Ashton Boatman

I thought I might start uploading photos from my collection. A lot of them are very bad but they remind me of things. In 1961 aged 8 I got a bike for my birthday and my sister gave me her old Brownie 127 camera. Unfortunately it wasn't entirely light proof which spoiled a lot of pictures. Anyway, I was able to cycle away from home (no restrictions in those days) make friends in other villages and take photographs of trains. This is, I think, my second ever photograph.

Harbury cutting is, I think I'm right in saying, the deepest railway cutting in the country. It's on the old Great Western London to Birmingham route a few miles south of Leamington Spa. The deepest part of the cutting is pretty inaccessible but, from Harbury village, a little lane runs downhill then crosses the cutting on a high 3 arch bridge, ending on the far side at a farm. It was here that I photographed the up afternoon Blue Pullman.

These trains were pretty new then and were almost the only diesels that we saw. They ran between Paddington and Birmingham Snow Hill, Paddington and South Wales and, the Midland Pullman, from St Pancras to Manchester Central. They were an attempt at retaining business custom in reply to the challenge of the M1 and domestic air travel.

The Birmingham and Manchester Pullmans were also intended to retain rail traffic between these cities using alternative routes whilst the main west coast main line was being disrupted by electrification work. With the switching on of the wires through to Euston in 1966 the Birmingham and Manchester services finished and the redundant units used for posh commuter runs to Oxford. They were scrapped in the mid 1970s when Inter City 125 units were introduced. Part of the route into Paddington that they used to take has been mothballed as trains on this route now terminate at Marylebone. Part of the route of the Manchester Pullman through the Peak District has long since been ripped up and Manchester Central is now the Gmex exhibition hall.

Although they were seen at the time as trains of the future they weren't really that brilliant. Like most of the first generation diesels they were underpowered. They had a 1000 horsepower engine at each end. The Inter City 125s have twice the power. The ride was also not great, especially on the sectional clickety clack track of the time.

The Last Day

Consciousness came to me slowly in the morning. I lay watching the daylight slowly gain mastery over the darkness with a feeling of being strapped down to my knobbly earth bed. I was aware that my legs were aching after days of constantly pushing pedals, and parts of my body were sore from lying on lumps in the ground. My mind was quite keen on the idea of moving, but my body kept giving it erroneous information about the difficulty of breaking free from the invisible bonds that held it down.

Eventually, with the sun now high in the sky and dogwalkers once more uncomfortably active, I persuaded my upper limbs and torso into enough movement to supply my mouth with the usual first cup of coffee and bowl of muesli. The combined effect of caffeinne and nutrition was enough to persuade the rest of my physical being of the possibility of movement. Unusually, I raided my flask for a second cup of coffee and, taking great care because my body was still groggy, climbed down to sit directly above the tunnel mouth.

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Westbound%20train%20Arley%20Cutting%207%2010.jpg.html

After the first train had passed, glinting in the morning sun, the black & white cat trotted confidently across the tracks and disapeared into the woodland on the far side. It occurred to me that the cat was probably feral. Another train, bound for distant Norwich, burst out of the tunnel http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Eastbound%20train%20Arley%20cutting%207%2010.jpg.html

Revived by the coffee, I climbed back up and went to unlock my bike and wheel it over to the stile ready for loading. As I did so I noticed a man walking towards me down the slope of the field. A short but solidly built man in his late sixties, he was wearing a cloth cap and light brown smock. He reminded me of Mr Seden, a farmer from the village where I grew up

Ladbroke could refer to:

,_Warwickshire who had an uncanny ability for knowing when me and my friends had entered the bounds of his land.

"I was just coming to move that bike" said the farmer "one of my cows could have broken its leg on it and that would have cost me a lot of money". It occurred to me that this fantasy was slightly more unlikely than one of the said beasts being struck by lightning. In any cow/bike interaction I suspect that the bike would come off worst. He didn't seem angry but appeared to be one of those people who enjoys lengthy but resigned grumbling. I did my best to re-assure him that I meant his cattle no harm, was about to depart and would leave no litter. He continued in an unstoppable monotone, complaining about the trouble that was caused by people who didn't understand the countryside, then wished me a good day and departed back up the grassy slope.

Soon I was following him, wheeling my laden bike past the herd of precious cattle up to the stile and on to the road. I pedalled slowly uphill to the roundabout, then turned left to continue my Southbound route.

The next village was Astley, where, behind the church, I spotted the ruins of a castle. I decided to investigate, and found the fascinating remains of Astley Castle. This moated sandstone fortress used to belong to the father of Lady Jane Grey. Her brief tenure on the English throne led inexorably to her own and her father's demise. In more recent times the place was an hotel, but it burned down in 1978. The way in was now barred as it was being restored by the Landmark trust.

Astley Castle is a ruinous moated fortified 16th century manor house in North Warwickshire. It has been listed as a Grade II* listed building since 1952^[1] and as a Scheduled Ancient Monument since 1994. It was derelict and neglected since it was severely damaged by fire in 1978 whilst in use as a hotel and was officially a Building at Risk. The building reopened as a holiday let in 2012 after extensive and novel renovations that combine modern elements with the medieval remains.

I dislike being excluded from anywhere so I stalked around the dry moat, seeking a weak point in the defences. I found a place where the wall had crumbled to a climbable slope, which I breached, without damage to myself or the venerable structure. I then spent a good 15 minutes exploring the fascinating ruin and taking pictures. I discovered an easier route out which brought me into the churchyard. Remounting my bike, I pedalled onwards.

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20fireplace.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20form%20outside.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20front%207%2010.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20inside.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/BikerideAstley%20Castle%20interior%20.jpg.html

I was now cycling through the lands of my ancestors. A while ago I went to a gathering of descendants of the Griffiths boating family at the nearby village of Keresley.

http://www.narrowboatmagazine.com/issues/issue23/

My parents grew up in Coventry, just a few miles away, and went walking in the countryside round here in the 1930s. For a while, as I rode along narrow lanes, it seemed like nothing much had changed since my parents walked this way 80 years ago, then a neatly radiused curve brought me to a concrete bridge over the roaring traffic of the M6. To my left lay the sprawl of Corley services.

Soon the madness was behind me and I was back on to country lanes again. I came upon a road junction great trees towering over it. Behind the first row of trees was a great sandstone outcrop. My map showed an ancient hill fort at the top of it, and what an excellent place for a fort, looking out over the valley with a precipitous slope for any invaders to have to fight their way up. The hill is called Burrow Hill. At Daventry, where I went to secondary school, there is a hill fort at the top of Borough Hill. http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=5057

climbed some of the lower rocks and sat down for a munch of food and a drink of apple juice. With my nutritional needs satisfied I climbed to the top to see what was there. The hill top was a flat ploughed field, nothing remarkable, though I imagine Time Team would enjoy digging trenches through it. I descended again to my bike and started slowly pedalling up the hill through a rocky defile towards the village of Corley http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/71506

Over the top of the hill I reached Corley village, where I joined a bigger road. It was now downhill, so I didn't mind so much. I left the main route to go down the delightful Hollyfast Lane. This tiny road was at first a winding tunnel of holly trees, then opening out a little with frequent oaks http://www.geograph.org.uk/search.php?i=19468834 still travelling steadily downhill. A sharp left turn at the end brought me into the beginnings of posh suburbia, with big houses in their own grounds set back from the road, leading me into the junction with another main road at Brownshill Green.

I became a little confused along the main road. What was shown on my ancient map did not accord with what I found on the ground. There should have been a winding lane going off to the right, instead there was a roundabout and a new straight road. I followed this as it was going in the right direction, then noticed that the original lane still existed, but was chopped into truncated sections. I diverged on to the old lane where I met frisky horses carrying their teenage owners.

The hill against me steepened and I dragged my way slowly into the suburban fringes of Allesley. I made my way through the old village and then found a concrete footbridge over a dual carriageway into proper suburbia of semi detatched houses. At the other side of this estate was the main A45 dual carriageway. I followed this roaring road through grim grey urban dreariness for about a mile. Anticipating a substantial train fare I was pleased to see a bank. I stopped to extract folding money from its hole in the wall facility, then carried on to turn away from my Southbound trajectory to head for Tile Hill station.

I had always imagined that Tile Hill was rather upmarket. The reason for this stemmed from my childhood. My big sister, 11 years my senior, had an Adam Faith lookalike boyfriend who came from Tile Hill. The romance came to an abrupt end when his parents intervened to prevent him from getting too involved with a mere typist. The upshot of this was days of big sister lying in her boudoir crying her eyes out. Every now and then I would burst in singing "Big girls Don't cry" in a high voice and she would shout "Mum, get him out of here".

As a result of this outbreak of mid 20th century snobbery I had imagined that Tile Hill would be a sort of minor Hollywood, with the mansions of the wealthy set in rolling acres behind high walls with electric gates. Instead I pedalled along a mile or so of dreary industrial units. I was glad to reach the station, but surprised that the booking clerk, though clearly in his office, had a closed sign up. I went on to the platform and enjoyed watching trains rush by http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Tile%20Hill%20Voyager%207%2010.jpg.html

The ticket office reopened before my train arrived so, with my wallet lightened, I climbed aboard a crowded local train to Birmingham. With a change at New St station I was able to complete the return journey in just a couple of hours. My holiday was at an end. Another time I will continue my southward trek.

Due South.

Consciousness returned in the early morning sunlight. I reached out to find my flask and lay on my side for a while, sipping coffee and enjoying the lake view. With breakfast completed I struggled out of my shelter, finished dressing and went for a walk. A short way along the canal is a new arm to a huge great marina. On the towpath side a footpath marks the end of the woodland and leads to a long footbridge over the railway tracks. On the far side is the barren site of the old Willington Power Station. http://www.crepello.net/Willington/PowerStation.htm I crossed over the bridge and enjoyed watching trains rush by for a while. Although the lines from Burton and Stoke came together nearby, they carried on in parallel for as far as I could see. I crossed the bridge and stayed Due South.

Consciousness returned in the early morning sunlight. I reached out to find my flask and lay on my side for a while, sipping coffee and enjoying the lake view. With breakfast completed I struggled out of my shelter, finished dressing and went for a walk. A short way along the canal is a new arm to a huge great marina. On the towpath side a footpath marks the end of the woodland and leads to a long footbridge over the railway tracks. On the far side is the barren site of the old Willington Power Station. http://www.crepello.net/Willington/PowerStation.htm I crossed over the bridge and enjoyed watching trains rush by for a while. Although the lines from Burton and Stoke came together nearby, they carried on in parallel for as far as I could see. I crossed the bridge and stayed Due South.

for a while to watch a couple of trains rush by.

Returning to my campsite, I packed up my things and loaded the bike, then pushed it past scattering rabbits to the towpath. Save for a few ashes from my fire, there would be not a trace left behind.

My next target was to be Caen Hill locks near Devizes in Wiltshire, though I would not make it all the way on this holiday. This appeared to be on the same straight
line on the map as Willington, so I just had to follow my line, due South, through the midlands. Initially I would retrace my journey across the bridge and causeway to Repton.

At Willington Bridge I stopped to watch the river rolling by. On the site of the old toll house was an information board about the river crossing. It described the celebrations that accompanied the freeing of the bridge in 1898, and the repeat performance to celebrate 100 years of free river crossing in 1998. http://www.derbyshireuk.net/willington.html

Soon I was pedalling across the flat flood plain again, then labouring up the hill through Repton. As the village fell behind me I was feeling thirsty. I spotted a little stopping place and rode into it. This was the car park for a pleasant young Woodland Trust plantation. I quenched my thirst, then enjoyed a short walk among the young trees. http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/en/our-woods/Pages/about-this-wood.aspx?wood=5201

Back on my bike, I followed the quiet B road meandering along a pleasant valley with fields interspersed with woods. Eventually a line of suburban houses marked the outer limits of Swadlincote. I pedalled uphill past them and soon came to a main crossroads on a ridge. I was now feeling hungry and, wishing to postpone my descent of the hill until after I had eaten, I turned right to see if I could find a nice spot to stop and eat. I was disappointed, so I turned down a footpath between some houses in the hope that it might lead to a park. After winding round a sub station the tarmacced path plunged into a wooden canyon of back garden fences. There was a sort of step at the back of the sub station, so I decided to sit on this to eat some sandwiches, much to the surprise of some of the paths regular users.

Swadlincote is a former mining town, mostly made up of pleasant warm brick terraces. It first came to my knowledge in the mid 1960s. The constituency was represented by George Brown, then Foreign Secretary. On his first visit to Moscow he was asked what he thought of the Soviet Union. He replied that he thought it was "Just like Derby or Swadlincote really" Later, in the 1970s, a van driving job brought me this way regularly. At least one of the local pits still used steam locos and I would often stop for 15 minutes or so (no spy in the cab in those days) to watch an "Austerity" saddle tank shunting.

http://www.geoffspages.co.uk/specials/cadleyhill.htm

Nowadays the pits are long gone, though I'm not sure what has replaced them save a ski centre.

I returned to my ride, whizzing down the hill, then plodding up the other side and past the ski centre to find the Measham road. The scenery now became post industrial. This road once ran through coal mining terrain, but now the winding gear and screens are long gone and the pitheaps have been tastefully landscaped. I wish they wouldn't do this. Landscaped areas always look stunningly predictable, old spoil heaps and quarries left to nature often become simply stunning in time.

The road was signposted to a place called the Conkers Discovery Centre, but before reaching it I turned right along the road towards Overseal. I crossed the little used Burton to Leicester railway, then uphill to turn left on to the busy A444 towards Nuneaton.

2010-11-04 @ 07:08:25 by ashtonboatman

Willington

I pushed my laden bicycle through the wasteland woods. Near the lake was a large clearing, grass shorn a lawn like sward by the constant action of rabbits teeth. Here and there were the ashen remnants of big bonfires, the many hewn and mutilated trees indicating the source of fuel. The trees were largely silver birch, hawthorn, poplar and willow, with a smattering of oak. Though most of the damage to trees was done by axe, clearly some of the vandals had been armed with a chain saw as several trees, including a substantial oak, had been cleanly reduced to stumps.

I picked a camping spot, next to a bushy hawthorn near the lake, but, still lacking provisions and water, I decided to go and explore the village. I carried my possessions through soft and mossy woods and hid them behind a tree beside the railway, then mounted my 'bike again and rode back along the towpath into Willington.

My first pre-occupation was still water. On my way from the Trent bridge I had passed a church. Churches often have taps to assist people leaving flowers on graves, but this one had only a rainwater butt. Returning to the village centre, I decided to buy food before the shops shut. In the shop I took out my camera battery to see if, in addition to bread and vegetables, they could supply one of these. As anticipated, the request was met with a shake of the head, but this was backed up with directions to an ironmongers that might be able to help.

I cycled quickly along a street of 1960s suburbia to find a row of shops, of similar vintage, amazingly all active. I locked my bike in front of the ironmongers and went in. The place was piled high with all kinds of tools and household items, many in display boxes that were fading from long exposure. Knowing something of the economics of running a humble charity shop, I wonder how such places survive in the face of competition from out of town superstores.

An elderly gentleman appeared from the back of the shop and I showed him the unusual battery. He took the battery, turned to a rack of different kinds of battery, picked one out and handed it to me. With the exchange of a few coins the transaction was completed and my problem solved.

Up to now I had avoided asking a shopkeeper for water to avoid them embarrassment. I was aware that, after just one night in the open, I would be unkempt and therefore rousing their suspicions. A request for water would mean that they would have to either leave me unsupervised in the shop or think of an excuse to refuse my request. However, I had the feeling that I was trusted in this shop. My request for water was accepted like it was a daily occurrence, and I left with two of my problems solved.

Back at my campsite I extracted my belongings from their hidey hole and busied myself unpacking and setting up my shelter. Once I was satisfied with this I went gathering dead wood (no need to cut down live trees), then, with paper and dry sticks to kindle it, I lit a fire and began cooking.

With only one pan my culinary style was rather cramped, but I was soon reclining beside the lake and eating a kind of sausage and vegetable stew that was very satisfying. As I ate, the kettle heated on my little fire to provide me with a nice cup of Earl Grey tea. I sat to drink this on the bank of the lake and enjoyed watching the ducks and moorhens, busy on the water. Every now and then a train rattled by to punctuate the ornithological activity.

My phone was down to a single bar of battery power. I needed access to mains power to recharge it, but the only way I could think of, despite my dismal experience the previous night, was to visit a pub. I Sorted out my most valuable things to take with me and pedalled back along the towpath into Willington. There were several hostelries to choose from. I went into one by the crossroads and sat watching an American police thriller on TV. It was one of those complicated ones where some of the cops are crooks, some of the crooks are cops and a lot of bullets get fired.

I was quite tired and I enjoyed my pint and the film, though it was not one that I would choose to watch. I lost myself it the tortuous plot. A slim young couple came in to play pool and chatter lightheartedly. It was like some strange ballet as they paraded round the table, eyed up their shots, aimed their cues, all the while chattering and laughing.

When my glass was empty and my 'phone charged I returned to the street, unlocked my bike and rode back 'home' to the lakeside. Dusk was now gathering. The lights were on in the trains as they rattled by. Still the waterfowl were active on the water. I climbed into my sleeping bag and lay on my side watching the restless birds and the passing trains until I fell asleep.

2010-09-05 @ 18:19:15 by ashtonboatman

The wide valleys of middle England

It was still dark when I woke. I lay in my sleeping bag listening to the twittering of birds as the sky gradually brightened. Last night's fire had provided me with a flask full of hot water, so I made myself some black coffee and lay listening and watching.

With sleepiness eased away by the caffiene hit, I sat up in my bag and fumbled about until I had the makings of a bowl of muesli. The sun was up now and I heard early morning dog walkers on the footpath, no doubt wondering about my bike that was locked to a tree.

Breakfast completed, I dressed and started packing my equipment, dragging it through the hedge and loading it on to my bike. I noticed my friend the wren pecking around my rucksack and looking at me with interest. In folklore the wren is a king of birds, wise and cunning, symbolising wisdom and divinity http://www.thewhitegoddess.co.uk/articles/mythology_folklore/the_wren_-_king_of_birds.asp I like the story of a wren winning a competition for who could fly highest by hiding in the eagle's feathers until the eagle could go no higher, then popping out and flying up some more.

A woman walking her dog eyed me with suspicion as I pumped my tyres. I mounted my humble steed and pedalled slowly uphill along the footpath, soon passing the woman along a field edge. The path led to the edge of an estate of middle class houses, circa 1970. My route lay through the middle of this, so I spent 20 minutes pedalling through suburbia looking for a way out. The ancient map that I was using was a little ambiguous about roads in this neighbourhood. My intention had been to find the little road that crosses the Derwent valley to the village of Elvaston. Instead, I found myself among the roaring traffic of the Derby ring road.

Desperate to get off this roaring dodgems rink I followed a track that seemed to follow the river downstream, but it petered out and the way was barred by a huge fence protecting a sewage works. I returned to the road and soon crossed the river. I was pleased to see that there was a riverside path heading downstream, and I thankfully set off along this peaceful, smooth surfaced route, encountering only friendly walkers and the occasional cyclist.

The Derwent is a beautiful river that tumbles down from the bold limestone hills, but here, in its last few miles before securing oblivion in the mighty Trent, it is ponderous and wide. It is a heavily managed waterway, with weirs every now and then, high, neatly graded flood banks and pumping stations. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to ride beside its gently curving banks. Eventually I reached the little lane to Elvaston and set out for this pleasant brick village. On my way I skirted the grounds of Elvaston Castle, Where the famous "Women in Love" scene of Alan Bates and Oliver Reed wrestling naked was filmed http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/areas_a_h/elvaston.htm 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY_Kb5Qkj-4&oref=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DxY_Kb5Qkj-4&has_verified=1

After following the bendy road through the village I turned left on to what, not so many years ago was the main A6, now by-passed, so it was a pleasant quiet cycle ride into the river crossing place of Shardlow.

One of the first buildings in the village was a shop, a welcome sight as I needed provisions. In particular I wanted a battery for my camera, but the shopkeeper shook his head and said I'd only get one of the sort I needed at a specialist camera shop. I trundled on and crossed the canal near the magnificent restored warehouses http://www.clockwarehousepub.co.uk/

It would have been nice to head down the towpath, which would keep me close to my straight line on the map, but I was aware that the long horse bridge at the junction of the canal and the Trent had been removed, sparking a long running controversy about its replacement http://homepages.which.net/~shardlow.heritage/lhbdocuments.html Instead I carried on past the marina and across the Trent bridge until I saw a cycle route marked Long Eaton and Kegworth. Kegworth was on my route, so I followed it. Somehow Kegworth disapeared from the sign posts, but I carried on alongside a road until I reached a river lock. I realised my error. I was looking now for the river Soar, but this was Sawley lock on the Trent. My map was of little use, pre-dating many of the roads and omitting the smaller ones. I retraced my pedals a little way and decided to strike off down a lane that said "no through road for motor vehicles", which seemed to indicate that unmotored vehicles would be able to get through.

After skirting Sawley Marina, the road took me through rough low lying fields. A tractor with a flail mower was busy macerating the hedges. The land had a degraded feeling, as often happens in the vicinity of cities. I passed a gravel pit and struggled up a steep bank to find myself at a huge roundabout, mad with hurrying traffic. This was just what I was trying to avoid.

I dodged across the roundabout and followed a dual carriageway that was familiar to me as I had often driven this way on journeys to and from my parents home. It led me to a junction on the M1. After crossing this I was able to leave the motor mania behind as I freewheeled downhill into Kegworth.

I turned off the A6 and rode gently downhill through Kegworth until the river came into view. Some steel boats were moored in a loop of the river and beyond the main river bridge the road crossed a cut that took boats on a shortened route. A flood lock, with the gates chained open most of the time, closing only in times of flood to control the water.

I left the road and carried my bike down some steps to join the towpath, no more than a rough path through a field. I sat down and ate some of the food that I had bought in Shardlow. I watched first a fibreglass cruiser then a smart washer josher type narrowboat with brass all over it pass by.

My map didn't show my destination, Zouch, as it is such a small place. I wasn't sure of the best way to complete the trip. My thought had been to follow the river, but the path looked very rough. The alternative would be to go along the Eastern edge of the valley through Sutton Bonington. My judgement was swayed by a signpost pointing towards a bio-energy project, so, lunch over, I set off along Station Road towards Sutton Bonington.

The station was a long lost stop on the Midland main line. Little trace remained and today's trains whizz past without a thought. A right turn on to College Road took me parallel with the railway past the campuses of this a university village. I imagine that the bio energy project that took my interest was somewhere within this complex, but I saw no further trace of it. 

Another right turn took me across the railway again and down Marle Pit Hill to join the long long main street. Eventually the village was behind me and I came to a junction. A right turn took me across the flood plain of the wide Soar valley. My destination, Zouch, was entered by a bridge over the lock cut of the Soar navigation. Just upstream the weir stream leaves under a low towpath bridge. The village is just a gathering of houses each side of the single road. On one side is the main flow of the river and weir and on the other side is the navigation channel leading down to a lock. It seems a pleasant, unassuming place, though it must be rather nerve racking to live here in the winter, at the mercy of the Soar's vicious floods.

Zouch is the last settlement in my gazetteer of british place names, which is why I selected it as my first destination. It should not be confused with the nearby town of Ashby de la Zouch, though I suspect the derivation is similar. Ashby got it's name from the Norman Roger la Zouche, which apparently means stocky. I have found no source for the name of this little gathering of houses, but I imagine it was in some way related to the same short fat frenchman.

2010-07-31 @ 05:29:46 by ashtonboatman

On my way at last

The donkey rattled and bucked along the line that had miraculously escaped Dr Beechings axe. It deposited me and my bike at Romiley and then scuttled off up the single track to Rose Hill.

The Sheffield train soon arrived and I climbed aboard. It was full of elderly walkers with boots and rucksacks heading for the hills. One venerable gentleman had a bagfull of maps and kept everyone else informed about the passing countryside with a running commentary. We threaded the beautiful Hope Valley and at each stop some walkers got off and other returning ramblers climbed aboard. Strangely, the homeward bound walkers were visibly younger. Perhaps the hills have a rejuvenating effect.

The geographical encyclopaedia got off at Grindleford, where we entered a long tunnel through to the suburbs of Sheffield. Soon the diesel unit was sliding into a platform to terminate at the main station.

In a bay platform there rested a shiny and sleek new East Midlands Railways train for London, first stop Derby. I boarded it but couldn't find a place for my bike. The train was empty and not due to leave for 30 minutes, so I went to look for another. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a Cross Country Voyager arrived and soon me and my bike were aboard and swishing through the Derbyshire countryside like a guided missile.

My destination, Duffield, flashed by and the train began to slow for the Derby stop. I unloaded my bike and went to look for the next Matlock train as these stop at Duffield. I had not long missed one, and so I spent 45 minutes happily watching trains come and go. Across the tracks the former headquarters of the Midland Railway is now a college.

A single railcar clattered into platform 1 with Matlock on it's destination panel. I clambered aboard and were soon rattling along back the way I had come. As we slowed for the Duffield stop I went to get my bike, but my way was blocked by the guard who was trying to fine an old lady for not buying her ticket at the station. She was having none of it and was quite happy to pay the proper fare but not a £20 fine. I thought this was a brilliant technique for discouraging passengers. It was obvious to me that the lady was not a fare dodger but just someone who didn't understand the rules.

Reluctantly, the guard let me past, then opened the door to allow me to detrain at Duffield. The bike ride could now begin.

2010-07-26 @ 05:22:12 by ashtonboatman

What I did on my holidays

I have a strange idea of holidays. Unless I go on my own or with my partner or a few good friends, canal boating is work, though work that I enjoy. I don't like too much heat, so travelling to hot countries is out, even if I could afford it and didn't feel bad about the carbon footprint. I don't like inactivity, so lying on a beach is not for me. I don't have a lot of money, so that rules out all sorts of options.

What I like to do is to get on my bike and cycle slowly through the land, seeing what I see and stopping to explore whatever interests me. In the evening I find a secluded spot, usually a bit of woodland off the beaten track, and set up camp. I light a fire to cook a meal and sleep under a tarpaulin stretched between trees.

I mark a line on a map between two points picked pretty much at random, then follow that line as closely as I can. 5 years ago I set off on a line from Ashton to Zouch, a little known row of houses on the River Soar near Loughborough. I got as far as Duffield near Derby. Last week I decided to continue the journey.

My plan had been to set out on Monday, but the need to collect an engine for "Forget me Not" caused me to put it off until Tuesday. All of Tuesday was taken up with sorting out bilge pumps so that the boats had a chance of staying afloat whilst I was away. It was on Wednesday morning that I was finally able to drop the van off with a volunteer driver and set out.Full of the joys of the open road I set out on my bike, with bags and pots and pans dangling all over. I got about 300 yards when a telltale psssshishpsssishpssssish from the back wheel informed me that I had a puncture. I unloaded the bike, upended it and removed the tyre. Soon the tube was mended, but I discovered that my brand new bicycle pump would not put sufficient pressure into the tyre.

On a soggy back tyre I rode back to surprise the boatsitters at Portland Basin as I searched for another pump. The only one I could find had been sunk when "Hazel" went down and was a little rusty. It also lacked the right size tube, so I had to walk up to Wilkinsons to get a universal one. Their tube leaked so much air at the joints as to be useless, but I was able to transfer the universal adapter part on to another tube and get a bit more air into the tyre.

As I rode on through Dukinfield it soon became clear that the pressure was still not sufficient. I plodded on and soon came to Hyde North station, heaved my loaded bike over the footbridge and enjoyed bread and Houmus as I waited for the train. Soon the hourly nodding donkey to Rose Hill clattered over the points and stopped at the platform. I hauled my bike aboard the lightly loaded railbus and sat down as the engines started to rev. I was on my way at last.