Martin Cox, Clamps and Crooks
Martin Cox was an excellent boatbuilder and excellent person. It
must have been about 1978 that I first met him. He was working as an
HGV driver and about once a month drove a tankerload of wine to
somewhere near Ellesmere Port where Gill Wright and I were living
aboard Lilith. Martin would park up for the night near the museum and
come to talk about boats and all things boat related.
I don’t
recall if Martin actually had a boat at that time, but he had already
done some boatbuilding. For many years he owned the small Ricky motor
Grus, which was also known as Almighty, a name given to it when owned
by the Salvation Army. The number one motor Benevolence was largely
rebuilt by Martin, as was the BCN tug Christopher James. For about
the last 15 years he followed an alternative career as an Alexander
Technique teacher. When the funding for Hazel looked like it might be
on the cards I tracked down Martin via the internet to see if he
might be interested in working on her rebuild. He was very interested
in the whole project, but with a partner and child living in Bristol
wasn’t able to move away to work on it. He asked me to keep him
informed and he might come and give us a hand some time.
I put
Martin on the newsletter list to keep him up to date but heard
nothing until this August when I got a ‘phone call from Colin
Bowles who has owned Sweden for many years. He told me that Martin
was in hospital with a terminal illness and had some big boatyard
clamps rusting away in his back garden that he would like to give to
the WCBS.
Martin actually passed away just a few weeks later. It
was in November that I got a call from Hattie, his partner, to say
that I could collect the clamps and possibly some other tools. We
eventually arranged this for November 18th.
In the same part of
the world I had arranged to collect some crooks. You may imagine that
I would have no problem finding crooks in Greater Manchester, but
these are special ones. They are slabs of oak that has grown to just
the right curve to make knees for Hazel. I was buying them from a
little sawmill called Boatbuilding Timber Supplies near Usk in South
Wales.
Having arranged to have the van for a couple of days, I hired a
car transporter trailer from Fletchers Trailers in Ashton and headed
South on a Thursday afternoon. My first port of call was Ed
Sveikutis’ old farmhouse at Knypersley, Staffordshire. Ed is a
first class blacksmith. When I first met him he had a forge in the
Etruria Industrial Museum beside the Trent & Mersey Canal. Over
the years he’s made a few bits and pieces for our boats. He later
moved to little industrial unit in Biddulph. When I tried to contact
him about making spikes for Hazel I found his ‘phone number dead. A
search on tinternet brought up only reports about him losing his
little forge to a huge new Sainsburys store. Nevertheless, I managed
to find him, retreated to a shed at the back of his hobbitland house,
and he made the spikes for Hazel. Most of these were delivered in
August, but he had a few more for me to collect. Along with the
spikes, Ed gave me a copy of Inland Waterways of Britain by L. A.
Edwards. We discussed the sad decline of craftsmanship, always a
pre-occupation of Eds, and I climbed into the van, carefully
manoeuvred the wide trailer through narrow gateways, then made for
the M6.
By the time I reached Bristol it was dark and it was rush
hour. I needed to find somewhere nice to park up for the night, but
had no idea where. It was not really possible to stop and consult a
map without causing traffic mayhem. Seeing a sign pointing to Clifton
I decided to follow it. I surmised that there could be a car park for
visitors wishing to view Brunel’s famous suspension bridge. There
was not, and I soon found myself driving up to the toll booth to
cross that fine structure. With 50p in the slot, the barrier lifted
and I carefully drew the trailer along the narrow wooden road across
the Avon Gorge. On the far side I found a quiet little road heading
downhill towards the river through broadleaved woodland. I parked the
van here and, making sure everything was locked, set off on foot to
look for food.
My route took me back over the suspension bridge.
On foot I could appreciate its slender grandeur, soaring high above
the deep gorge, its high towers like something that the Romans might
have been proud of, but its wrought iron chains speaking of the fiery
industry of Victorian times. On the approaches are notices about the
Samaritans, for sadly it’s a favourite spot for suicides. There is
a tale that, when it was first built, ladies in crinolines would
sometimes survive a leap from the bridge as their skirts acted as
parachutes.
I was looking for a
chip shop, but Clifton turned out to be far too upmarket for such an
establishment. There were bistros galore, but my funds would not run
to that. I bought a couple of pork pies from a posh co-op foodstore
and picked my way downhill between grand old terraces, munching my
pies as I went.
From the bridge I had seen that it was low tide.
The river was virtually dry, with expanses of mud glinting in the
streetlights. A little way upstream I had seen a lock, entrance to
the floating harbour ( so named not because it floats but because
ships can float in it at any state of the tide) and I thought I would
go and have a look.
My meandering route through alleyways and down
steeply sloping back roads brought me to a busy traffic island at
Hotwells. Once upon a time this was the terminus of a railway that
ran through the Gorge alongside the river from the Avonmouth
direction. Long ago its route was converted into the A4 road, but
still some blocked up single track tunnels through rocky outcrops can
be seen.
I crossed the bridge over the harbour entrance. I was
looking for a place where I could park for the night as I liked the
idea of being near water. I crossed another small bridge to get to
the lock, and even thought about parking on the lockside. I then
thought about what a nuisance it would be to be woken by a bored
policeman in the early hours and discounted the idea. I wondered if
it might be possible to park facing the sea in nearby Portishead, and
decided to return to the van to drive over there and have a
look.
Portishead was a disappointment. As I entered the town I
came to a roundabout. To the left was the town centre, to the right
the industrial park, and straight ahead “The Haven”. Straight
ahead seemed most promising, so I headed for “The Haven”, only to
discover that it was the name for a posh housing estate with red
brick roads. With some difficulty, and to the consternation of other
road users, I turned round my little rig in one of the side turnings
and headed back towards Bristol, parking up a little further down the
little road next to a viewing point and interpretation board. I spent
an hour or two enjoying planning an itinerary for Hazel, using the
book that Ed had given me as a guide.
The front seat of the van is
remarkably comfortable, so I slept well and awoke to a bright morning
in a jumble of coats and sleeping bags. The flask that I had made
before leaving home was still hot enough to drink, then I got up and
enjoyed my breakfast standing by the interpretation board looking
across the gorge.
I had told Hattie that I would arrive between 9
and 10 AM, so I set out about 8.30 with only a vague idea of the
location of her house. My route took me alongside the Floating
Harbour, with a fine view of the Great Britain across the water. This
time I found myself in the milling traffic of the morning peak and
had to keep my wits about me to haul the wide trailer along the
maddeningly crowded urban tarmac without incident. I found myself in
St Pauls, of which I knew only its reputation for riots connected
with local dissent over the siting of a new supermarket. There were
indeed very prominent No Tesco Here signs plastered on buildings, but
rather than a dangerous concrete jungle, it appeared to be a very
friendly place. Much more welcoming than the conspicuous affluence of
Clifton, it had a post revolutionary utopian air, rather like
Clifford Harper’s early drawings.
Navigating with the aid of
friendly pedestrians I entered an area of tall terraced houses
separated by narrow streets of parked cars. I became very aware of
the fact that the trailer was somewhat wider than the van. In places
The gaps were so narrow that I had to inch through with an anxious
eye on each mirror. I began to wonder if I would find myself stuck at
an impossible gap at the end of a long road with nowhere to turn.
I found myself on
Hattie’s street almost by chance, then accidentally turned off it,
only to realise that I was actually passing her back garden. A car
was coming the other way and there was absolutely nowhere to pass. A
rare parking space became apparent and I drove the van into it,
stopping centimetres from the bumper of the next car with the trailer
still blocking the road. As I started to fumble with the trailer lock
the car began to hoot. Before I had fully released the trailer from
the van, its smartly dressed lady driver came over to politely inform
me that I was blocking the road. It did occur to me that she was also
blocking the road (and could have pulled over with far less
difficulty), but instead I explained the manoevre that I was
attempting to clear her way. I released the trailer, swung it round
and backed it in by hand to sit behind the van and clear the way for
the polite lady. There was just enough room for the trailer, but it
was blocking some lines painted on the road with a notice saying
“Keep Clear”.
It was bang on 9 AM, so I rang Hattie to explain
where I was. I was a little apprehensive about meeting Hattie. I had
known Martin for over 30 years and had a high regard for him, both as
a boatbuilder and as a person, but we had only met a handful of
times. This often happens with friendships on the cut. I had totally
lost touch for a long time and knew nothing of Hattie, or Rueben,
their son. I am very aware of the phenomenon of circling vultures
after the death of someone with items of value, and had no wish to be
seen in this light.
Hattie emerged from the rickety back garden
gate and greeted me with a smile, which put me at ease. She knew the
man who had painted “Keep Clear” on the road to make space for
his electric wheelchair and knocked on his door. There was no reply
so, with no alternative parking places, we decided to simply keep an
eye on the situation. She led me up some steps into the little back
garden. A huge beech tree had recently been felled, letting light
into what must previously have been a rather shady patch. She showed
me the huge old clamps, seized with rust, lying in a corner of the
lawn, and asked if I would also be interested in the various bags of
nails and spikes that were with them. Having just spent thousands on
spikes for Hazel and still not sure if we had enough of some
categories, I answered in the affirmative. She went to make coffee as
I started to carry the clamps and bags of spikes out to the van.
Over
coffee we talked boats. Hattie asked if I knew anything of the wooden
boats that she used to live aboard. Irritatingly, as I recount this,
I can’t remember the name of one of them. It was a wooden butty
which, unusually, had been shortened by taking a section out of the
middle and fitting the two ends back together. No mean feat! The
other was the small ricky motor Isis, also known as Jimmy. I remember
this boat being on the Bridgewater briefly in the 1990s but have
heard nothing since. Another past owner contacted us about it a few
years ago but we could find no trace, so the chances are that she has
become firewood.
Hattie led me up two stories to a spare bedroom
that was piled high with old fashioned toolboxes. She started opening
them one by one and asking about which tools would be most useful. We
selected a range of useful items, but it was obviously a little
difficult for Hattie as she juggled between wanting to send the tools
to a place where they would be useful and wanting to keep things that
connected her to Martin. After a while she went downstairs to make
more coffee and left me sorting through a box of augers. It felt very
odd to be rooting through Martins tools.
I remembered that I
hadn't checked the van for a while. I went down to have a look and
found the old man who had marked the road standing in his doorway
looking confused. “I can't get out” he kept repeating in a high
hoarse whisper that was barely audible. Luckily another parking space
was now available and I manhandled the trailer out into the road and
back a carslength to slot it into this new vacancy before another
vehicle filled it.
After another cup of coffee, Hattie and I
carried the boxes of tools that we had selected down to the van. I
hooked up the trailer again and carefully negotiated the narrow
streets of Montpelier.
I decided to head out of Bristol down he
old A4 through the Avon gorge rather than by the motorway. As I drove
along I noted the remains of the old Hotwells branch, then followed
the still active commuter line out to Avonmouth and Severn Beach.
Feeling hungry, I turned off the main road at the beckoning of a sign
that said “Fish & Chips 80 yards”. The distance quoted was
inaccurate, and, after at least 200 yards I parked up and paid £1.50
for the worst bag of chips I have ever tasted. Vowing never to go
there again ( I probably wouldn't anyway) I returned to the main
road. Passing Avonmouth Docks I remembered a conversation with John
Gould. He told me that, as part of his campaign to keep the Kennet
and Avon open he once loaded a pair of boats (presumably Colin &
Iris) with grain at Avonmouth and had the unnerving experience of
waves coming over the butty's stern and flooding the cabin as he
headed upriver towards Bristol.
Following the meandering road
across low lying ground, part agricultural, part industrial, I
eventually came to Severn Beach, then reached the roundabout that
marked the way on to the Severn Bridge. After driving across a vast
expanse of tarmac I reached the toll booth, paid my dues, and set off
across the great bridge. Big sister of Brunels pioneering structure
that I had crossed the previous day, it spans not only the Severn
Estuary but also the mouth of the Wye. On the Welsh side of the river
I left the motorway and, after skirting Chepstow, set off along a B
road through arcadian countryside. This brought me to the town of
Usk, but I had a problem. I remembered that Boatbuilding Timber
Supplies was on a road out of the other side of Usk, but I wasn’t
sure which road. I plumped for another B road which meanders towards
Abergavenny.
I was pretty sure to begin with that I was on the
right road, but after a couple of miles my confidence dwindled. I
decided to turn round, but had to find a suitable place. Eventually I
diverged up a tiny lane, then turned round by backing into a
farmyard. When I had nearly got back to Usk I pulled into a gateway
and rang Gavin who runs the sawmill. He said he had seen me drive
past, just before I went up the side road. I had been so busy looking
for somewhere to turn round that I missed the sawmill. I turned again
and soon I was carefully backing the trailer between stacks of timber
towards Gavin’s crane.
The log that I was interested in was sawn
into 4” thick slabs. One by one Gavin lifted them with his crane, a
hiab mounted on a bare lorry chassis, so that I could examine them
and select the ones that I wanted. The three that I wanted were then
swung forward, with the crane at its full reach, and placed carefully
on the trailer. With the load tightened down with ratchet straps and
a wad of cash handed over, I carefully drew the heavy trailer out of
the yard. Gavin took photos for his website as I left
http://www.btswales.co.uk/
but they don't seem to have appeared yet.
I thought I would head
home the pretty way, and check out another sawmill on the way. I had
been told of a sawmill at Whitney on Wye, so I turned left on to the
road towards Abergavenny, then carried on into Brecknock, driving
between high dark mountains, then into the gentle Wye Valley which
goes in a great loop via Hereford before it reaches Chepstow. Going
via the book town of Hay on Wye I carried on along a winding road,
then crossed the river on a timber decked toll bridge, the piers of
the old railway bridge standing parallel to my left. I had been
racing the lowering sun as it was now past 4 PM, and soon it would be
finishing time at the sawmill. Whitney on Wye seemed to be off to the
left somewhere according to the map, so I looked for left turns. I
didn’t have to look far, as a tarmacced lane running uphill
announced itself as the entrance to Whitney sawmills.
I parked up
and walked towards a forklift truck that was loading some sticked
timber into a drying shed. The driver got out and greeted me. We
discussed different kinds of timber, prices, availability etc and
gave me permission to go and look at the logs that they had in stock.
It was certainly an impressive place, though the prices are slightly
higher than sawmills that I’ve dealt with before.
Curiosity
satisfied, I set out again into the fading light, driving North
across country. Leominster, Ludlow, Craven Arms and Church Stretton,
then on to the Shrewsbury ring road and sheared off to cross the
Shroppie at Market Drayton. Via Newcastle under Lyne and Congleton
then a little bit of the M60 I got back to Ashton and, after checking
the boats at Portland Basin, arrived home, where Emuna had a meal
ready for me.
Next day I took the trailerload of wood to Knowl St
where Ryan , Stuart and I unloaded and stacked it before I returned
the trailer to its owners.