I thought it was going to be a nice sedate weekend. Five Girl Guide leaders had booked "Hazel" for 3 days. They were all experienced boaters, with certificates to prove it, but had never worked a motor and butty. They wanted to go through a few locks, so, the plan was to go up the 3 locks to Staley Wharf, spend a night there, then back to Ashton and up the Peak Forest to the bottom of the Marple flight, before returning to Portland Basin on the Sunday.
Because they were all boaters we wouldn't need any of our usual crew. The trip was set up by our trustee and Guiding official (she also finds some time to work for a living) Liz Stanford. Her husband, Peter, came along to add some much needed muscle power, returning home each evening to tend to their animals.
I realised that things were going to be more raucus than anticipated when I was showing them the hand signals that we use for communicating instructions. In my innocence it had never previously occurred to me that the signal that I use for 'untie' was suggestive of the sin of onanism. The ladies fell about laughing.
We set off and negotiated lock 1W very competently. At the far end of the long opened out Whitelands tunnel a downhill boat waited for us to clear.
As we passed its occupants told us that the water was low above the next two locks.
The long pound between locks 3 and 4 has been a problem since the canal re-opened in 2001. The main reason is that the top gates of lock 3 leak like sieves. Why on earth this problem has not been addressed over the last 20 years I have no idea.
At lock 2W we found that the balance beam on the top gate was on the verge of breaking free as a result of rot. I confidently predict that, when this fails it will be blamed on a boater.
Above number 3 the water was a good foot down. I decided to give it a try, but got no more than a couple of boatslengths before the motor stemmed up. I had a few goes at freeing her, but it seemed futile without raising the water level. I got on my bike and rode into Stalybridge town centre.
The pounds above 4 and 5 were low but the longer one past Tesco was brimming. As a couple of boats were tied in this pound I couldn't steal too much water, but I dropped it nearly a foot then headed back to the boats. The water had made little impact on the level in the long pound, but I thought the few inches gained might help.
I added an extra line to the back end line for Peter, as the strongest person present, to pull on. The line broke and Peter fell backwards on to his windlass, giving him a painful bruise.
The boats remained resolutely stuck. We discovered that the culprit was a large piece of submerged industrial machinery, similar to a very large washing machine drum.
Our team of Guide ladies was joined by various tough looking men who had been walking the towpath. We tried pulling and shafting in all directions. We attempted to remove the offending item, all to no avail.
A few years ago we offered to clear submerged rubbish from this location but were prevented from doing so on the grounds that it might disturb the wildlife!
A hire boat had followed us up the locks. It's crew kindly agreed to let lock 4 fill by leakage (that's how bad it is) rather than deliberately draw off more water. They were clearly keen to get past but our boats were blocking the way.
A knight in shining armour arrived in the form of the Grand Union motor "Bargus", heading down towards Ashton.. Normally operating as a fuel boat, "Bargus" had been relieved of her tanks and other paraphernalia ready to go on dock, so she was riding high in the water. She was loosely tied stem to stem with "Forget me Not" and backed away vigorously. Each time the line snatched "Forget me Not" moved a little, until finally she was free. Meanwhile "Bargus"s skipper, Jason, organised our ladies and Peter to haul "Hazel", which draws almost as much as "Forget me Not", over the underwater debris.
We set off again, with the hireboat in hot pursuit.
Nearing Clarence St bridge we stemmed up again. I let the following boat past then managed to back off the obstruction, almost scraping the moored boats in order to avoid it as I drove the motor ahead again. One of the ladies was standing on the gunwale next to me as I steered. She had quite a shock when the boat rolled violently as it rode over a sunken coping stone.
Rosie was the cook for the trip (I have yet to ascertain whether her husband is called Jim). During the delays she had been busy preparing a meal, which she was now anxious to serve.
The problem was, where could we stop for tea and enable Peter, who was on the towpath, to get aboard. I suggested the Tame aqueduct. This is narrow, so we would be blocking the way, but it was unlikely that more boats would be passing through that evening. There was nowhere else that Peter could get aboard.
We made the boats fast on the cast iron trough over the river Tame. This structure, revolutionary at the time, replaced an original stone arch that was washed away by floods before the canal was complete. Everyone clustered around the table in "Hazel" to enjoy a wonderful meal.
Stomachs quietened, we plodded on, stemming again at a narrows that is notorious for fly tipping, though in this case I think the problem was rocks from a tumbledown stone wall.
It was getting dark by the time we reached the winding hole at Staley Wharf. The boats were reluctant to turn because they were virtually on the bottom. When we finally got round we were confronted with another problem. Tying towpath side is not possible because a ledge of rock prevents boats from getting close. In previous visits we have tied on the outside but, since our last visit a couple of years ago, this has become a jungle. I aimed the bows for a small gap in the foliage at one end of the winding hole. It was possible to get "Hazel"s bow in here and get off. An attempt to drive in a pin was unsuccessful as the ground was solid. We threw lines over the top of the greenery and made fast to the top of a high factory fence. The lines were high enough to avoid the risk of decapitating anyone with the temerity to explore the rough path that ran through the area.
Peter got on his bike to head for home. The rest of us went inside "Hazel". The ladies got out the gin.................
In the morning we woke to a rainy day. I walked up the locks with my windlass to try to gain a little more water. As I approached Armentierres Square a rush of water from lock 7's paddles showed that a boat was on its way down.
Wrapped up in waterproofs, we set off into proper Peter Kay rain.
Ally joined me on "Forget me Not". Immediately the motor boat stopped as it ran on to a solid object.
We got her free and carried on to the first bridgehole,
where we were stopped again.
The following boat caught us up and stopped, presumably having a rest whilst we fought our way forward. We got the boat free and carried on.
I steered and carefully avoided the objects that we'd encountered on the way up.
There was no avoiding the obstruction at lock 3, though I now knew more about its nature and location.
Inevitably the motor stemmed up. We let the butty drift past her but she jammed nearer the lock.
During efforts to free her Peter fell in at the head of the lock, which mercifully was full and no water was running. He gained another bruise, but climbed out of the water and was soon at work again. I employed the risky practise of inserting the shaft under the boat and using it to lever her free. A very good way of breaking your shaft, so I only do this as a last resort.
"Hazel" came free and was worked down the locks.
I managed to get "Forget me Not" moving and into the refilled lock, picking up the butty again below lock 2.
At lock 1 I showed Ally the trick of holding the motor in sterngear against the bottom gate as the butty works through. This gets exciting as the paddles are opened and the counter dips into the resulting maelstrom, but the boats are perfectly positioned for exiting the lock.
The aforementioned lorry scrapyard is no longer there. I had to go to Darwen in deepest Lancashire to seek a replacement. This was a more modern part and needed modification, which was done as a donation by North West Propshafts of Salford. http://www.northwestpropshafts.com/
The plan had been for Stephan to meet us at Staley Wharf to fit the part, but, we had got there too late in the day. I rang him and he agreed to meet at Portland Basin. We dropped "Hazel" on the towpath side at the basin for Rosie to serve up another wonderful meal. I maneuvered "Forget me Not" to the outside for easy access by Steph.
With the aid of many blasphemous words, Steph worked face down into the black and oily bilge to exchange the components. He then rushed off to rapidly wash and change for he had a date to fulfil. The timing had not been good.
With another excellent meal consumed we made the turn on to the Peak Forest, now much easier to navigate after much needed dredging.
At the far end of Hyde is Captain Clarke's Bridge. A turnover bridge that also carries a small road.
https://oldhyde.blogspot.com/2011/08/captain-clarke.html
As we approached the bridge I thought about how difficult it used to be to get through before the dredging. I was surprised when the motor boat bounced on something in the narrows. The engine began to struggle, then stalled. We clearly had a bad bladeful.
We pulled "Forget me Not" to the bank and I started poking under her counter with the cabin shaft. At first I thought we had picked up a roll of tarpaulin, for the object was tough but had some give in it, with no obvious way of getting a grip on it. I was just thinking I'd need to get in the water when my hook caught on something. I pulled hard but it wouldn't come free. A small round gold coloured plastic container floated to the surface. Liz picked it up and opened it, just as the item released.
"There's a bullet in this" said a surprised Liz.
I dropped the offending item, a child's school rucksack, on the deck, with a clunk. Liz investigated. She found inside the bag a set of electronic scales,
handy for measuring out small quantities of expensive substances. Underneath this there was a plastic carrier bag. She opened this to reveal 3 guns, two pistols and an automatic.
There was also a quantity of ammunition, some of it spent. The cache did not appear to have been in the water very long.
We set off again. Cookie and Liz steered the motor while I sat in a canvas chair on the deck patiently trying to get through to the
police. At last, someone answered and we arranged to meet an officer at Woodley.
We stopped at the tunnel entrance and soon the officer arrived. Somehow they selected for this task probably the only constable in Greater Manchester who is terrified of canals. Rivers, lakes or oceans hold no terrors for her, but she won't go near a canal if she can help it. She stepped forward gingerly to peek in the bag, which was now residing on "Hazel"s foredeck.
Her role was obviously simply to ascertain that the was a genuine find and not just some discarded toys. She said that the firearms team would have to examine it and could we wait there until they arrived. We explained that it was impossible to stay there as we were blocking the canal. The real reason was that we wanted to get further on so that we were poised to get back to Ashton the following day. She managed to negotiate with her bosses that we would meet the experts at Chadkirk.
We said goodbye to the officer and set off into the dark wormhole of Woodley tunnel
(originally known as Butterbank tunnel).
Chadkirk is a secretive gem.
Our nice canalaphobic constable had never heard of it even though it's right next to Romiley. From the towpath some steps lead you to a narrow lane lined with old houses. If you turn left, down a steep hill you come to St Chad's holy well, then the mediaeval chapel, set among well tended gardens.
If you turn the other way it takes you under a low aqueduct then uphill into central Romiley, handy for shops and pubs. Where we tie the canal is carried in a concrete box channel, a repair made about 30 years ago when the waterway started to slip down the hillside. On the outside the impressive gardens of some of Romiley's more prestigious residences reach down to the canal. The towpath is normally busy with friendly dog walkers.
I met our helpful PC and her sergeant at the bottom of the steps and led them to the boats. Soon the towpath was buzzing with police. They took the bag of weapons and carefully opened it on to a tarpaulin laid on the towpath some distance away. Some of them donned white overalls to avoid contaminating the evidence. The constable took a statement from me, written on her mobile 'phone.
Rosie produced another culinary miracle, which we soon demolished. The gin had run out so we had to make do with wine. After dinner some of the ladies enjoyed standing in the forward well watching handsome young policemen coming and going along the towpath.
I don't know when they finished their work. When I retired to "Forget me Not"s cabin it was getting dark and they were still working by torchlight.
Some guests were concerned about getting back to Ashton at a reasonable time. We started on Sunday morning at 9 instead of our usual 10. Steering was done by our most confident steerers to ensure a quick trip up over Marple aqueduct,
wind, then heading back along the lower Peak to Ashton.
Captain Clarke's Bridge was approached with some trepidation, but we went through smoothly and collected no more guns.
Steady rain got heavier and heavier until it felt like the gods were having fun tipping buckets of water over us.
We did have something on the blade as we approached Ashton. I gave a 'chuck back ' (briefly engaging reverse gear) to try to clear it. One of the bolts broke in the new gear change mechanism. I had to travel the last couple of miles in the engine 'ole, ready to change gear at Peter's command.
We reached the basin at an acceptable time. I breasted the motor up to "Lilith", then positioned "Hazel" where she could be unloaded easily into cars.
The ladies want to come back for a longer trip.