One of the ways that we've been able to subsidise well being trips on "Hazel" has been by offering her as accommodation via Airbnb. Now the Canal & River Trust say we can't do this, but that's another story. We've been offering her in various locations, one of the most lucrative being Central Manchester. This comes with a £200 surcharge for taking the boat there and bringing her back, but is still a good deal for up to 8 people compared to hotel prices.
As noted in the previous post, we recently had a group of young festival goers staying in Manchester. I stayed aboard "Forget me Not" to keep the boats safe.
When the time came to return to Ashton I arranged for a group of volunteers to work the pair up the 18 locks of the Ashton canal. They all arrived on time and I went to start the engine. Although it had been working fine when we arrived, this time only one cylinder would fire. A little investigation showed that the problem lay in the injector pump. I'd been planning to take this off for overhaul in the Autumn as it is the only remaining part of the Albin AD2 engine that has not been renovated since it was installed about 10 years ago. It had decided not to give me the luxury of having it seen to while things are quiet.
On a diesel engine the injector pump is the most sophisticated and complex part of the machinery. It pressurises the fuel and delivers precise amounts of it at the correct time to the injectors, which spray it into the cylinders for combustion. Repairing it involves specialist knowledge, a scrupulously clean environment and special tools. It's not the sort of thing that your average engine bodger can fix.
Luckily one member of our crew was the amazing Aaron Booth. Aaron claims to be an alien visiting Earth from a far away planet with a greatly advanced civilisation. Rumour has it that he is nuclear powered, for no physical challenge seems to tire him.
With Aaron as motive power, "Hazel" set off up the locks while I started stripping away all the pipes and other encumbrances that surround the injector pump. When it came to the actual removal of the pump I needed a special 2 legged gear puller. Albin Engines in Sweden will sell you one for lots of kroner, but, luckily, our friends at Dixon & Smith (Motor Engineers) have just such a tool. I mounted my trusty bike and cycled to Dukinfield to borrow it.
Pat and John were working on their latest project, a 1950s Ford Prefect.
They willingly rooted out the necessary item and, with that in my coat pocket, I headed for Manchester again. At Clayton I left the Ashton New Road for the towpath and I met "Hazel" with her cheerful crew at lock 8 beside Alan Turing Way. They had 10 locks to go.
I hurried on, racing against time to get the pump to the diesel specialists that day. I lost that race for it was gone five by the time I had the pump off. I loaded it into multiple 'bags for life' which I hung on my handlebar and set off again up the Ashton towpath.
When I caught her up "Hazel" was at lock 15 in Openshaw, 3 locks left. Aaron was still going strong so I settled into drawing paddles, opening gates etc. A hire boat full of young university graduates was breathing down our neck and jockeying to pass, an unfriendly act on a flight of locks but these people were new to the ways of the cut and had an unrealistic ambition to reach Marple that night. At the summit, Fairfield Junction, our crew dispersed and Aaron tied up. As a gesture of goodwill I helped the hirers to work through the top lock, and gave them some advice about controlling their boat below a lock that is being emptied.
Before heading for home I asked around Droylsden Marina in the hope that I could secure a tow for "Hazel"s next trip in a couple of days as it seemed unlikely that "Forget me Not" would be operational by then. I was unsuccessful and unfortunately the trip had to be postponed.
My go to place for anything to do with diesel fuel injection is R Wilkinson in Stockport. They've always been very helpful. https://directory.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/company/504556489912320
I woke early and breakfasted, then slung my bags containing the pump over my handlebars and enjoyed a pleasant ride, mostly using car free routes, to their little industrial unit. As expected, the man looked at the oil stained item with much sucking of teeth and muttering about being very busy, difficult to get parts for such an old unit etc. Nevertheless, he took it in, saying it would be a few days before he could look at it.
My next concern was keeping "Forget me Not" safe. Staying on board at Dale St had shown me that all manner of people would hang out there of an evening. There are security guards that patrol the area and I had an assurance that they would keep an eye on the boat, but I really didn't want to risk it for an extended period. My main concern was that one of Manchester's many homeless people might break into her for shelter.
While I regard it as a disgrace that there are so many without homes in such a wealthy country, and I have great sympathy for those who find themselves in that situation (there but for the grace of God) experience has shown that having homeless people on board unsupervised is asking for trouble.
A young homeless man with a severe alcohol problem once broke into "Forget me Not" at Portland Basin. He tried to light a fire in the range but used the oven rather than the firebox. He broke the oil lamp and poured paraffin everywhere. It's lucky he didn't set fire to the boat.
I stayed on "Forget me Not" that night and in the morning started looking for a safer spot. There are some stagings at the start of the Ashton canal that used to be accessible with a BW key. They're now overgrown and there is no access save balancing along the outside copings, which are sometimes under water, under the Ducie St bridge. While that spot looked relatively safe I didn't like the idea of balancing along there carrying expensive engine parts and, anyway, the only other people who might be driven to try it were precisely the scallies that I wished to keep out.
Opposite to 'Paradise Wharf' on the Ashton is a modern block of fancy flats with a big "Private, No Mooring" notice. I wondered if I might be able to plead my case. The electric gate at the entrance was open so I walked in. I noticed a french window facing the canal was slightly open, so I knocked on it. My knock was answered by an elderly gentleman of Chinese heritage. He told me in limited English that he had no objection to me mooring there. This was nice, but not good enough. I needed to speak to the management, but he didn't have their contact information. I rejected the site anyway as the only thing to tie to were some flower boxes and I didn't think that driving in pins would be appreciated.
Store St is crossed by an old stone aqueduct. On the other side are more upmarket residences known as Picadilly Village. They have private moorings. I found the road entrance but it is guarded by an electric gate for which I didn't have the code. The 'phone number of the caretaker was displayed so I rang it. I got a recorded message to say that he had retired and it gave me another number to ring for the management team. I rang this one, but the number was non existent.
As I stood wondering what to do the gate opened to allow a cyclist to exit. I took my opportunity and dodged in.
I examined the moorings and found that there were rings to tie to. A notice stated that visiting boats could stay for 24 hours only and no-one was allowed to give visiting boaters the access code.
I started ringing the doorbells of adjacent houses. At the third one I got an answer from a friendly, helpful man. He wrote down the number of the management team for me. I rang this one and got through to a woman. I had expected my plea to be rejected out of hand, fobbed off, buck passed etc, but no! I explained my case, that it was a historic charity boat broken down that needed a temporary safe haven etc. She said it was OK as long as CRT didn't object. I didn't see why they would.
Relieved, I returned to the boat and shafted her through the complicated twists and turns that connect the Ashton and Rochdale canals, former trans Pennine competitors. As I was tying up the same helpful man came out to warn me that some residents were in the habit of complaining if anyone overstayed the prescribed 24 hours. As a precaution I wrote a summary of the situation ,and the fact that we had permission from the management office, on a series of leaflets, then posted them through nearby letterboxes.
I gathered up my belongings and prepared to set off on my bike. Another person, who shall remain unidentified, had been very interested in the boat. I handed over a leaflet and, in return, was given the access code for the various gates.
I was anticipating about a week before I would hear from Wilkinsons again but, having dropped it off on Tuesday morning, it was only Wednesday afternoon that they rang up to say that it was ready. Thursday was to be taken up by preparing for some weekend guests, so it had to be Friday morning that I took another pleasant ride across Fairfield golf course and through Reddish to collect the pump and hand over lots of notes. The injector repairing man, perhaps 40 years old, was surprised that this 69 year old man was going to cycle the 5 miles to Ashton with a heavy injector pump slung from the handlebars. So many people seem to believe that life is impossible without a car.
Saturday morning my bike had a puncture so I boarded a tram to New Islington (Ancoats in old money) then walked down the towpath and across the ornate bridge, keying in my surreptitiously obtained access code, into the secure community.
Fitting an injector pump is not easy. To do it properly you need a special tool that we don't have. It involves getting various marks on different rotating components to all line up with each other at precisely the stage in the pump's cycle that it is firing a burst of fuel towards the no1 cylinder which must be at the top of its stroke at the same time. That's a lot of bits of engine to co-ordinate.
A few years ago I had the injector pump off, I don't remember why now. I set the timing basically by trial and error. At the fourth attempt I got it right and the engine fired up.
This time I thought I'd done better. At my second attempt I got the engine to start. Access to the injector pump drive gear involves dismantling part of the cooling system so I couldn't give the engine an extended run until I'd put this all back together again. With this done I started the engine again. It ticked over nicely, though with a bit of a knock. When I put it into forward gear it faded and died, Back to the drawing board!
Sunday was spent in fruitless trial and error attempts to get everything timed correctly. After each attempt I had to use the gear puller to remove the drive gear. Getting tired and frustrated I used this clumsily and did minor damage to the threads on the end of the shaft. When I tried to put the nut back on I managed to drop it. I spent the next hour or so cleaning out the drip tray and thrusting a magnet into every oily nook and cranny in the vain hope of recovering it. I took the tram home, thoroughly dispirited.
Monday morning's first task was to call at Roy Turnbull Fasteners in Dukinfield. https://www.royturnbullfasteners.com/ These helpful people soon found me a 1/2" UNF nut to replace the one that I'd lost. I had to spend a few hours at the heritage boatyard as Monday is volunteer day there, then I caught the train, with my bike, from Stalybridge to Picadilly. In my pocket was a needle file for cleaning up the damaged thread.
I soon had the nut on and carried on with my fruitless attempts to time the pump. I was beginning to worry about overstaying my welcome. Did the person who said it was OK have the authority to do so? As I was packing up for the day this concern was re-inforced. Another elderly Chinese man approached along the canal side. This one was short and wide with a strange slow mechanical gait. I smiled and said hello but he ignored me, raised his right arm, extended a finger and said in an admonitory voice, "24 hours only". I tried to explain the situation but he carried on past me like an automaton, intermittently raising his arm and repeating his mantra until he turned and descended the steps at the end of the houses.
On Tuesday I had a full day available to work on the problem. I was getting concerned about how much power might be left in the batteries with so many starting attempts having been made. I decided to get more scientific in my attempts. I stopped the pump at the point where it was squirting fuel from the correct orifice. I removed the drive gear and carefully lined up all the timing marks on the rest of the engine before putting it all together again. First time it didn't work, but examination showed that I'd got the gears a couple of teeth out from the correct position. I put that right, pressed the button and the engine burst into life.
It was now 4pm. By the time I'd re-assembled the cooling system and tidied my tools it was 5. I rang some possible voluntary assistants but they were all busy. Wednesday was spoken for as far as my time was concerned so if I delayed I wouldn't be able to move the boat until Thursday. There was nothing for it but to set out and boat late into the night.
As headed for lock 1 I was pleased to see that a boat was just tying up after descending the locks. This meant that many of them would be ready for me and I wouldn't have to empty them before entering. The first three locks however were not quite like that. A small head of water had already built up against the bottom gates, presumably because of leaking top gates or paddles.
My technique was to place the bows against the bottom gates then put the boat into forward gear to push them open (warning anyone on the lockside to keep clear of the swinging balance beams). If the gates wouldn't open because of water pressure behind them I would leave the boat in forward gear while I drew the bottom paddles. I returned to the boat and when a level was achieved, pushed the gates open and entered the lock. With the bows placed against the top sill (just kiss the sill as I often say to trainees) I engage forward gear and climb the lock ladder with my windlass and anti vandal key. Bottom paddles are dropped and locked, bottom gates closed then top paddles unlocked and drawn.
One problem that we increasingly find now that gates are not so carefully balanced is that the bottom gates will not stay closed. The way to deal with this is to draw about a third of a top paddle. Enough to start a flow but not enough to flush the boat backwards. You then go to the bottom gates and close them. The little bit of extra water in the lock will keep them shut and the top paddles can be fully opened.
When top level is reached the boat helps to push the top gate open and slowly moves forward as the top paddles are closed and locked. I jump on to the boat and stop her clear of the gate to hop off with a line (so that she can't drift out of reach) to close the top gate.
There have been problems recently with the long pound between locks 3 and 4 being low. This time it was just on weir, but, nevertheless, we bounced over miscellaneous debris in this notoriously shallow stretch.
it was a very pleasant sunny evening as I worked lock after lock. Towpath walkers, many with dogs, runners and cyclists were out in force and I exchanged friendly greetings with those who would acknowledge me. Those who wouldn't mostly had music plugged directly into their ears. Though I like to listen to music I've never understood why so many people choose to blot out their human and environmental surroundings with intravenous pop.
I must say that the Canal & River Trust have improved this flight over the last few years. Not so long ago I would have had to contend with empty pounds, but replacing leaky gates has improved the situation no end. There was just enough water all the way up. It was flowing over the weirs but as each lock filled the water was diverted into lock filling and the level would drop to an inch or two below weir. Enough water but very little running to waste. Well done CRT!
I had no food left on board and I was getting peckish. At lock 9 in industrial Clayton,
halfway up the flight,I examined the cupboards for nutrition, but found only a third of a litre of mango juice. I enjoyed that and carried on, stomach rumbling. Most of the locks were for me but occasionally I would come across one that had filled up since the last boat passed. This included the deepest one, number ten. Surely a candidate for regating soon.
Above lock 11 is the junction with the former Stockport branch. As I closed the top gates I could see a bunch of teenagers hanging out around lock 12 and was a little apprehensive. Though things have improved over time there can still be a problem of boaters being harassed and robbed around here and being singlehanded I was vulnerable. A few years ago we had a very expensive bike stolen from the boat here.
As I left lock 11 I was pleased to see the group move away from number 12. As I passed they were heading under the junction bridge and up the filled in branch. The air was heavy with the tang of cannabis.
I looked down the flight, locks lined up in the evening light as the summer sun set over the distant city. All was going well and I was confident of getting to the summit before dark.
Leaving lock 14 the propeller made crunching noises as it dealt with solid floating debris. Various pieces of wood flew out from under the counter, followed by a plastic road cone. As I carefully approached number 15, where gate leaks showed me that the lock was full, the engine started to labour. I engaged stern gear in order to throw off whatever she had picked up on the blade, but the engine stalled. With no means of stopping, the bow impacted the bottom gates with a great bang. I used the cabin shaft to feel under the counter. The little bit of insulation that I pulled off confirmed my fear that it was a duvet.
I tied the boat forward to prevent her being carried away by the flush of water, then emptied the lock and hauled the disabled boat in. With the boat at top level I was able to work on the duvet. It took me the best part of an hour to remove the offending item, by which time it was dark.
I carried on. At lock 17 a gongoozler told me that he'd never seen anyone work through the lock so quickly. Finally I reached the summit lock, 18. It was full. A passing cyclist stopped and warned me to take care as working locks at night was dangerous. He's right, it is.
At last I was leaving the top lock. I checked the time, it was just after 11. it had taken 6 hours to work the 18 locks. That's 3 locks an hour or 20 minutes a lock. Not a record, but then, it did include that hour of removing the duvet.
It was about midnight by the time I was tied up. The Land Rover was parked nearby so I drove home and flopped into bed.
