their ancient homeland of Palestine. Their ancestors had been ejected from here by the Romans after a rebellion. Since then, Jews had lived in many lands and faced much persecution. The wish to set up their own state in their ancestral land, which was reluctantly administered by the British,was understandable. 

Just one problem! The land was already settled by people whose title deeds were granted by the Ottoman Empire, who ruled here pre- 1918. 

To be honest, no-one came out of the establishment of Israel in 1948 with a lot of moral credit. Jewish terrorists and militias had already been fighting the British, who basically gave up on refereeing the conflict.  To quote Leon Rosselson  (who is Jewish) "By theft and murder they took the land, now everywhere the walls spring up at their command".  750,000 Palestinians were ejected from their homes and land. They call it the Nakba, which translates as catastrophe. You can understand them being pissed off!

Over the years more wars have happened between Israel and the Palestinians, sometimes supported by surrounding Arab states. Israel has the apparently unlimited support of the world's greatest military power, the USA. The electoral make up of that country makes it almost impossible for a president to get elected without the Jewish vote.

After the war of 1967, Israel essentially had control of the whole area. Some parts were occupied but not officially annexed by Israel. Instead, they allowed settlers to illegally, according to international law, take land for themselves. The old Ottoman title deeds were seen as invalid. A friend of mine went and worked in one of these settlements in the 1980s. He told me that the life of a Palestinian was regarded as "not worth a light". 

Foolishly, in my view, Palestinians have tried to fight back with violence. Sometimes this is kids throwing stones at soldiers, and getting bullets in return. Suicide bombers, knife attackers, plane hijackers, home made rocket launches or, as on October 7th 2023, a large scale attack on civilians and taking of hostages. 

In order to have a war you need to dehumanise your enemy. You have to portray them as demons with no redeeming human characteristics. The man who wielded the knife at the Manchester Synagogue was not thinking he was killing people with friends and lovers and families. He was thinking he was ridding the world of vermin. The same dehumanisation takes place when Israeli fighters shell schools and hospitals.

The old testament lays down the rule of "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth". In other words, revenge should never be disproportionate. The attack of October 7th was awful and dastardly and wrong, even if it wasn't as extreme as the Israeli media machine has made out. The response has been far more than an eye for an eye. Jesus said turn the other cheek. Gandhi said "an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind".

It has to stop!  The Palestinians have to have their own land where they can live peacefully, but to do that they have to accept that the state of Israel is a reality that will not go away. Violence against it is futile as it is now a great military power (they have an 'iron dome' missile defence system that our islands lack). Israel has to accept that most of the world finds its behaviour towards Palestinians repugnant. Their genocide in Gaza has been the greatest spur to antisemitism in my lifetime. It has to withdraw to its 1967 borders, close down the illegal settlements and help to rebuild the massive infrastructure destruction that it has carried out in Gaza.

How this can come about I don't know. Recognising Palestine and condemning the genocide for what it is is a first step. Some in the Israeli government actually believe that God has promised them the whole of Judea and Samaria of old testament days. Israeli citizens and Jews around the world need to understand that the recent actions of Israel have made it a pariah state, rather like apartheid South Africa. 

I recall that the IRA started negotiating after their own supporters were horrified by the killing of two children in Warrington and the noble reaching out to them by the father of one of them. Perhaps, just perhaps, all this psychopathic killing will spur on both sides to come together and find a solution. Both sides are made up of human beings, even if their leaders seem to lack any kind of human decency.

I like diversity. I don't see why some people have a problem with it. 

There used to be a takeaway in Ashton run by an elderly man from Pakistan. I used to like going in there for a kebab or a bhuna. In the evenings, between customers, he would sit with his friend, who wore more traditional clothing, watching Pakistani TV. As I waited for my food I would lean over the counter to watch the TV too, trying to work out what was going on as I don't understand urdu. Occasionally one of the men would make a derogatory comment about one of the politicians in the news. 

One evening as I waited the friend became animated. He stood up to leave, turned to me  and said "why people tell me go home back where I come from? I serve 20 years in British army. My father served in British army. My grandfather and my great grandfather serve in British army. We risk our lives for this country and yet these people who do nothing say this is not my home". 

I don't know what prompted that outburst. Presumably he had encountered some racist abuse. 

One evening I was waiting for my meal when a white man of perhaps 40 came into the shop. He wore shorts and a T shirt, had a slight belly, short hair and a ruddy face. You could sum up his appearance with the word gammon, though he bore no flags. To my surprise he ducked under the counter and went into the kitchen where he was greeted fondly by the old man. After a while the young man left. The proprietor of the shop smiled as he handed me my meal and said proudly "my son in law".

Just to add to the diversity. for a long time the shop displayed a poster for a local Hindu guru.

Recently a disabled septuagenarian went out for lunch in Ashton with a much younger friend. The old lady's skin is white, her friend's skin is black. They went to an excellent cafe on Penny Meadow which is run by the daughter of Pakistani immigrants. You can get Asian food there or you can get English food, and the cakes are delicious. The full English breakfast is served with turkey rashers rather than bacon to ease dietary sensibilities. 

After they had eaten the two women made their way down to the marketplace, mostly fenced off for construction works. The older lady was limping and pushing the wheelchair that she sometimes needs to sit in. 

As they passed MacDonalds a man with two fighting dogs on leads started shouting at a Muslim family. The woman was wearing a hijab, which seems to rile some people. The shouting man clearly was under the illusion that the family had recently arrived by boat and had been given a house for free, whereas he was homeless. He kept shouting EDL, EDL, EDL. 

Most people were very British about it (don't get involved) and pretended nothing was happening. The old white lady (herself the great grandchild of economic migrants) had a good anti fascist upbringing from her mother and a Jewish headmaster. She knew not to turn a blind eye, so she took out her 'phone and started to video the incident. The Asian family left and the noisy man turned his attention to the two ladies. He wasn't so bothered by the white woman, but turned his venom on her young black friend. His prejudices told him that she too had arrived on a rubber dinghy and was a burden on the taxpayer. He kept shouting that there was going to be a civil war.

Terrified by the dogs the young woman ran into a shop, followed by her hobbling older friend. Two big Asian lads barred entry to the troublemaker and, being unable to carry on bullying, he went away. 

The young black woman works as a carer, looking after disabled people. She used to often take her clients out for a coffee in Ashton town centre. Now she says she is afraid to go there. 

I like Ashton. I wasn't born here. I'm a foreigner from Warwickshire. I choose to live here. In my daily activities I meet people of virtually all races and all religions. I like this. In all races and all religions there are lots of good people, and a few complete tossers. Sadly, it's often the tossers who get noticed.  Of all the white people on the market that day the most noticeable one was the nasty, loud, bullying dog man. Sometimes I ask people about their backgrounds. It's interesting. The other day I was serving an Iranian woman in the shop. If she was in Iran she would have to comply with a strict dress code. Here she can wear what she likes. She says she is lucky that people think she is Spanish (that doesn't have the stigma of refugee).

They say that if you don't learn from history you are doomed to repeat it. 

After the great war the population of defeated Germany felt humiliated. They thought they'd been cheated. In 1917 the Russians made peace and handed over huge areas of land. Early in 1918 German troops made a huge advance into France, only to be overrun later in the year. There were good military reasons for this, but to most people it was a puzzle. How could that happen? 

The victors of that war imposed crippling reparations payments. The currency collapsed. There was mass unemployment. It must be somebody's fault!

A charismatic orator came along. He wasn't too worried about what was true, only about what would stir people up to violence. He said he could make Germany great again. He said the people's troubles were all the fault of the Jews. They were parasites leaching on and betraying the good German people. He encouraged people to attack Jewish property. 

Hatred suddenly became socially acceptable.

Those who stood up for decency were pilloried. Most kept quiet. People quietly dropped their Jewish friends. The great leader's  party won an election. Killing Jews became government policy.

It didn't end well for the gentiles or the Jews!  Millions died and the great leader ended up killing himself in a bunker surrounded by Soviet troops.

You may think I'm exaggerating the dangers.

                                                                           I'm not. 

People keep asking me when Hazel will be back in service. I had hoped by the end of the month, but, with only a week to go that's looking a bit unlikely. People wonder why it's taking so long. Here's my excuses.

1)   I keep being diverted on to other tasks. It would be nice if there were more volunteers to do the other tasks. It would be even nicer if they were self organising volunteers. A lot of the time I end up spending more time explaining how to do a job, finding tools and materials and checking its being done properly than it would take me to do it myself. I'm also still spending a day every week running the shop so that Christine can have a much needed day off.

2) I'm doing the job properly and carefully. The electrical cupboard was rather thrown together when it was first made as we were under pressure to get the boat into service. Whilst getting the boat back into service is important now, I intend the work that I'm doing to outlast me. I reckon that Hazel will need a comprehensive renovation sometime around 2045. It should last until then. It's conceivable that I'll still be around then, aged 92, but I won't be doing much boatbuilding.

3) I'm insisting on having a day off every week. Well, sort of. I've chosen Wednesday, so that I can attend Latihan, but most Wednesdays I seem to spend catching up with office work and writing.

4)  I put a brave face on it but I'm still not very well. I get tired easily. I put it down to Long Covid. Whatever it is, it's a blasted nuisance.

Anyway, having got my excuses in first, what have we been doing? Nessie has largely repainted the interior. Currently he's putting trims round the windows where we've bulked up the insulation (because of hot summers rather than cold winters). The trim is made of strips of copper cut from an old hot water tank that was donated as scrap. The extended central heating is nearly ready to be tested. The LiFePo batteries are now charging off the sun and running all the electrics. I'm just finishing off the woodwork around the electricity cupboard, which will now include shelf space for tools etc, and more accessible fuses, switches etc. 

The windows.

The electrical cupboard.

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.