Ashton Boatman

2010-03-01 @ 08:17:21 by ashtonboatman

Another trip to the East

Not India or China but Grimsby and Lincoln. After the last trip we got offered some funding that the wonderful Fiona has been working on for ages "in principle". On the strength of this I booked a ticket for another trip to the sawmill. This turned out to be premature as we're still waiting for the funding to be confirmed. This is frustrating as we can't buy timber or promise anyone a job restoring "Hazel" until we're sure that the money will be forthcoming.

Nevertheless, I was able to discuss logs in more detail, but later realised that there had been let's say a misunderstanding over the amount of cubic feet of timber we had been discussing. I'll have to go back again.

My next destination was Lincoln, where we are hoping to load the timber on to a boat for transport to Stalybridge. My friends there had invited me to stay, but I've been yearning to spend a night in the wild for ages, so I decided to visit them the next day. I cycled into Grimsby along the sea wall beside the Humber. Being Grimsby I thought it would be appropriate to dine on fish and chips. People in the town centre seemed puzzled by the concept of a chip shop, though there was plenty of choice if I wanted a kebab, curried dog or Kentucky Fried Rat. Eventually I tracked down the appropriate establishment and took my ample portion to the station to eat.

A very big young man with a red goatee beard approached me. He started the conversation by complaining about Polish people coming here and taking all the jobs. It always amazes me that racists are so arrogant that they assume that everyone will share their tiny minded views. His next line was to try to blag some money out of me, unsuccessfully.

I climbed aboard the railcar for the Barton on Humber branch and had a free ride to Burton Haven. I always have a dilemma on trains where the guard isn't bothered about tickets. Should I save money for myself or insist on paying so that my journey will be counted next time the authorities try to close the line. This time I took the selfish option.

I alighted at the tiny halt and the railcar rattled away into the night. I followed the public footpath signs across a timber wharf beside a little inlet. Cranes silently awaited the next ship. I was pleased to see that this little port was obviously still in business. I wanted to bivouwac as close to the water as practicable, but with a chilly wind blowing I decided to use one of the timber stacks as a windbreak. Nevertheless, though cocooned in a sleeping bag and tarpaulin,I just had to open my eyes and move my coat aside to peer out across the Humber at the lights of Hull several miles away.

I woke on a grey, cold but dry morning and, after exploring the area a little, caught a railcar, busy with commuters, as far as Habrough. Here I had a long wait, but there were plenty of passengers to chat with. My railcar to Lincoln was again well loaded and I enjoyed the journey across a gently undulating rural landscape.

After some self generated confusion I met Debbie and her two youngest sons beside Brayford Pool. Brayford Pool is a wonderful city centre lake where the Fosdyke canal (built by the Romans) meets the River Witham. Since mediaeval times it has been famous for its swans. Nowadays the pool is a tourist attraction, but development pressures are putting the swans at risk. Everyone (almost,see http://www.thestudentroom.co.uk/showthread.php?t=283935 ) claims to love the swans, but most fail to understand their habitat needs. Their grazing grounds have been taken to build the university and increasing construction and trip boat activity means that there is hardly anywhere left where they can peacefully get out of the water. At night they suffer constant harrasment from drunken idiots and at all times they are at risk from discarded fishing tackle.

The last time I was at Brayford Pool was in 1959, trainspotting with my brother while my dad and sister visited the cathedral. I don't remember much about it, I was only 6, but cine film taken at the time shows the pool full of swans and barges. My main interest was the parade of steam trains at the level crossing.

Debbie and her partner Lee are wonderful people who have become advocates for the swan population, constantly fighting against all kinds of vested interests. They have formed the Lincoln Swan Management Team to try to help the swans survive in this increasingly hostile environment. Because the swan's natural food supply is cut off, this group now spends about £1000 a year on grain to keep them alive, as well as constantly clearing litter from their one bit of usable bank ( currently threatened by more trip boats).

After eating at the University we went to what Debbie calls the Mothership, a Lincoln size barge with it's hold fitted out tastefully using reclaimed timber and wonderfully warmed by an Aga. Next to the barge is the converted wooden butty "Chance 2". This boat appears to be a Nursers boat and may have once been Thomas Clayton's "Mersey" before being sold to Chance & Hunt. When I first saw her, on the Shroppie in 1987, she was called "Valentine" and belonged to the self sufficiency writer John Seymour. Back in about 1970 I recall a centre spread in the Leamington Spa Courier about the houseboat conversion on this boat, then named "Chance 2" and moored at the Blue Lias near Long Itchington on the Grand Union.

Lee and Debbie's two older children now have their own boats, so choosing to carry on the water way of life. We looked at and discussed possible timber loading sites. It's annoying that proper use of the waterways, for carrying stuff, now has to be sneaked in around the all important leisure trade.

Lee returned from work later and Debbie served up a tasty meal before I had to leave to catch the 17.21 train back to Grimsby. Here I had a long wait. Irritatingly the later train from Lincoln just misses the last Manchester train but I couldn't get an earlier train because my cheap ticket was for a specific service. It didn't matter as I enjoy exploring new places and went for a walk round Grimsby. As I came back to the station I saw a fox confidently trot across the level crossing.

Sitting on the station ( why do they use cold stainless steel for station seats?) I met the bearded giant again. He asked if I smoked weed. I explained that I don't smoke anything, which seemed to annoy him. It's my policy not to be intimidated, but this man is very large and seems rather unpredictable, so I decided to maintain a low profile. Consequently I did not intervene as he launched an all out attack on the vending machine ( does anyone ever look at the much vaunted cctv?). He left via the footbridge with various items of stolen junk food and, as he walked along the opposite platform, berated me for not sharing my chips on the previous day, telling me that he is well acquainted with Jesus and I will not go to heaven.

Further entertainment was provided for me as a train was delayed by a fight which broke out in the doorway as the guard stood by and watched.

When my train arrived I was ready for a sleep, so I remember little of the journey. From Piccadilly I rode up the towpath to check the boats at Portland Basin, then home and so to bed.

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.