Knees Up!
Hazel now has all her knees in place. Stuart is now starting to bolt them down. We'll be ready for steaming soon.
Why not help this project. Text wcbs01 followed by an amount of money you'd like to donate (eg £5) to 70070.
25 days
I was surprised to see, when I logged in, that it has been 25 days since I last wrote anything. How remiss of me! The fact is that I don't seem to have had the time to sit down and write. I did have a bit of time off. Emuna and I went to Llandudno for a couple of days for her birthday. Stuart has been away too. He had a weeks work in Belgium.
When I returned from Llandudno on 13th October I found that Stuart and Ryan had spread the oak boards out on the ground as a sort of flat pack boat. Stuart started laying out the spiling boards and selecting the timber for the new planks. It turned out that the logs that I had bought were rather too straight and this restricted the amount of planks that we could get out of them. "Hazel"s planks are curvier than I thought.
Meanwhile, the sides of the boat were steadily being removed until there was virtually nothing left of them. Just the new bottom with the 1951 conversion propped up on sticks. We decided to get the knees shotblasted, so they went off to a shotblasters, then to another as the first one nearly tripled the quoted price after they had done one knee. The idiots also removed the identifying marker that Stuart had put on the knee, despite being firmly told not to. It's a good job they only did the one, or we would have been totally unable to work out which knee went where.
Stuart thinks we need timber for 5 more planks. I heard of some trees being felled in Cumbria and so had a day out looking at them. They're mostly too thin, but there are a couple of useful ones. I just have to arrange transport now.
With the stempost in place I started work on the sternpost. Now that is nearly ready.
We have a few new volunteers. Jake is travelling regularly from Lincoln to help. Bernard has started taking care of the tools. Nick is coming for a day each week and Rita joins us when she has a day off from social working. At the moment Reg is up from Rugby, carefully planing bevels on the edges of the bottom strakes. What we need now are some fundraising volunteers to magic up the rest of the money that we need. Any offers?
Drizzly Day
I had a few jobs to do in Ashton before starting work on "Hazel" today, and had a pumping crisis to deal with at Portland Basin as "Elton" was trying to play submarines as a result of a faulty pump. When I eventually arrived Stuart was already busy strengthening up the moulds for shaping the fore end planks. I had a look at the job of fitting the stempost, which I had removed a few days earlier to do a bit more work on the hoodings where the top strake fits in.
I trimmed a bit of old planking away to make it possible to slide it right up to the end of the new keelson, then thought about bringing it over and offering it up. I wouldn't be able to carry it on my own and Stuart was still busy with the moulds, so I decided to go and work on the sternpost.
After a little while alternately cutting with the power saw and hacking bits out with the adze to rough out the hoodings on this post.
Ryan arrived, apologising for his lateness. He and Stuart had been
to a charity pie tasting at the buffet bar the previous night. http://www.beerhouses.co.uk/pub/stalybridge-buffet-bar/
He
got stuck in to sorting out the electrics on the 3 phase table saw
that we recently collected from Ashton Canal Carriers.
http://www.brocross.com/canal/joel.htm
It is run from a 3 phase converter, enabling it to run from a single phase supply, but had been running backwards. Ryan tried swapping wires around until eventually it ran smoothly in the right direction, then blew a trip to cut power from the whole boatyard.
Giving up on this, there was some discussion about other jobs that Ryan could do, but none of them were quite ready to be started. I had reached the stage of preparing to cut another slice off the sternpost with the chainmill, but decided to leave this and get Ryan to help offer up the stempost. In fact all three of us worked on this and soon had the stempost in place and fitting quite nicely. When Stuart checked it though it was way off centre at the top. This seemed to be because the right hand (starboard ) side of the bow had moved and was pushing the stempost out of line. Ryan and I started cutting away the other side so that we could get a prop in place to adjust the side of the boat. Part way through this job Ryan's mother arrived and we stopped for tea and a chat. When we had finished, Jessica, Adeline and Elouise, Stuarts wife and two daughters arrived and we were surprised to see that it was nearly time to go home.
All day the grey sky had been crying a constant fine drizzle over us. It was the sort of rain that gets you really wet without you really noticing until it's too late.
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.
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.
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.
2010-08-20
@ 21:41:55 by ashtonboatman
Derby
I'm not sure exactly where the path left the old railway track, but parts of it became obviously too steep for trains. I suspect that the railway once went on to a now long demolished viaduct. The path ended at a gateway on to dreary industrial estates and roaring dual carriageways. I'm afraid Derby is a city that has never attracted me. It has always seemed too quick to replace the old and interesting with the modern and mundane. Perhaps I have been over influenced by accounts of the campaign to save the Derby Canal back in the 1950s. The canal had fallen into disuse and was one of the few that didn't get nationalised in 1948. The Derby Canal Company sold it to Derby Council who systematically destroyed it. Now volunteers are trying to get a least some of it ressurected.
I picked my way through a great greyness of light industry until I eventually found the city centre. Aside from the roaring roadways I found an old bridge over the Derwent with an old chapel of warm brick clinging to the far side. http://www.derby-guide.co.uk/bridge_chapel.html
The main reason for my excursion was to get an effective bicycle pump before the shops shut. I rode further into the centre looking for a pedestrian to ask. A woman directed me to the main bicycle shop and I started riding along the route that she indicated, but quickly forgot the details. I came upon a pedestrianised area and wondered about the legality of cycling through it. I was reluctant to walk because my foot was sore with plantar fasciitis. A cyclist rode confidently across the paved area, so I decided to do the same.
Turning a corner I noticed a small black skinned police officer. I don't know if they've abandoned height requirements for police, but this one was tiny. I doubt she would be much use breaking up a pub brawl. She waved me to a halt and politely explained that cycling was not allowed in this area and they were going to have a crack down and start fining people next week. It was the nicest ticking off I've ever received ( and I've had many). I wonder if this little arm of the law has learned to charm criminals into submission. Another cyclist came the other way as she spoke and she stopped him too. Luckily I remembered that the shop I sought was on Ashbourne Road, so I diverted her attention from my misdemeanor by asking directions. The way was straightforward so, giving my thanks to the smiling law enforcer, I hobbled round the corner before remounting.
The route was straightforward, though clogged with traffic and roadworks. It took me along Friargate, under the ornate bridge that once carried the railway near which I was to stay. It is now a bridge to nowhere as the continuing viaduct has been bulldozed away to make way for yet more roads. Apparently these are the arches that inspired Flanagan & Allen's famous song http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/features/friargatebridge/ http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/areas_city/friargate.htm
The bike shop was full of expensive space age bikes. I wandered round fascinated. I like bikes, and like to have a range of different types to ride. Poverty restricts me to only having the ones that others throw away. This is fine as many people are hugely wasteful. I was once given an almost new racing bike because its owner didn't want to be bothered fixing a puncture. This shop made me briefly wish for wealth. I particularly liked the ingenious hi tech folding bikes, lightweight and with a million gears but folding to the size of a briefcase. I felt a bit silly just going in for a bike pump,but it's hard to get proper ones nowadays.
I picked a suitable traditional pump from the display and paid for it at the till. Outside I went to pump my tyre but found that I didn't have the adapter to enable it to pump through a woods valve.
The Dunlop valve, (also called a Woods valve or an English valve) is a type of pneumatic valve stem in use in some countries, such as Japan,[1] Czech Republic, India, Pakistan, Poland, Romania, Russia, the Netherlands, Germany, Britain, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, and developing countries. It has a wider base than a Presta valve, similar enough in size to a Schrader valve to use identically drilled valve holes in rims,[2] but it can be inflated with a Presta valve adapter.[3] The inner mechanism of the valve can be replaced easily, without the need for special tools. The inventor was C. H. Woods. It superseded Dunlop's original valve for pneumatic tyres.[4]
After running the gauntlet of traffic and roadworks again I found Wilkinsons, bought the adapter and, at last, got my back tyre properly inflated.
It was teatime. The shops were beginning to shut and my stomach was feeling empty. I had some bread and various spreads that needed using up, so I decided to consume these. I cycled around until I found a bridge under the railway that used to be for the canal, now a cycle track. I sat on the lawn between the old canal route and the river and ate my simple meal. Cyclists whizzed past, giving me odd looks as I dined. Trains whirred and rumbled over the bridge.
With the loaf finished, and the last dregs of coffee squezed from my flask, I decided to try to follow the line of the canal. This took me through some riverside parkland and under a concrete road bridge until I came upon the weir above which the canal used to cross the river on the level. Boathorses crossed a simple wooden bridge as they towed their boats. I wondered how they managed when the river was in spate.
I didn't feel like going home to my hedgerow, so I thought I would go and watch activity at the station for a while. I'm always fascinated by trains coming and going. I parked my bike at the bike rack. Every other bike there seems to have a noticed attached warning that it will be confiscated if it's not removed by a certain date. Some of them were very expensive looking bikes. The station was very active. I wondered what had become of the old Derby Works. I was just speculating about this when an Inter City 125 or HST set emerged from the works, which I think is now an East Midlands Trains maintenance depot. It passed the station, then cruised back on a parallel track with an orange boiler suited mechanic hanging out of the cab and waving like royalty to the passengers on the platform. It's odd that it seems like yesterday that these trains were the latest thing, but that was 35 years ago and now they are being retired.
I don't know why, but when I'm in a strange town on my own, which I like,I always imagine that, when I feel the need for company I can overcome my natural reserve, go into a pub and become the wonderful witty gregarious person that I always think I should be. This was what I thought to do next. I had spotted an old fashioned looking pub called The Brunswick, so I moored my bike to a convenient lamp post and entered. The interior was pleasantly traditional with lots of wood. There was a huge range of real ales, some brewed on the premises I understand. I was served a pint of one of these, can't remember what it was called, by a dour barman and sat in a corner. The beer was very pleasant, but there were hardly any other customers and I began to feel uncomfortably socially inept. I became very aware that I was oddly and scruffily dressed and a little dirty from my day's activities. I drank my beer and silently left to return to my hedge.
I unravelled the dirty blue tarpaulin that would form my shelter and tied it to the bushes. As I did this I noticed a wren hopping from branch to branch, almost within touching distance and showing a curious interest in my activity. At first I thought that I might be near its nest, but it showed no sign of distress, just interest. I dug some paper out of my bag and broke up some thin sticks for kindling. With a flash of flame from my lighter I soon had a good little blaze going and, with some bigger sticks added, settled the kettle on it. The wren continued to watch, though from more of a distance. The light began to fade and I poured the boiling contents of the kettle into my flask before extinguishing the fire and wriggling into my sleeping bag under the tarpaulin.
A winter's night on “Hazel”.
It's the time of year when we don't get much sunlight and so “Hazel”s batteries need to be topped up from the mains every now and then. She has a huge bank of batteries that need a special charger and can't all be charged at once. Someone, normally me, has to stay to switch from one set of batteries to the other sometime in the night. I don't mind as I get to stay in “Hazel”s wonderful back cabin.
To charge up I have to shaft the boat the short distance across the aqueduct to Dukinfield and tie up beside the premises of Dixon & Smith, Motor Engineers. Pat and John are kind enough to let us plug in whenever we need power. Tying up is easier said than done because of all the rubbish in the canal. To get the bow close enough to get on and off the boat, the stern has to be pretty much in the middle of the cut as there is something big that catches the middle of the boat and causes her to pivot. There was nothing to tie the stern end to as the boat lies along the end wall of a factory. Between the factory and the water there is a small bank of rubble so, some time ago, I drove a pin into this and attached an old ratchet strap to it. In order to tie up I have to hook the ratchet strap with the cabin shaft and pull it to me. I then pass the stern line of the boat through the ratchet strap and tie the line to the timberhead. At the fore end there is a chain with a hook on the end secured to a post on the bank. All I have to do is put the fore end line into the hook and tie back to the T stud.
When tied like this, the back cabin is facing the railway bridge and I enjoy hearing Trans Pennine Expresses growling by, interspersed with the occasional freight. If I open the doors I can watch them and wonder if the passengers notice my cabin light below them on the canal.
For ages the weather has been rainy. I've been fed up of the rain, especially as I'm trying to work on “Forget me Not” on dock. Now, all of a sudden the wind has turned to the North and we're getting those cold clear winters nights that I love. Tonight the mopstick was frozen to crunchiness by 8PM.
I've been writing all evening, or rather talking to my computer, my friend Jackie will type up what I've recorded. Now it's bed time. The cabin is so warm I keep falling asleep. I tried opening the doors to let the heat out, with the range roaring away it gets extremely toasty in here.
Whilst writing the above paragraph I fell asleep. I woke again in a cooling cabin a couple of hours later, so I turned out the light and snuggled into my sleeping bag. In the morning it was cold. I had a flask to make coffee so I decided not to light the range. All I had to do was to shaft the boat back over the aqueduct to Portland Basin. I quickly dressed and put on all the gloves I could find, then climbed out into the crisp cold still dark morning. After disconnecting the charging cables I untied the lines, stiff with frost, and threw the ratchet strap back on to the bank. I then grasped the icy shaft with my gloved hands and, taking care not to slip on the frosty roof, pushed the fore end out into the channel, cat ice chinkling as the boat pushed it aside.
The stern end was stuck on something and, as I couldn't exert as much effort as usual because I was standing on a slippery surface, it took a while to get it free. By this time my hands were becoming very painful in spite of the 3 pairs of gloves that I was wearing. I decided that I would have to go inside to warm up. I went into the main cabin and lit a fire, enjoying its heat while I drank a cup of coffee.
When I had thawed sufficiently I climbed back on to the roof in the now bright and shiny but still cold morning, and started to move the boat towards the aqueduct, jumping down on to the towpath to give her a good tug with the fore end line before climbing back aboard to swing her round with the shaft and tie up abreast of “Lilith”. With everything secure I headed for home to get ready for another day working on “Forget me Not”.
2010-07-12
@ 20:15:00 by ashtonboatman
A sign of the times.
It was a hot sunny day and I was busy working on the boats at Portland Basin when I noticed a wheelbarrow parked on the towpath across the canal. As we have wheelbarrows on the boats for collecting on recycling trips, I went over to see if someone had borrowed on of ours. When I got there I could hear banging and slushing noises from the other side of the stone wall. The ground drops steeply down about 20 feet of wooded rocky bank to the River Tame. I looked over and saw three men sploshing about in the river and dragging out rusty bikes, scaffold poles etc. One of them saw me looking and explained that they had decided to clean up the river.
This public spirited explanation was slightly marred by the fact that they only seemed to be removing metal objects, leaving behind much, equally unsightly, but valueless, plastic.
They dragged their ochre encrusted booty up the bank, over the wall and managed to load it into the sagging barrow ( which wasn't one of ours). I imagine they must have had a van nearby because it's over 2 miles to the nearest scrapyard that takes iron.
I think it's a good thing that people clear up and weigh in the clutter that others have carelessly discarded, but I also see desperation in the men's actions. I haven't seen this sort of activity since the 1980s when long years of unemployment spurred the picking up of beer cans, dragging ditches for scrap metal and other forms of scavenging. Anything to make a few bob to try to make ends meet. Are we now going to have another no hope generation like that of the Thatcher years? Growing up with no understanding of the concept of working for a living.
2010-05-02
@ 16:30:07 by ashtonboatman
Stranded at Scarisbrick
"Southam" and "Lilith" are still stuck at Scarisbrick. It could have been worse, they could have been stuck in Bootle! The man at Red Lion Caravans opposite is being very helpful, charging batteries to keep the bilge pumps going and keeping an eye on the boats for me. Frank the engineer has stripped down the gearbox. We thought that it was going to need new clutch plates. I managed to contact the remains of the old Parsons company that made the gearbox, now run by one man in his spare time. He can supply new clutch plates, but we would have to wait 12 weeks and they would cost £600. Luckily, after discussing the problem with the man, I don't think we need them. The difficulty lies elsewhere and should be relatively easy to fix. With a bit of luck the boats will be on the move again soon. I've learned a lot about old marine gearboxes, especially how much it costs to get bits for them.
Meanwhile I've arranged a tow for "Forget me Not" so that we can do the monthly recycling trip on Sunday 9th May. It's a week late from the usual first Sunday because of the Bank Holiday weekend. If you would like to come on this trip just turn up at Portland Basin, Ashton under Lyne, at 9.30 AM on the 9th.
Mad March recycling trip.
Despite having to scrape a thick coating of ice off the van windscreen I was surprised to find that the cut had frozen overnight yet again. Fian had spent the night boatsitting and I was a little concerned as she tends to feel the cold. Smoke was drifting from "Forget me Not"s chimney, so she was obviously awake, but I followed proper boating etiquette and avoided her cabin until she emerged. She said she had had a wonderful night and actually enjoyed being woken by squabbling geese at 3 AM!
After checking the bilges and feeding Captain Kit I carefully climbed across the ice sugared boats and started "Southam"s big engine to back her over to the towpath side for easy access by volunteers. "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" made a fine sight breasted up at the wharf. Soon people began to arrive and I had a busy time allocating people jobs, giving out safe boating information to first timers, of whom there were many and generally checking that everything was ready, dealing with a closed damper on a range that was causing people to be kippered etc.
As 10 AM approached I asked everyone to climb aboard and began shafting "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" round to face towards Droylsden. This was easier said than done as the ice, though thin, was a great impediment.
With the two currently unpowered boats a little way past 90 degrees of their 180 degree turn I noticed that the person I had asked to steer "Forget me Not" had taken it upon himself to go and start "Southam". Despite my waving he untied the boat and set off, but stopped again when my dancing, waving and shouting was relayed to him.
I had a dilemma that often occurs when working with volunteers. It's important for smooth running and safety that everyone follows the skippers instructions, but if you're too severe in imposing your authority you soon find yourself working alone.
I ran over to "Southam", which was now drifting in the middle of the cut and could only be accessed by climbing down off the footbridge. I found that the stern end mooring line was still tied to the T stud, it had been simply lifted off the mooring pin and thrown aboard instead of being untied and coiled ready for use as it should be. Even worse, the mooring pins had been left in the towpath. I climbed back on to the footbridge, retrieved the pins and re-gained the boat, explaining, I hope tactfully, that I had good reasons for my steering allocations and pointing out the shortcomings re lines and pins.
Moving the boat forward I nudged her past the bows of the other two boats and quickly explained that as I towed "Forget me Not" forward the line from "Lilith"s stem should be taken back and tied on to "Forget me Not"s stern. I took the strain of "Forget me Not"s line on "Southam"s T stud and pulled her forward, though she bounced off the knuckle of the Peak Forest turn because "Southam"s premature move had resulted in the turn being incomplete. My instructions must have been misunderstood because "Lilith"s line had not been carried to "Forget me Not"s stern and, as the two boats had separated, had to be thrown some distance. At the third attempt the line made its target, but almost too late. Boats do not have brakes so, once "Forget me Not" was moving her 15 tons or so was not going to stop. Seeing "Lilith" lurch into line I engaged forward gear again, but a few minutes later waving and shouts of Stop caused me to pull the lever back to nuetral again. "Lilith"s line had not been properly secured and was slipping off. There was no way I could actually stop the train of boats so had to let them drift while the line was re-secured. "Southam" stemmed up un the outside of the turn by the old Junction Mill chimney, now an icon of Ashton. "Forget me Not" wedged in alongside and, once more, the ice made things difficult as we tried to shaft the boats off the rubbish. As I tried to back her out "Southam" picked up a sturdy canvas bag on her blades, which had to be cut off, hanging over the side with a knife while young Daniel Cocker held on to my feet.
Eventually we got going again. Julie Edwards had rung up earlier to say that she would be late and would catch us up. She was waiting at Margaret St Bridge and hopped on to "Southam"s sterndeck as we passed, sharing with me the noise and smoke for the rest of the journey.
Despite my efforts with the knife, there was clearly stil some rubbish on the blades. The engine was struggling and making black smoke, the rudder was juddering and the water was boiling round the stern rather than going back in a clear stream. I kept giving bursts of sterngear to try to throw it off. This had some effect, but never got the blade completely clean and it would always pick up some more. As we passed the site of Robertsons Jam factory, now nearly demolished, a grunt from the engine indicated more rubbish collected. I tried reverse again and the engine stalled. Restarting it, I tried forward again. This unravelled the rubbish, but, looking down into the water, I could see something trailing behind that would obviously go back on to the blade if sterngear was engaged.
We tied up "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" breasted at Fairfield Junction quite neatly and winded "Southam", a manoeuvre slightly impeded by the crap on the blade, then everyone unloaded themselves and started digging out barrows from "Forget me Not"s hold. There were lots of new people and setting off on the collection round was a little chaotic. Most people got the hang of it quite quickly though and soon the two teams were busying themselves collecting from the Moravian Fields estate.
With so many people the speed of collection made up for time lost at the beginning of the trip. I became a little disappointed by the quantities and began to wonder where half the volunteers were, beginning to grumble that they were probably back at the boats having a brew, only to find that they were actually all busy emptying a garage full of stuff that had been donated.
When we had knocked on the last front door and barrowed the last load back to the boats, Fiona started handing out dishes of the excellent food that she had brought, with alternative options for carnivores and herbivores. Time to relax and eat and chat.
After two plates of excellent grub, I picked up the cabin shaft and started poking at the tangle of garbage on the propeller. This turned out to be mainly carpet, which was wound tightly on and bound with all manner of fibrous plasticky stuff. After much prodding and pulling I managed to get it all off, building a great mound on the sterndeck.
The next task was to wind "Forget me Not" and "Lilith". This is carried out by pulling them forward alongside "Southam" then, as their bows approach the tug's stern, pulling back on their front lines whilst shafting the stern ends sideways. This usually swings them round quite neatly and puts them in a good position for setting off, which was achieved quite neatly this time.
With the train travelling quite nicely along the canal and Kevin enjoying having a go at tug steering, I decided to walk alongside, stopping at Lumb Lane bridge (one of the lowest on the canal system) to try out the video function on my new camera The early morning frost had given way to a really nice sunny day, with refreshingly cold air. I enjoyed my walk, but kept my eye on the boats to make sure that everything was OK. I jumped back on board before the tricky turns through Guide Bridge, which were negotiated neatly by the steerers. I took over at Margaret St bridge to deal with the tricky arrival at Portland Basin. The procedure here is for "Southam" to head straight for the wharf then swing round to run parallel to it. "Forget me Not" follows and, if you judge it right, she will run neatly alongside the wharf to be stopped with her back end line (which is on the front of the engine room) while "Lilith" neatly slides alongside her. "Southam", once the towline is thrown off, then goes over to the towpath side of the canal to make it easy for volunteers to get off. She is then shafted back across to tie alongside "Lilith" (trying to do this by engine power is a nightmare because of the impossiblity of manouvering this boat in reverse gear).
Very quickly all the volunteers melted away in the afternoon sun and I made my way home.
2010-01-29 @ 06:39:53 by ashtonboat
I've been looking at logs.
I've been away looking at logs, and that means there's some real boatbuilding in the offing at last. It's been such a long job to build up the organisation so that this would be possible. It all hangs now on the wonderful work that Fiona, our development worker, is doing. We have all digits crossed for a funding bid that she's made to restore "Hazel" and use her to give holidays to people recovering from depression etc. We should know next week if we have the money. In the meantime I'm starting to make preparations.
One of the difficulties of wooden boatbuilding is finding enough good, big logs. Most sawmills can't cut the lengths that we need. I had heard about a sawmill near Grimsby in Lincolnshire so I decided to go and have a look. I went by train and bike as I prefer to travel that way, it reduces the carbon footprint and, if you book in advance, it's cheaper.
Early on Monday morning I enjoyed cycling down the towpath the 5 miles to Manchester Picadilly station. Just as I turned into the station approach I heard a psssssshhhough from the back wheel. The tube had gone, not just a puncture but a great split. Not a good start to the trip. I decided to take the bike with me on the offchance of finding a bike shop in Grimsby and, after a while spent relaxing and watching trains come and go, I loaded myself and the redundant bike on to a Transpennine Express unit bound for Cleethorpes.
Once we were clear of the urban sprawl I could enjoy the Pennine scenery as the unit growled up the gradient through Chinley then through a tunnel and rattled down the Hope Valley. Just think, I could be stressed out on the motorway!
Past Sheffield I was in less familiar territory as we threaded a mixture of countryside, town and post industrial wasteland, all the while playing spot the canal as we paralleled the Sheffield and South Yorkshire Navigation. Mr Waddingtons light blue barges hove into view a time or two, though sadly not in use.
The train rumbled on to a bridge over the wide muddy banked Trent. A steel narrowboat was heading upstream on the first of the tide. Soon we were in Scunthorpe, with its unfashionably grim industry, then riding out over the Humberside plains.
As the train slowed into Grimsby Station I grabbed my useless bike ready to quickly exit the pneumatic doors and lock it to a bike rack, then, following directions from the station staff, headed quickly through a pedestrian area to the 'bus station.
For some reason 'bus routes and schedules form a body of arcane knowledge only known to a secret society of regular users. By relentless quizzing of various acolytes of this order I managed to work out that I needed the X1 Humber Flyer from stand D, but the complex charts required to ascertain the times of the flyers were mysteriously absent. Eventually a 'bus driver cracked under interrogation and admitted that the relevant charabanc would depart at a quarter to.
This gave me time for a short walk to the old docks, where a trawler with scabby paint was berthed alongside the fishing museum. Grinning guides in sou'westers were poised to show the sadly absent public around their ship. Ahead of her lay the "Lincoln Castle", a fine big paddle steamer that used to be the main link to Hull before the construction of the Humber Bridge. Now she is beached on a sandbank in the silted dock. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/PS_Lincoln_Castle Had I time I would have liked to look round the museum. The rather down at heel appearance of the vessels reflects the difficulty in getting funding for floating heritage. Also in the dock were two wooden fishing boats, one sunk and one listing drunkenly, illustrating the even greater problem of getting funds for anything wooden. In contrast the museum building was a modern, high quality structure which I'm sure contains lots of well funded audio visual whizziness.
Back at the'bus station the steamer's wheeled replacement, with a remarkably cheerful driver, was soon flying me out of town into the countryside, to deposit me at the delightful village of Keelby. Following directions given by a helpful passenger I completed the 10 minute walk to Somerscales sawmill, just as most people were going out for lunch.
Luckily the receptionist stayed at her post and, with a refreshing lack of safety overkill, suggested that I look round on my own, but be careful. I strode towards the log piles and was soon perching atop them pacing out logs and assessing their planking potential. They have some amazingly big logs there, up to 40 feet long. Usually it's hard to get more than 20 ft (about 7 metres for metric readers). Underneath the good logs were others that had rotted beyond all use, so long had they been in the pile. The log piles seemed to go on for ever and I excitedly trotted about, searching for the perfect boatbuilding log.
Between piles ran black muddy roadways rutted with the tracks of the machines used for moving the logs. As I crossed them the mud came to the tops of my boots. I moved to the corner of the stacking area, stepped confidently into a rut, and suddenly found myself up to my knees in soft black ooze. Chuckling at my predicament I pulled myself out and decided to avoid all ruts in future.
The log shifters appear to indulge in some kind of sport that involves hitting life expired vehicles with huge logs, perhaps some kind of giants cricket. At least, this is how it seemed from the amount of totally smashed cars that lay on the margins of the field.
With my perambulation of the huge log stacking area complete, I returned to the office. The boss had returned, gone looking for me, given up and left again. However, Danny, his son, was available and I took him to some of the logs that interested me. I asked about price, whilst firmly gripping a large tree trunk. Prices have gone up recently, but not too much. The bigger logs command a premium, but this has to be balanced with the fact that there is normally less waste on a bigger log.
I asked about the market for oak, boatbuilding being a pretty minor outlet. Danny told me that a lot went for oak framed houses, not restorations but new build. Apparently there has been a boom in this form of construction recently, which might explain the price rise. Another factor is that British Waterways have gone back to using oak for lock gates. A few years ago they were full of the joys of Opepe, but this Ghanaian hardwood is not sustainably grown and environmental considerations have now swayed them back to using native oak. I'm glad that awareness of rainforest destruction is now having a real effect, even though it means that our timber will be a bit more expensive.
"Have you seen the sawmill" asked Danny. I hadn't, so he showed me the most sophisticated sawmill I've ever seen. Under remote control from the safety of a glass cabin a log was quickly fed through the sawblade, guided by a laser, pulled back, rotated, then fed through again for another cut without pausing to draw breath. The mill was only installed about 18 months ago and Danny was obviously proud of it. It can only cut up to 25 feet though, longer logs will have to use an older, but still impressive, machine alongside. This one can cut up to 50 feet.
We strolled back to the office and Danny had to leave to attend to other business. Accepting a cup of coffee, I sat and admired the unusual office. Though it is clearly a modern building it contains no MDF or plastics. The walls are bare brick, the beams oak and everything else made of proper wood ( except the computer of course). It was heated by an elegant glass fronted woodstove and furnished with tasteful antique chairs and sideboard.
Coffee finished, I set off back towards the village. As I walked down the lane a huge lorry, loaded with logs, headed for the sawmill. I was feeling peckish and explored the village a little in search of sustenance. Amazingly, I had a choice of grocers, and a separate post office if I needed it. I entered a mini supermarket and chose one from a wide range of pork pies, then walked to a bench opposite the 'bus stop to sit and consume it.
With my hunger banished I crossed the road to await the Humber Flyer. First a school 'bus arrived and disgorged its young cargo. They walked past me staring fixedly into their palms which contained mobile 'phones and computer games. The flyer arrived, this time driven by a woman with incredibly red lipstick, and whisked me back to Grimsby.
There was more than an hour to wait for the train as my cheap ticket was only valid on the 18.48 service. I walked to the old docks again and considered having a look at the modern port in the distance, but I decided it was too far. If my bike was serviceable there would be no problem. Back in town I followed a waterway that was presumably once navigable but is now cut off by a pumping station. I imagined Keels and Sloops lined up alongside the brick warehouses bordering the water, men toiling to unload their cargoes.
As darkness fell I returned to the station and reclaimed my bike. I enjoyed watching the comings and goings of passengers, then suddenly remembered my camera. I had brought my new digibole camelode with the intention of photographing logs, but in my excitment I completely forgot. To make up for this omission I photographed the Cleethorpes to Barton on Humber railcar progressing through the station.
Soon my train snaked into the platform. I loaded up my bike and found a seat. As we grumbled off into the night I took out my 'phone and started to make arrangements with volunteers for the next couple of days and send out texts to remind people about the forthcoming recycling trips. My impression of the day was one of the consummate friendliness of the people I had met.
Suddenly I was jerked forward from my seat as the train made the most abrupt stop that I've ever known on rails. The guard hurried forward into the drivers cab, then, after a while walked back. A passenger near me asked what was wrong. The guards reply was bizzarre. He said " I don't think there's anything to worry about because the driver hasn't spoken to me, if he does speak to me then it will be a serious situation". With that he toddled off to the back of the train.
After what seemed like half a geological era the train crew conferred again in the cab, then we moved up to the next signal, where we stopped for the driver to 'phone the signalman ( why don't they have radios?) before restarting our journey. Later the guard announced what had happened over the pa system. It seems that some foolish person had dashed across the line in front of the train, so close that the driver couldn't be sure that he hadn't been hit. This meant that he had to walk back along the track until he was satisfied that there was no corpse lying by the line, hence the long delay.
As we raced into the blackberry black night I had an idea. I rang Dave the driver. Dave is a volunteer who loves driving and has taken charge of the society's van. As I guessed, an extra trip to meet me at Stockport station would be no problem for him, and so I was able to avoid the chore of pushing my bike back up the towpath from Manchester.
After Doncaster I began to doze and, though I recall Sheffield, I didn't properly regain consciousness until Hazel Grove in the Manchester suburbs. Dave and his wife, Ann Marie, were waiting in the van to drive me to Ashton, where I checked that the boat's pumps were working properly before going home.