The thoughts, fantasies and random ramblings of Ashton Boatman Chris Leah, largely, but not exclusively, connected with his work for the Wooden Canal Boat Society, restoring historic wooden canal boats and putting them to work doing good deeds for the community and the planet.
Works4U is a school for young people with Autism in Stalybridge. They bought a small steel narrowboat called Murphy from Preston Brook. It's engine wasn't working so they had to arrange a tow. This got it to Castlefields. We arranged to bowhaul Murphy up the 27 locks from Manchester to Ashton.
Key to doing this was the remarkable Aaron Booth, who did most of the bowhauling, but the cast also included
Geraldine Buckley,
Glyn Ford,
Tony Ellams,
Brian Bloom,
Rhona Mapperley,
Helen Kanes
and Nessie.
Photos taken from the boat by Helen Kanes.
Canal St Lock
Beteween Canal St and Chorlton St Lock the boat had to be shafted because the towpath is now the fashionable Canal St.
After Chorlton St the canal disappears into concrete caverns under modern office blocks.
We emerge from the gloom into Dale St Lock. The adjacent basin was once packed with trading boats, but is now a car park.
Geraldine and her miniscule dog were waiting on the lockside
Aaron was working the lock. Rhona had been steering.
Aaron had to shaft across the basin to the little rathole that is the entrance to the Ashton canal.
The interior of Murphy will need a bit of work.
We'd been concerned about getting through Lock 3 of the Ashton as contractors were supposed to be starting work that day and closing the canal. It's all part of a scheme to put a new bridge across the tail of the lock so that the heavy foot traffic from the tram stop won't be disrupted by people working the lock. It all looks rather over engineered to me. Bear in mind that making a ton of concrete releases 1.8 tons of CO2.
Several locks further up we got to the new Co-op Live concert venue, famous for it's opening fiasco.
On the other side of the canal is the Etihad, where more building work is in progress.
We carried on working upwards.
Rhona had to leave us as she had work in the afternoon.
The view down the flight can be quite dramatic.
We reached the summit at lock 18 shortly before dusk, Aaron forged ahead, hauling us at a fair lick, arriving at Portland Basin well after dark. A long day, but very enjoyable. We were lucky with the sunny winter weather.
In order to keep the Canal & River Trust happy that we are fitting in with our licence conditions, all Hazel guests have to have a trip. While Forget me Not is out of action this has to be human powered. We bowhaul a short way then throw the line onboard and the boat is shafted past the towpath blockage. This is where, 22 years ago, the retaining wall became unsafe so they tipped in truckloads of stone to support it. Since then, as I understand it, the waterway authority and the local authority have been unable to agree about who is responsible for repairing it.
Anyway, at the end of this the boat reaches the Asda tunnel. The shafter lays down their implement and lies on their back to stretch up and walk upside down along the roof (not easy, especially when the water is low). We use an old chair on its back to help support the legger. Beyond the tunnel a bit more shafting is required as the towpath has been closed off to make a nature area. Then it's back to bowhauling under the railway bridge and past the Sea Cadet moorings to the winding hole at Eli Whalley's. We wind there and repeat the process in reverse.
Bang on 06.30 I carried my rucksack to my allotted breakfast table, hung my hi vis jacket over the back of the chair and got busy on stocking up on breakfast. Outside it was dark and windy with just a spittering of rain. I consumed cereal, croissants, sausage, bacon, brownies, beans and some of the strange Scottish meaty mush that I've never come across before.
It was still dark when I unlocked my bike and set off from the Castletown Hotel, lights flashing to make sure all drivers noticed me. The wind was mostly to my side and gave me little trouble.
The booking office wasn't yet open at Thurso station so entry was round the side through the car park. Though I was early there was already quite a crowd huddled under the overall roof. I struck up a conversation with a couple who are teachers on the Orkneys and had just travelled in from Stromness. Originally they came from Dumfries. Clearly keen travellers by surface transport, we discussed many journeys that we have each undertaken. The spittering turned to a mizzle. The indicator display told us the progress of the train from Wick. As train time approached more and more people arrived, making the covered area quite crowded.
The train trundled in. I headed for the cycle space and loaded myself in.
As the train ground to a halt at Georgemas Junction I noticed that a man in orange overalls was working in the high security compound. One on the gates was partly open. He appeared to be cutting grass. I changed seat so as to be facing forwards again as the train changes direction here.
On my journey North I was surprised that there was no mention of the station at Altnabreac. I was aware of this because my friend ,and WCBS patron Ian Marchant, got off there, had an adventure, and wrote about it in his book Parallel Lines https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/1968075.Parallel_Lines . I though it odd that the option to stop there had not been mentioned on the PA system as the train rattled though at full speed. Had it closed I wondered. No, it hasn't, but the service has been suspended because of a dispute with a landowner.
It seems that a Christian couple from Manchester way have bought the old station house and some land. They also claim to own the platform, the level crossing and the approach road and that Network Rail and Scotrail have no right of access. They've even chained themselves to the crossing gates to stop vehicles coming in. Scotrail say that, as they cannot do essential safety work on the platform they have to suspend services until the dispute is resolved. The couple claim that Scotrail are bullying them and have published various rather silly videos on You Tube. Meanwhile, the 280 passengers a year who used to use the station, mostly to go walking in the flow country, can't go. I must say, my sympathies lie with the public body who are trying to allow public access rather than anyone's property rights, real or imagined.
We rattled through Alnabreacagain without it being mentioned on the tannoy. I enjoyed watching the landscape slip by, remembering to look out for things I'd noted on the way up.
It's a long journey, but I didn't stop enjoying it. I could sit on trains and watch the world go by all day. As a matter of fact, that's what I did.
Eventually we reached Dingwall where I had to change. I heaved my bike and luggage over the footbridge to get to the other platform. I had over an hour to wait on this delightful but mostly deserted station. I tucked into my butties. I thought it amusing that someone had gone to the trouble of making a brass plate to record the number of servicemen served with tea during the Great War.
My train was a 2 car unit. I was the only passenger boarding at Dingwall.
It curved away westwards towards the delightful Victorian Spa town of Strathpeffer. The route was originally intended to pass through there but, because of the objections of a local dignitary, it takes an abrupt turn to skirt round the town. Later, a branch line was built to carry the once considerable tourist traffic. It had its own delightful dedicated tank engine. Happily, the terminal station survives as a museum and there's a scheme to re-open the railway.
The train started to labour up the steep gradient into the hills. This must have been quite a hard climb in the days of steam trains. It's clear from looking at the contour lines on the OS map that, but for that 19th century NIMBY, the railway would have taken a much easier route.
I noticed that many of the passengers were fairly elderly couples, many of them American.
The scenery was an endless reel of natural beauty. Mountains, rivers, loughs, forests all slipped by.
I particularly enjoyed slipping along the edge of Loch Luichart, looking out over the water to mountains still slightly touched by wisps of mist.
The line eventually descended to sea level and took a tortuous course along the edge of the water, first the semi enclosed Loch Carron, then the open sea, before cutting through hard rock to end facing the sea at Kyle of Lochalsh.
The railway was built under the title of the Dingwall and Skye railway. I don't know if there was ever an idea to build a railway bridge to Skye. Probably not, as the traffic wouldn't justify the huge expense, but the tracks couldn't really go much further. It looks like the railway came along, running up to take a long jump over the water, then dug its heels in at the last moment. I imagine that, before the road bridge was built, ferries would have set off almost from the platform end. Most of the older couples walked off the station and straight on to a road coach. Clearly a trip on the railway was part of the itinerary of a coach tour.
I had a look at the big modern fishing boats assembled in the harbour, then went looking for the Skye Bridge Hotel. I soon found it, a white angular building with something of a downmarket Bauhaus about it.
I was welcomed into reception by a tall blond South African woman of about 50. She showed me where to stash my bike, gave me the room key, directions to the room and instructions on how to get in after hours. I went up to my room. It was modern, angular and delightfully asymmetrical.
Once I was installed in my room I went out to explore the town and found that there really wasn't much of a town and what there was was mostly closed. After a bit of walking around I came upon a Chinese takeaway. With a hot aluminium tray of food I went looking for somewhere to eat it. I had passed a sign pointing to the signalbox, which now seemed to be a museum. The points and signals are now controlled remotely. I descended the steps, thinking I'd eat there, but it looked like someone lived in it, so, feeling like I was trespassing, I came out and headed for the station.
I got there just in time to see the Inverness train leaving.
I ate my beef chow mein on the station platform, then headed back to the hotel. Up in my room I dealt with some emails. I was thinking of visiting the hotel bar but, remembering my £8 pint in Perth, I decided to read instead.
I woke to see that nearby roofs glistened with rain, Not a good omen when I was about to embark on a 23mile bike ride. I nipped out to the minimarket across the street to buy bread, made my butties for the day, then went downstairs. The hotel does not do breakfasts so I decided to return to my usual practise of fasting on several mornings each week.
As i handed in my keys I happened to mention my plan to cycle to Armadale. The South African lady looked concerned. "Oh" she said, "you know the roads aren't very good over there". She added " the road from Broadford to Armadale is OK but from here to Broadford is a bit, you know". She made a hand wiggling gesture. I didn't know, and I've ridden on some pretty rough roads in my time.
It had stopped raining and the sun was shining, but the mountains across the water on Skye were ominously shrouded in cloud.
I rode out on the Skye road.
A fishing boat was setting out from the port.
As I rode up the slope of the hump backed Skye bridge I could see a complete rainbow hanging over the sea. The clouds rolled back to the tops of the mountains.
My route took me, initially in a roughly South Easterly direction, along the North coast of the island. Just before Broadford I had to turn sharp left to head South, over a low ridge then down a long finger of the island to the ferry port.
The road was fine. Modern, well surfaced and quite busy with cars and lorries. On my left was pine forest, on my right, mostly grazing ground then the sea, with the little island of Pabay visible in the distance. The sun was shining through a light drizzle.
I stopped. Silhouetted against the sky were two hawks perched on the gateposts on opposite sides of a field gate.
I wondered if they were real. It seemed a strange way to decorate such a humble gateway, but, they were very still. I walked up and down a bit, then I thought I saw one's head move. I'm still not sure. After all, I've met scousers who swear they've seen the Liver Birds flap their wings.
I don't know why the South African woman was dubious about this road. It was just a normal road. Nothing wiggly handed about it at all.
Eventually I came to my turning, sharp left on to the road to Armadale. Immediately I started going uphill, though not very steep. The countryside was that typically Scottish gently sloping brown moorland. Emuna wanted pictures of Skye, so I made this little video.
The road was wide, modern and fairly busy. An earlier narrow road ran parallel and I wondered about riding on that instead, but stuck to the main road.
A lough and mountains hove into view on the right. The mist and mizzle cleared and the sun began to shine.
Eventually I reached the summit and started descending towards the sea with pine forests on my left.
The courtesy from drivers continued. It seems to be a Scottish thing, and very welcome after the aggressiveness of many English drivers.
I stopped at a layby overlooking a bay to take a photograph and drink from my water bottle. I shared the layby with a camper van inhabited by a Scots couple. They asked me if I needed more water. We had a chat about the weather etc. They had come over on the ferry and were heading to the North of the island in the hope of seeing the northern lights.
I carried on along the coast, the road dotted with loose settlements and the odd distillery. Between each bay the road rose up into the rocky wooded landscape, then down again to the next bay.
In the distance I saw a ferry setting out across the water towards the mainland, so I knew I was close to Armadale. My battery was showing one flashing light, It was nearly out of power.
At the ferry terminal I booked my ticket for a refreshingly low price, £3.50 if I remember correctly. I had the best part of an hour to wait, so I went to the end of the pier to sit, eat my butties and admire the amazing view of mountains across the calm water.
A man wearing a camouflage kilt joined me on the pier. It seemed a strange conjunction of sartorial cultures. He pointed out a group of kayaks paddling close to the rocky shore and explained that they were a group of American girls on an adventure holiday. He hurried away to meet them at the end of their trip.
I watched the ferry making its journey over from Mallaig and, as it swung round to reverse on to the ramp, I made my way to join the queue of pedestrians. My fellow foot passengers seemed to be mostly from the United States. One was much taken with my appearance and asked if he could photograph me. I granted permission, amused that he probably thought I was some kind of native Highland character, rather than just another tourist. We walked down the ramp and I secured my bike before climbing to the higher decks to get out of the way of the oncoming motor vehicles.
A typical tourist, I spent most of the crossing trying to get good photos of the surrounding mountains.
We passed a little ferry bound for one of the smaller islands.
After docking, we waited for the cars to clear, then, us pedestrians walked up the ramp, I mounted my bike and rode the short way into the town centre. I had booked a night in the Mallaig Mission Bunkhouse.
I soon found it, on the main street opposite the station. On the ground floor there's a cafe and a secondhand bookshop which, unfortunately, displayed a handwritten sign to say it was was closed. I rang the bell on the bunkhouse door, then realised that it was before the earliest checking in time. My bike was locked to the railings outside, so I went for a walk to have a look at the main street and the harbour. The latter seems to be divided into 3 parts, the ferry terminal, the fishing boats area and a little marina with floating pontoons. I was surprised to see a little repair yard belonging to Harland and Wolff, closed like it's big brother in Belfast.
Back at the bunkhouse I rang the bell, then I rang it again. The warden opened the door. He was a sporty looking East European chap in his thirties. Made me think of a PE teacher from long ago (always hated PE). He invited me to follow him up the stairs, then showed me round. My room was basic, bunk beds, a high window, all grey. It made me think of a prison cell. The tour continued, shared toilets, shower cubicles, Outside on to a verandah then into a communal kitchen, peoples names written on cornflake packets etc. Next to the kitchen was a lounge with old sofas, a small dining table and a TV.
There were lots of tourist brochures lying around. All was clean but rather institutional. It was the cheapest place to stay at £50 a night. Most hotels here are over £100 for a single room.
Once I'd unpacked my rucksack I decided it was time for a brew. No eating or drinking allowed in rooms, so I went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and sat in the lounge. The warden appeared with a young, short, slim, bearded Indian man who was receiving the grand tour. The warden left and the young man sat down on another sofa. I tried to start a conversation but it was hard going. I ascertained that he came from Southall and had just completed his MBA at Coventry University. I told him about how my parents came from Coventry and lived through the blitz. I sort of anticipated that he would respond with something about Coventry, but nothing came. There was no reciprocation. It was a one sided conversation. Perhaps he was shy, but I gave up, drank my coffee and returned to my room.
After reading for a bit. I realised that I was hungry and I'd better do something about it. I walked down the main street (there are few others) and decided to try The Tea Garden. On an extensive menu, including much seafood, I spotted the dish of Sherried Herring, so I ordered that. I sat outside on the terrace in the evening sun. https://hiddenscotland.com/listings/the-tea-garden-cafe
Once upon a time Herring was widely eaten in Britain. In 1913 12 million tons were landed. Fishery workers used to follow the shoals of herring southwards each year, including fishergirls who were experts at gutting and filleting the fish. It's my theory that the rugby song "Four and twenty virgins", which I couldn't get out of my head as I rode the Inverness bound train, derived from this migration. It's a very healthy food, being full of fish oil. For some reason it's gone out of fashion in Britain, in fact it's often difficult to find. Much of the British Herring catch is exported, whereas much of the fish that we eat is imported, some even coming from China!
The Sherried Herring was wonderful. Here's the recipe-
Later in the evening I felt the need for some beer. I had noticed a pub called the Steam Inn when I was looking for somewhere to eat, so I went to it. only to discover that it had closed down. The only option seemed to be the Marine Bar, which looked like a bit of a lager and football pub, not really my scene.
I was right about the pub, but, nevertheless, enjoyed watching the other customers. Sitting by the bar were 3 middle aged men with a maritime air about them, engaging in lively conversation and banter. I guessed they worked on fishing boats. One had a dog with a husky look about it. The middle one of the three was one of those Scots whose face has a fixed smile even when he's not happy. Andy Stewart of "Donald Where's your Troosers" fame had such a face. In fact, this probable fisherman was pretty much his double.
He was doing most of the talking and joking, holding court over his friends.
The barmaid was a tall elegant young woman who joined in the chatter, but at the same time remained a little aloof. She was going on a journey to a city shortly and much of the conversation centred around that.
Near the door sat a young man who was constantly having conversations on his 'phone, which he had plugged in to charge. He seemed to be involved in some sort of telephonic crisis management, fueled by regular top ups of lager.
I suddenly realised that I had a crisis of my own. Access to the bunkhouse was through a keycoded door. I had saved the code on my 'phone, but it's battery was on the brink of running out of puff. Using virtually it's last breath I had a look in the hope that my memory would hold the code long enough for me to get back to my room.
Luckily my memory didn't let me down and I regained my room to enjoy a pleasant nights sleep on the top bunk.
The warden had put my bike in the laundry room, which was locked. With my gear packed and butties made I pressed the buzzer for the warden to unlock it at 09.30. He was a bit miffed that I'd buzzed him so early. I'd told him that my train was at 10.10, but I like to be in good time.
There was quite a crowd of intending passengers at the station and it wasn't long before the train arrived at the terminus. It was made up of two units, so it had two bike areas. I headed for the one roughly in the middle of the train, but the guard told me to use the other one, at the very rear. I don't know why.
The line from Mallaig to Fort William is another catalogue of amazing scenery. A constant moving collage of sea views, mountains, Lochs and woods. This route is a little more craggy than my earlier jouneys. Apparently it's been voted the world's most scenic railway.
At Arisaig I was pleased, and surprised, that we crossed the Jacobite steam train. The last I heard the service had been suspended because of a ruling by the Office Rail Regulation that it must be fitted with central locking on its doors, a near impossible demand for historic coaches. (but we must make the world idiot proof at all costs).
One of the highlights of the line is the tightly curved Glenfinnan viaduct, famous for the train carrying Harry Potter to Hogwarts school being frozen by dementers as it crossed. It's other claim to fame is that it was the first railway viaduct to be built of concrete, this line, not opened until 1901, being quite a late one.
Approaching Fort William the railway crosses the Western end of the Caledonian Canal, over a swing bridge at the foot of the Neptune's Staircase locks.
The train reverses at Fort William, putting me and my bike at the very front. This was to be significant later on
Fort William is quite an industrial are, having both a paper mill and an Aluminium smelter in its environs. Sadly the paper mill no longer has rail traffic, but, I understand, freight trains still serve the British Aluminium site, which our train passed on its way out.
After the spectacularity of the Mallaig line, our route now became fairly tame, running through the Leanachan Forest. The first station was Spean Bridge. From here there used to be a branch to Fort Augustus at the western end of Loch Ness. There was little prospect of such a railway ever being a commercial success, but it was hoped to extend the line alongside Loch Ness and onward to Inverness to challenge the Highland Railway's monopoly of that town. The Highland managed to block these proposals and the branch lingered on, losing its passenger service in 1933.
From Spean Bridge the railway follows the dramatic valley of the River Spean. At one point the train traverses a spectacular gorge. I was too slow with my camera to photograph this, but I did get a picture of the waterfall at its head.
After passing Loch Treig and it's hydropower station
the line climbs on to the vast expanse of heather and moss that is Rannoch Moor.
I was surprised at the number of passengers who boarded at the isolated stations of Corrour and Rannoch.
The station for Tyndrum has the suffix of Upper. There is a Tyndrum Lower on the Oban line. The two routes join at the next station, Crianlarich. Once upon a time the Oban and Fort William lines had separate routes out of the Highlands, though there was a spur for freight traffic where they crossed at Crianlarich. In 1963 Dr Beeching came up with his infamous report on the railways. In it he proposed that the Oban line was to be closed completely and the Fort William line was to be terminated at the tiny village of Crianlarich. The great and good doctor believed that all the traffic for the West Highlands would thus be concentrated on this single track, from the end of which passengers would simply get off and walk. This is the way in which an economist's mind works!
Wiser counsels prevailed. The connecting spur was upgraded and the Oban line East of Crianlarich only was closed.
Gradually the train winds its way down from the heights. It runs high above Loch Lomond, then cuts through a gap in the hills to run high above Loch Long. Suddenly it cuts through another gap and passes mysterious sidings for a military depot at the head of Glen Douglas. Possibly this is connected with the Faslane nuclear submarine base, which we passed a short while later.
At each station on the way, considerably more passengers had joined the train than had disembarked. I was scheduled to change trains at Dalmuir, so that I would reach Glasgow Central, for my train to England, rather than Queen St. As mentioned above, the location of my bike at the front of the train would be significant.
As we drew near to Dalmuir I readied myself for unloading by carrying my rucksack etc through the crowded carriage and moved my bike so that I was poised to go. The train was rattling along on old jointed track, so I was unable to catch much of the guards announcement, which was long and said something about doors. I asked another passenger, but she hadn't been able to understand either.
The train stopped. I waited and waited but the light on the door opening button stayed stubbornly unlit. The driver came out of his cab and asked "Did yer no hear, he's only opening one door". I explained that the announcement was drowned out by the noise of the train and anyway, how was I supposed to get my bike past all those passengers? He got on to the guard via the intercom and the button suddenly lighted up.
I've no idea why the guard was only opening one door, but now I had another problem. It was a 5 minute change, but there were 4 platforms and absolutely no information about which train stopped where. I asked a waiting passenger if the next train went to Central. She said she thought it did. It actually said Larkhall on the front, but I got on and was reassured by the internal display panel that it was Larkhall via Glasgow Central.
The electric train sprinted between frequent stations. A young couple apparently ended their relationship publicly in the carriage. He was skinny, scruffy and monosyllabic, she much tidier, healthy looking and able to express coherently condemnatory sentences. He was clearly pissed and wilting under her verbal assault, before she strode off to the other end of the train.
I saw a short stretch of the Forth & Clyde canal. I kept looking out for more, but, from consulting the map later, learned that we had actually passed under it.
The station of Anniesland fascinated me. I wondered who Annie was and what she grew on her land. A quick internet search turned up the answer- "it is derived from the Gaelic 'annis' meaning destitute or from 'anfhann' meaning 'weak and feeble', thus Anniesland was a place for the old and infirm who could no longer earn their keep".
The train dived below the city centre and drew to a halt at Glasgow Central Low Level. Popping up into the main line station above, I went looking for information on my train. The concourse was crowded with people anxiously scanning departure boards mounted above the platform ends. The long distance trains were clearly in chaos. I had about an hour to wait anyway so my train wasn't displayed yet.
When the information on my train eventually appeared it was suffixed with the dread word "cancelled"
I went to the booking office to enquire about my next move. The booking clerk was clearly feeling harrassed by constant enquiries from desperate travellers. He told me it was nothing to do with him and I should go to the Avanti office round the back.
I remember in the 1970s British Rail were (mostly in vain) desperately trying to promote business travel, at the expense of everyone else. In copies of Modern Railways I saw pictures of plush modern facilities, unattainable by me. The Avanti office was just such a place. An elegantly dressed lady behind a mahogany reception counter received me and looked up a replacement train. Unfortunately I couldn't get the next one because there were no bike spaces available on it. I would have two hour wait, but I was welcome to wile away the hours in the first class lounge.
She issued me with a revised bike ticket and explained that the service had been disrupted because a lorry had struck a low bridge and the line had to be closed for a while to carry out a safety assessment.
The best thing about the first class lounge was the unlimited supply of coffee and posh biscuits. I was a bit miffed when someone came to replace all the biscuits, taking away the ones I really liked. I hope the ones she took away don't go in the bin, I abhor the waste of food.
At last, time came for my train. It was a Pendolino unit at platform one. As a result of one of Emuna's delightful malapropisms, henceforth I will refer to these high speed tilting trains as Peccadilloes.
Bikes are loaded into a locker in the guards area to which passengers have no access. I suppose this precludes the possibility of thieves unloading your bike at the wrong station, but I dislike not being able to get to my bike.
It had now been dark for several hours so I missed the dramatic landscapes of the run South over Beattock and Shap summits. I enjoyed watching the lights of the world slip by, trying to guess where we were, and feeling the train lean into curves like a motorbike.
My next change was at Preston. I collected my bike from the peccadillo and made my way to platform 4 to catch a late running Northern service. Happily, Northern don't seem too bothered about bike reservations.
I had booked only as far as Bolton, just inside the Greater Manchester boundary. From there my old codger's Greater Manchester bus pass would carry me the rest of the way. Never let me be accused of extravagance! I reached Bolton at 22.00, just over 2 hours late.
At Manchester Victoria I changed on to a local train, now electrically powered, first stop Ashton. From the station it is but a short uphill ride to our house, where the wonderful Emuna had a meal ready for me.
I love travelling by train, especially on interesting and remote railways. I haven't had much of a break from the boats for years, so, we hatched a plan for just after Emuna's birthday.
For her actual birthday celebrations we went to see June Tabor and the Oyster Band at the Royal Northern College of Music. This turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. We didn't know the Oyster Band, but their You Tube videos are fine. They're a folk rock band. Emuna has been a fan of June Tabor since the 1980s. Unfortunately the sound engineer did a terrible job, all too common I fear. The singers and fiddlers were drowned out by the drums and bass.
This is how it should have sounded-
The plan then was that we would travel to York, where Emuna would explore the Viking history etc and I would visit the railway museum. After that we would travel to Aberdeen, I've always wanted to go up the East Coast route to Edinburgh. She has an invitation to stay with a friend in the Granite City, I would carry on travelling North to Thurso, the most Northerly station in the British Isles.
The best laid plans etc. Emuna has ME/CFS and was mot well enough to make the journey. She insisted that I go though, so I planned a rail tour of the highlands with my bike.
I bought my tickets online from Raileasy, who divide the ticketing up into bits that, through the quirks of the crazy ticketing system, save money. The problem with is is that nowadays you have to book a limited bicycle slot on most trains, but you can't do it through Raileasy. I had to call at Stalybridge station to book my bike, with the underlying anxiety that some of the cycle spaces might be booked up.
The booking clerk at Stalybridge was a big bespectacled man in his 60s. He'd never booked a bike ticket before and was clearly struggling with the computerised system. Several breaks had to be taken while he served travellers with less complex needs. All was well, I got my tickets!
I've always wanted to travel on the East Coast main line between Durham and Edinburgh, so I was pleased to find a cheap deal from Stalybridge via that ancient city. My train was booked at 11.56 on Sunday morning.
I rose early and stuffed more clothing than I needed into my rucksack, something I later regretted. Leaving home in good time, I first called at the boatyard. Hanging up there was a hat that Nessie had fished out of the cut. It clung to my head perfectly, but was a bit stained with algal growth. The hat I had been wearing was apt to blow off in a gust of wind, and I thought Scotland might be windy.
Hat exchange completed, I rode to the station and waited on a chilly platform.
I was glad I'd remembered my cycling gloves.
When I showed Emuna a picture of one of the new trains that were to be running on Trans Pennine route she said "it looks like a giant suppository". The image stuck, and we now refer to them as such.
The suppository glided into the platform
and I climbed aboard, hanging my bike by the front wheel in the grudgingly small bicycle cupboard and stowing my rucksack and bags in various racks. I had a reserved seat in a table alcove, but it was away from the window and facing backwards. The other 3 seats were taken up by young women reserved to Durham and my seat was occupied by one of their friends. Opposite a forward facing window seat booked from Manchester to Leeds was unoccupied, so I sat there. The other 3 seats in the alcove were reserved from Leeds to Durham.
The class 802 suppositories are bimodal trains. They can take power from the overhead wires or, if wires are absent, they run on their diesel engines. The transpennine electrification is going in fits and starts, so it was diesel power that whisked our crowded coaches up into the hills, through the blackness of Standedge tunnel and down again into Yorkshire. I enjoyed watching the landscape whisking.
At Leeds station, a sprawling mess of 1960s austerity, the three empty seats were taken up with 3 young mothers, liberated from their children for the day. They were clearly well off, though I wouldn't say posh. They were well dressed and their conversation was about the clothes they were intending to buy, hair, makeup and, inevitably their babies and the ineptitude of husbands in caring for them. The conversation moved on to home improvements and new houses, with figures of hundreds of K being bandied about. Clearly these were privileged women with husbands high in management. Many of their age are struggling to find somewhere with affordable rent. One had recently inherited a house which she was refurbishing to rent out. Their privilege and superficiality began to irritate me and I was glad when they got off at York instead of Durham, as stated on the seat reservation display.
The route up the Vale of York is fast, straight and through uninteresting flatlands. It occurred to me that, with the table to myself I could set up my laptop and follow my journey with online maps. I did this, using Bing Maps Ordnance Survey function to spot what was coming up. North of Newcastle the route gets more interesting, culminating in a wonderful high level view of Durham cathedral.
Durham was my first change and the women opposite got off here too, I think for the university. It's a nice neat old station with stone buildings and Victorian awnings, well kept, high above the city. I had about half an hour to wait for my train. It was another suppository, this one owned by the London & North Eastern Railway.
Two other bikes were being loaded, belonging to a tall and fit looking elderly couple who had to change on to the same train as me at Edinburgh. They were bound for Inverness. So was I, but I planned to travel over the Highland line in daylight, hence the pause at Perth. I settled down with my laptop again and enjoyed the increasingly enjoyable landscape and seascape as we travelled along the hilly coast, rising over cliffs and swinging round bays. We crossed the long Royal Border Bridge to Berwick and Scotland.
As we approached the outkilts of Edinburgh anxiety rose in me and the other cyclists about our connection. Our train was running a bit late, which would leave us little time at Waverley to find the right platform and make the transfer, There was a a rumour that the Inverness train would be on platform 8, but nobody was sure.
As we unloaded the gentleman cyclist suggested that whoever got to the next train first should keep their wheel in the door until the others caught up. I ran with my bike to the ticket barrier and asked the ticket inspector. He didn't know and, giving my ticket a cursory glance, suggested I look on the departure board on the concourse. I ran there, saw it was indeed platform 8, then ran to illegaly take my bike on an escalator. At the top I met the tall cycling couple coming out of a lift. As we reached the platform the Inverness bound suppository swept in.
The guard was suspicious of my bike. I got the impression that he disapproved of cyclists. He said only two bikes were booked from Waverley and a third would join at Haymarket, bringing us up to the train's limit of 4. I showed him my reservation, taped to the saddle, and he grudgingly accepted my bike's right to travel in the poky cupboard. After the short ride to Haymarket I went to help the fourth cyclist load his bike, squeezing it past mine, only to discover that its tyres were too fat to fit in the hook it was supposed to hang from. We jammed it in place and hoped for the best.
Somehow, quite a complex network of lines survived Beeching in the Scottish lowlands and now serve their communities well. I had put my laptop away and didn't really know the route. I recognised Linlithgow as it flashed past. I once cycled there from Edinburgh to visit the Bo'ness railway. Shortly after passing I spotted a double headed steam train climbing the bank towards us. At Falkirk I looked out for the Falkirk wheel, unaware that I was looking out the wrong side.
Our train twisted and turned, traversing woods and fields, hills and plains, rivers, lakes, towns villages, golf courses. It was a journey of constant variation. The wires ended and the train ran on its diesel engines until we entered the great city of Perth.
I unloaded my bike, hitched up my rucksack and plodded through a dismal and deserted station the long walk to the unmanned exit. I mounted the bike then followed my recollection of the online map to look for the Lovatt Hotel. Soon I was going uphill among big stone built Victorian mansions. I found the place and, after a bit of kerfuffle with the doors, met a squat fellow of South Indian heritage in reception. He summoned a friendly Scottish woman who took my details and gave me my room keys. The place seemed a mix of faked Scottish baronial and 1970s fake bierkellar.
With my stuff stashed in my economy double room I decided to go looking for some food. I unlocked my bike, fitted the lights and rode back down the hill into the city centre.
Oh how are the mighty fallen! The fine and noble city of Perth was once the capital of the country. It has been fought over time and again through Scotland's bloodstained history. I may be doing it a disservice. Perhaps there are nice parts, but the part of the city centre that I found was a sleazy run down dump.
I needed butty making materials for the following day. The only shop that I found was a drab off licence. I locked my bike and went in, asking for margarine, but the owner didn't seem to have any, or even understand my question. I rarely feel uneasy in a city, but I really didn't like the atmosphere here. I took the valuable battery off my bike and carried it with me lest someone lever off the lock. I bought my supplies, including a jar of something I didn't understand, from a continental food shop. My evening meal was a kebab, something I generally avoid, from a Turkish kebab shop. It actually looked like the fast food joint least likely to give me salmonella!
I refitted my battery and rode to the near deserted station to sit on a bench and enjoy my meal. One or two trains came and went but, to paraphrase Edward Thomas, hardly anyone left, and hardly anyone came. A tanker train took the curve on to the Dundee line headed by one of the unusual looking class 70 locos. I pointed my camera and hoped for the best.
The tank wagons were labelled TEA. Emuna would like that.
Until the late 1960s Perth was a principal stop on the main line from Glasgow to Aberdeen. Great steam pacifics would pause here with their important trains, hissing and pawing at the rails to once more be unleashed and gallop down the tracks to their destination.
Back in those days there were two main lines to the granite city, this one from Glasgow via Perth, and, the East coast route from Edinburgh, over the Forth and Tay bridges, via Dundee. They met a Kinnaber Junction, the target point for the famous 'race the the North' of the 1890s.
Dr Beeching disapproved of duplicate routes. He ordered the direct route from Perth to Kinnaber Junction to be ripped up. Glasgow to Aberdeen trains still call at Perth, but they sneak in and out round tight curves on a side line to Dundee. The main line North leads only to the single track Highland line to Inverness, that I was to travel the next day.
The station is still magnificent, but shabby, run down and unloved.
Food enjoyed, I rode back up the hill to the hotel. The nice Scots lady showed me into a conference room where I could leave my bike. "Nobody goes in here" she assured me.
I went up to my room, hung up my coat, then felt an urge for sociability. I decided to go to the hotel bar. The pleasant Scottish woman was serving. The only other customer was an elderly woman clutching a hot water bottle and drinking coffee. She talked a lot about Florida, I think her son lives there. I'm not sure why she was staying in a hotel in her native land. Most of the beer advertised was not available, so I asked for a pint of Guinness. As I handed over nearly £8 I was assured, with commendable honesty, that it was extortionate!
The barwoman was constantly busy, if she wasn't cleaning things she was on the 'phone to her husband. She produced a brass figurine of a gorilla playing a guitar which caused much amusement for the hot water bottle woman. I think it was representative of the Indian man who I had first met. I suspect he is the owner or manager.
Hotwaterbottlewoman left and the busy Scottish lady bustled off to deal with tasks elsewhere in the building, leaving me sitting, drinking my guinness, nursing the pain in my wallet and watching a marathon on a huge wall mounted TV screen. I've never really seen the point of watching people running. I finished my pint alone, then went to bed.
I like to be in good time for trains and ships. You ask Emuna! I once woke her at 5am for a 10am ferry. She was not amused. My train was at 8.30. Breakfast started at 7am, but I was there at about a quarter to. A slim efficient woman was busy setting out the breakfast things and she didn't mind if I started early. I was just going to have cereal, but she insisted that I sample the bacon and sausages. Two men in orange work clothes came in, quickly grabbed some food, then hurried out to start their days labour.
With a good breakfast and much caffiene inside me, I extracted my bike from the conference room and whizzed down the hill to the station in good time for my train. There were now some staff present, but still few passengers. I was able to organise some bike tickets for later in the trip before trekking through the station in all its shabby loveliness to my far flung platform. In a bay a diesel unit for Glasgow waited silent and hopeful with its doors wide open. Overlooking the main Northbound (down in railway parlance) platform was an ornate clock that had long ceased to tick.
I noticed that there was a big black smudge on the ornate but almost paintless awning, just above the exhaust of the silent diesel train. Clearly the platform was used by identical sets, all with their exhausts in the same place as they stopped just short of the buffers, each leaving its own little deposit of soot on the ancient wood.
A train from the South arrived in the adjacent bay. The atmosphere changed as passengers poured out on to the platform and hurried away, eager to get to work.
My platform was steadily filing with passengers as the information display showed that the train was on time and on its way.
Eventually its headlight appeared in the distance. I was pleased to see that it was a good old fashioned diesel unit, not one of those suppositories.
I loaded myself in, stashed my bike and my luggage and found a seat with a good window. We were soon rattling along the old Aberdeen main line through gentle farmland along the Tay valley. The train took a sudden turn to the left as we left the main line on to the single track of the former Highland railway. The trackbed of the abandoned route could be seen heading off towards Coupar Angus.
The day was sunny but I could see cloud hanging around any bits of high ground. There was a sudden view down the Tay valley, which had looped round to join us. The sun glinted off white cloud. I thought it was beautiful, but Emuna had warned me about "Scotch mist". After Dunkeld we entered the Highlands proper, and the cloud obscured everything. Just my luck, I thought, come all this way to the highlands and can't see them.
The mountains were only obscured for a short time. The sun burned off the cloud and I was back to enjoying the views, checking my progress with the map displayed on my laptop. The line clung to the side of the valley of the River Tummel. At first this was quite wide, but steadily the mountains closed in until we were threading the gorge of the River Garry by the time we reached Killiecrankie, the site of one of the many battles of the many Scots rebellions against English domination.
The valley widened again, but after the Blair Atholl stop we began to climb into wilder landscapes, brown with late season heather.
As the landscape widened I became more aware of being accompanied by a modern road and, now no more than a track in most places, General Wade's Military Road. This was one of a network built, rather like the Roman roads of an earlier era, to facilitate the movement of government troops to quell rebellions. In this case the Jacobite rebellion of 1715. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_roads_of_Scotland
As we passed Druimuachdar summit, at 1484 feet the highest railway in Britain, the engine note changed and the train gathered speed as it started the descent towards the lusher lands of the Spey valley. Aviemore is now something of a winter sports centre, though , with global warming skiers mostly have to make do with artificial slopes. From here, the original Highland line took a longer course, climbing out of the Spey valley to cross the moors to Forres before heading East again to Inverness. The first part of this line is now the Strathspey Railway, operating steam trains. Off this, from the beautifully named Boat of Garten, once ran one of the loveliest lines, the Speyside line, twisting and turning with the river's dramatic route to the sea. The loss of this line, serving on its way many distilleries, was one of the tragedies of the 1963 Beeching report.
Our train took the newer route, climbing again, through conifer plantations, towards Slochd summit. From this high point the line wandered around until, after crossing Culloden viaduct and circling another battleground, it descended sharply to join the line from Aberdeen and roll round a tight turn into it's terminus at Inverness.
Inverness is a sort of double parallel terminus with the lines from the South terminating on one side, and those from the North on the other, both entering on tight curves as they point towards the town centre. Nobbut a single spindly track joins the two.
Along with many of my fellow passengers I quickly wheeled my bike round the platform ends to join the two car unit for the far North. The guard was suspicious of my bike, despite the growing thickness of bicycle reservations taped to the saddle.
The diesel growled out of the station and shortly crossed the River Ness, which drains the famous loch, on a long bridge. After that the train slowed almost to walking pace to cross the swing bridge over the Caledonian Canal between two locks. The line ran close to the Beauly Firth before moving more inland to cross coastal plains to our next stop at Muir of Ord, a village of mostly modern housing. From here there once ran a branch line to Fortrose on the coast.
At Dingwall the route to Kyle of Lochalsh turns away to the West and out train went straight on through coastal farmland, bridging the occasional river. The main A9 crossed the wide waters on a new bridge to once again join us. At Invergordon there was a good view out into the Cromarty Firth, with oil rigs anchored.
The railway left the seaside, crossing low lying ground, then ran alongside the Dornoch Firth from Tain.
The roadway has been given a huge advantage by new investment in recent years by the building of the Three Firths Bridges. By bridging the Beauly, Cromarty and Dornoch firths the A9 road has been considerably shortened, whereas the railway still has to follow it's 19th century route along this convoluted coastline. Just after Tain station the road can be seen crossing the sea whilst our train carried on within metres of the firth. When this bridge was being planned there was a possibility of the railway taking the shorter route alongside the road, but the cost was too much and the traffic too little.
Nevertheless, it's a lovely route that the train takes, clinging to the coastline
then following the Kyle of Sutherland and the beautiful valley of the River Shin to Lairgs, from where it climbs high into the mountains, before dropping down to The Mound and following the coast again. I love travelling on railways that skirt the sea, but I wonder how long it will be before this one is inundated by the rising sea.
There used to be a station at The Mound. There's no real settlement for it to serve and, though the buildings still stand in private occupation, trains no longer call there. Once upon a time it was the junction for the Dornoch branch, which dropped down steeply to cross a causeway, then hug the coast to that town. The causeway now carries the inevitable A9 road. I remember my big brother Merv telling me about the demise of the last Highland Railway locomotive that used to work this branch and its replacement with a Great Western pannier tank from South West England. That was in 1957, 3 years before the line closed. https://www.railscot.co.uk/img/9/211/
I chuckled at the name of the station, so appropriate for a member of the aristocracy, though I doubt they've really done robbing. They just do it in a more legalistic way nowadays. Perhaps in an ideal world, Dunrobin Castle should become a home for retired burglars.
The railway now followed the coast Northward, mostly high up on the cliffs with views far out to sea. At Helmsdale it turned inland to follow Strath Ullie, the U shaped glacial valley of the rushing River Helmsdale. High up on a ledge on the valley side I enjoyed watching this sparsely populated valley. The A road on the other side was little more than a lane.
The train left its ledge and ran down towards the river, crossed it on a girder bridge, then headed off into another valley, Strath Beg. This one was wide and brown, the land here high but gently undulating. We climbed into a terrain of dun moorland, wide and gentle with frequent lochs, like huge puddles on a brown carpet, occasional forests and sometimes big rounded mountains.
The stations were all request stops, but often the need to request wasn't announced until the station had rattled by. The track was all the old jointed rails, each 60 feet long joined by fishplates, so the speed was audible. It speeded up as we started to come down off the great moorland. We crossed a fast flowing river then the brakes went on and we drew to a halt at Georgemas Junction. To my left was the empty platform. To my right a strongly fenced compound containing rusty sidings and a massively built crane. There was no signage to explain its purpose, but I'm pretty sure it was for loading flasks from the nearby Dounreay nuclear facility, now being dismantled.
The trains to the North carry Wick on their destination boards but, in reality, they serve two termini. The train first reverses to go to Thurso, the furthest North station in Britain, then it calls again at Georgemas (i'm not sure why it bothers) and carries on to Wick. After a bit of a rest it will then form the next Southbound service, calling at Georgemas, Thurso and again at Georgemas before heading off to the South.
The Thurso branch traverses fairly level grazing land. It crosses the river then runs along the top edge of the deep ravine that the river has cut in its hurry to reach the sea. The terminus has a wooden overall roof that the train doesn't quite reach.
The Far North train didn't have plug sockets to charge my laptop, so it had run out of power. I had to remember the route to Castletown where I was booked to stay for the next two nights. The station is at the top of the town and the main street falls towards the sea. I freewheeled down, then spotted the right turn that I needed to take a little too late. I stopped, U turned then headed down towards the river bridge. I was on the A9, which I had been shadowing since Perth. It ends just North of Thurso at the Scrabster ferry terminal where ships go to Stromness on the Orkney islands. Immediately after the bridge a left turn was signposted Castletown and Wick so I followed it. Though it is an A road the potholes are some of the worst I've come across. This turned out to be a feature of roads in this area.
I rode uphill out of the Thurso valley, then on to a dead straight and easily graded road through rough grazing land of sheep and cattle. Occasional single storey houses dotted the landscape. The traffic was quite heavy, but I noticed a much greater courtesy from drivers towards me as a cyclist. There was a steady wind blowing from the South West, mostly behind me. A big lorry came the other way and its pressure wave lifted the hat off my head. I had to stop to pick it up.
Before long I was riding downhill into Castletown, formed mostly of low grey stone houses. The Castletown Hotel was easily found on my right. I locked the bike and went in to a deserted reception area. I found the responsible person in the kitchen, a young man dressed quite formally, white shirt, tie, waistcoat. He booked me in and asked what time I wanted dinner that evening. I asked about the prices after my experience in Perth, so he brought me a menu. It seemed comprehensive and reasonably priced. I said I'd think about it. He also wanted to know precisely what time I wanted breakfast. Everything here seemed to be precise.
My room was small but clean and lovely with lots of coffee sachets provided. I plugged in my computer and studied the map. I thought I might just have enough time and battery power to get to Dunnet Head before dark, so I set off. The road dropped down to a seaside car park, where I stopped to take a photo of Dunnet head
then rose up gently past dunes before falling again past a caravan park at Dunnet Bay. Dunnet village was a sparse collection of low old houses. In this area dwellings seem to be spaced randomly across the countryside. Wherever there happens to be a chance concentration of homes it is declared a village and gets a name.
The turning for Dunnet Head gave a distance of 5 miles. I was dubious about having enough time and battery power to get there and back, so I carried on along the main road for a while. I rode alongside a shallow lough fringed with brown. When I felt it was time, I turned back and, at the hotel, ordered dinner. The smart young man said he could fit me in at 7pm, so I went to my room and caught up with WCBS emails (no rest for the wicked!)
At 7pm sharp I arrived at the allocated table in the restaurant. I had the feeling that if I was 5 minutes late I would be reprimanded! I chose scampi from a long list of options and it was excellent. Nearby a multi generational family group from Newcastle way were enjoying their meal with lots of chatter and laughter and fun.
Next morning, after waking myself with coffee, I came down to breakfast at precisely 8am, as agreed. Breakfast is on a buffet system, so, if you wish, you can really stuff yourself to see you through the day. Belly filled, I fitted my battery and rode off in the Dunnet direction. This time I turned off up the narrow road towards the prominence, at the side of a gun maker's residence. This route took me along the other side of St John's Lough before another turning took me to a lovely bay on the edge of the peninsula.
I was amazed to find that there was a regular 'bus service on these little roads. Most of the people here seem to have a hand in both farming and tourism. There was a regular traffic, largely of camper vans, on the little road. The courtesy to cyclists continued, vehicles mostly waiting for me at passing points rather than forcing past in the narrows.
Out into the brown wastes my hat blew off a couple of times, so I gave up and tied it to my back rack, The road zig zagged up the final rise, then levelled out as it approached a car park full of motor homes;
I was now at the most Northerly point of the British mainland, but, to be honest, it was a bit disappointing. It doesn't seem like an end because the Isle of Hoy is clearly visible to the North. I was imagining being able to stand on top of a cliff at the very top end of Britain. This is not possible because the very end is a lighthouse
and a complex of buildings around it. These were walled off at some distance and access was verboten. A sign explained that the lighthouse was automatic and was only visited once a year for maintenance. I was going to suggest that Trinity House were missing a trick by not renting out the lighthouse keepers house as holiday lets. A little research has shown me that the lighthouse actually belongs to the Northern Lighthouse Board but the other buildings now belong to a locally owned company whose main business is providing holiday accommodation, so, perhaps you actually can rent it.
Dunnet Head seems to be mainly of interest to birders. There was a path down to a cliff top viewing area at one side of the head and a sign explaining the different kinds of birds to be seen there. I overheard conversations about bird sightings among other visitors. I like birds. I'm glad they're there as part of our ecosystem. I like to see things like murmurations of starlings or the pair of crows that often root through the moss on the wharf looking for grubs and slugs etc to eat, but, I'm not a twitcher! I don't want to stand for hours in the hope of catching a glimpse of Great Crested Godwitted Shagpuffin. I had a look.
There were no birds. I decided to move on. I was enjoying riding more than looking.
After descending from the head I took a left turn which brought me down to some old farm buildings near the sea. On the landward side was a ruined mill with the valley dammed up to enclose a millpond. From here it was uphill. I crossed the main road and carried on through the village of Barrock. I turned right at an area called Lucifer Moss to follow a dead straight road for about 3 miles to Greenland. It was all mostly sheep country, but gently graded. Just before getting to Castletown I came across an abandoned World War 2 airfield. Built largely for the defence of the fleet at Scapa Flow. https://www.forgottenairfields.com/airfield-raf-castletown--891.html
My bike battery has 4 lights to show its state of charge. It was now down to 2 lights, so I went to my hotel room and put it on charge while I ate the butties I'd prepared, drank coffee and dealt with more bloody WCBS business (is there no escape?)
I'd had a problem booking my tickets from Mallaig homewards online. I hadn't noticed the option for printed tickets and ended up with E tickets, which, with no access to a printer and an old 'phone, I couldn't use. I also needed bike tickets from Mallaig. I was concerned about part of the journey being on an Avanti train as they are very strict about bikes. Raileasy agreed to cancel my E tickets and I decided to ride into Thurso to sort it out at the booking office.
The battery was now showing 3 lights. I decided to take the slightly longer back roads. The lane ran from the back of the hotel, past some industrial buildings and a scrapyard, then into the countryside. Dead straight for at least a mile it climbed steadily. Over to my right a mysterious looking abandoned old house stood empty on a hill top. The map tells me that this area is called Gothigill.
Once more I had made the mistake of putting my hat on. High in the hills I started riding past a huge cattle farm where a couple of men were rebuilding one of the vast corrugated sheds. A sudden gust of wind removed my had and deposited it in a lake of cow poo. I decided to continue my journey hatless.
I had pretty much reached the top and stopped in a gateway to admire the view. Unfortunately much of my video was out of focus for some reason.
I passed a big old quarry with piles of big flat stones weathering in the harsh climate. I wondered what commodity had been extracted there.
A right turn brought me on to a downward trajectory, whizzing down a dead straight road towards Thurso. I entered the town through a neat council estate, then joined the potholed main road, crossed the river and pedalled uphill to the station.
The booking clerk was a smiley woman of about 40 years. I asked her to check that bicycle slots were available on all the trains that I intended to catch from Mallaig. She confirmed that they were, so I went and sat on the concourse, fired up my laptop and booked my seats online. I then went back into the booking office, gave her my booking code and she printed out my tickets. I handed these back to her so that she could book bike tickets for the relevant trains. What a palarva!
I apologised for buying tickets online, but explained that doing so had saved me £28. We discussed the current ticketing system of the privatised railways and agreed that it's ridiculous. What people want is to be able to turn up at the booking office and pay a reasonable price for their journey. At least in Scotland most of the trains are now run by a single nationalised body, even though the actual rolling stock is leased from private companies. They have to take their cut somewhere!
I took the same route back. It was much more enjoyable than the main road. When I reached the hotel the last light on my battery was flashing. I explained to the receptionist that I didn't need dinner that evening, but I wanted breakfast at 6.30am.
I had noticed signs pointing to a chip shop in the village, so I determined to have fish and chips for my tea. It was 4pm, a bit early to eat, so I decided to explore the village a bit. I'd noticed on the map that there was a little harbour at the bottom of the village, so I headed that way.
The village and the harbour are separated by fields. I walked down a little lane and met people out walking their dogs, There was a Heritage Centre based in old stone buildings. It had just closed, but the outside trail and information boards were accessible. When I read the first one the quarries and flat stones all fell into place. I'd noticed along the shore that the rocks were mostly flat and level.
Up to about 10,000 years ago Scotland was underneath miles of ice, gradually but inexorably moving Southwards to melt over what is now England. The constant moving of the ice meant that it was gradually grinding away the rock. This is why most of Scotland's mountains are worn to smooth rounded shapes, rather than jagged like the Alps. Where the rock was hardest, like granite, the mountains were more resistant and stayed high. Where the rock was softer it wore to gentler curves as I was finding here in Caithness.
The rock in the North East of Scotland is sedimentary. It's formed from sand that was deposited by ancient rivers. It was compressed into rock by millennia of being buried under huge pressure. It's strong, it's hard, but it's not as hard as granite. If you break into it it comes out in big flat slabs. Flagstones.
Old fashioned paving stones are often referred to as Yorkshire stone. Many did come from Yorkshire but, little did I know, there was once a big flagstone quarrying industry in Caithness, and Castletown was the centre of it. In the 19th century flagstones were exported to as far away as Australia. I was exploring the ruins of the stone processing area. The most intriguing structure was a little conical windmill. This pumped water to lubricate the process of cutting the stones to neat oblong shapes and planing the surfaces smooth.
The quarries here ceased production in about 1918. Concrete paving slabs had largely taken their place and producing them became uneconomic. In recent times Caithness flags have seen a revival for upmarket applications. The Scottish Parliament is partly paved with new Caithness flags. https://www.facebook.com/scottishparliament/videos/604240683525277
The harbour is tiny, but it was built for the export of flagstones. Nowadays a few small fishing boats and pleasure boats use it. Having worked on tidal water with loaded barges I have nothing but admiration for those who carried cargo on vessels reliant soley on wind and tide. The entrance to this little haven would give little room for error, and a mistake would get a ship disastrously on to the rocks.
I was beginning to feel peckish, so I headed back towards the village. I found the chip shop but was disappointed to find that it wasn't open on Tuesdays. Amazingly, the village also has an Indian takeaway, so I got a meal from there. Nearby was a sports field, so I sat on the pavilion steps to dine. After that it was back to the hotel room to read my book for a while. And so to bed.
When Southam was motorised and converted back in 1965 she was fitted with a BMC Commodore diesel engine.
These big 3.4 or 3.8 litre engines were also fitted in various BMC commercial vehicles. In fact, we're pretty sure that Southam's one was an ex vehicle engine that had been marinised.
When we collected Southam at Hillmorton in 1992 she had been sunk for some time
and the engine was in a poorly state. We got it running but eventually it expired in a cloud of smoke.
When the boat eventually reached Runcorn, Mike Bazley and Duggie Shaw rebuilt it with parts from a similar engine out of a fishing boat, transforming it from a 3.4 to a 3.8. The engine soldiered on for many years. It had its injector pump rebuilt and a crack in the cylinder head repaired.
Eventually, in 2014 the drive shaft disintegrated at the end of a recycling trip, so Southam was laid aside. Forget me Not took over recycling trips, having had her engine replaced.
Southam languished at Portland Basin for several years, gradually deteriorating as we concentrated on finishing Hazel and putting her to work as a well being boat.
Tameside College donated a second BMC 3.8 diesel, of a slightly later date than the one that we already had. This was timely as, although the old engine was still running, it was clear that there was no longer a lot of compression and a major, and expensive rebuild would be necessary. The new engine had never been used except for training students. Stephan got to work transferring the marinising parts from one engine to another and painting it up to look good.
Eventually, in 2019, we made a start on returning Southam to service, We put her on dock at Ashton Packet Boat Co and renewed 4 planks in her side.
The idea was that 2020 would be the year that we tackled the crumbling cabin conversion. Little did we know that the world would be shut down by a pesky little virus. Some of us got ill and it took years to get back to the level of volunteer input that we'd been used to. Poor Southam's cabin deteriorated further. Stephan had to drop out for health reasons, but a new volunteer, Tom, took over the task of getting the new 60 year old engine running. This turned out to be more challenging than anticipated. There were many setbacks, and we still needed to match it up to a gearbox.
One day, I was idly looking at engines on Ebay, hoping that someone was selling an Albin AD2 so that Forget me Not could have a spare engine. I came across a pair of BMC 3.8 diesels being taken out of a motor cruiser.
Installed from new in 1962, these engines were being replaced with modern, quieter, machines (yes, these are noisy beasts). They were both running and apparently well maintained and were fitted with hydraulic gearboxes. The price was realistic. I was concerned that Tom would be unhappy to abandon the work he'd put in on the ex college engine, but he suggested that we buy both so that we would have an heir and a spare. I negotiated with the seller and agreed the sale. One problem- they were in Falmouth, 350 miles away.
Dave and Kim got to work to finally get our big trailer fully roadworthy, but came across some setbacks
Alistair solved the problem by hiring a truck and driving down to Cornwall to collect them.
The donor vessel, Silver Bird , is interesting herself. She is a big wooden twin screw diesel yacht by John Bain, laid down in 1938 ,which saw service with the RNVR during the war.. Her owner clearly loves her and is keeping her well maintained.
The engines were lifted out, wrapped in plastic, and loaded on to the hire truck for the long trek up the M5.
One issue was where to put them. We're trying to declutter Knowl St and Southam needs some work before she is ready to receive an engine. However, we've recently cleared the scrap metal out of Lilith, she floats well and isn't doing anything much, so me and Nessie bowhauled her down to Ashton Packet Boat Co for loading.
Alistair seemed to enjoy his long journeys, though he had a fright when one of the engines fell over due to a flawed pallet. He carefully backed down the narrow track to the crane, which lifted them over GUCCC Royalty class Prince and gently placed them in Lilith's fore end.
The bowhauling had been difficult as CRT have stopped trimming the towpath edges and quite substantial trees are now growing to hinder the towline. I wasn't looking forward to bowhauling back. Luckily, Kim offered to tow Lilith to Portland Basin with his boat. This is a converted British Waterways work flat. It's quite powerful but, being short and light, is difficult to control with a heavy boat on tow. The longer the line the easier it gets, so i gave Kim the long bowhauling line to tow with.
Lilith is no longer in the best of condition and she has a plank missing from her foredeck. The line initially snagged on one of the spikes from this, but I was later able to release it.
Since returning to the Basin, Nessie and Aaron have covered the entire hold in a large tarpaulin to keep the weather out.
Emuna has a contraption that she uses to get about on in spite of poorly knees. It's a bit like the old hobby horses, what people used before they invented proper bikes. This one has 3 wheels and a comfortable saddle that you sit on and scoot yourself along. The advantage of this is that it takes the weight off her knees but, unlike the disability scooters, (or electric chairs as my mum called hers) you actually get some exercise. The downside is that she has to get off and push up the hill from the town centre to our house.
I bought an electric motor, intended for helping mountain bikes up hills, to help with this problem. It can be connected or disconnected by the operation of a little lever on the handlebar. The frame needed some modifications for fitting this. I took it to our friends Dixon & Smith (motor engineers) in Dukinfield, who did various bits of cutting and welding to make a suitable bracket for it. I collected it and now have to fathom out fitting a battery and control system for it.
Pushing the contraption from Dixon & Smith's workshop to Portland basin, I came to the top of the cobbled slope that runs down off the bridge over the arm to the marina. I thought I might as well sit on it and ride down. The contraption took off like a rocket ( I'm sure gravity shouldn't be that strong). Rather than using the brake I thought I'd let it run and lean into the curve at the bottom of the slope. Big mistake!
The contraption isn't made to ride like a bike. I went one way, the contraption went another. I landed heavily on my right shoulder, giving myself a nasty and painful bruise.
One of the tasks that Emuna has set for me while she's away catsitting is to collect a laptop from Moston. This was lent to someone who offered to help with the treasurers job, but, changed circumstances meant that she had to drop out. This seems to happen a lot.
I could have gone in the van, but, is it really responsible to use 2 tons of fossil fuel burning metal just to collect a little laptop? Pre-covid I would have cycled, but, since having long covid I've been wary of doing all but the most local of rides. I decided to take my bike on the train, changing at Victoria.
First I had to visit Hazel and change over from solar to reserve batteries to keep the fridge going overnight for our guests. It had been raining. Everything was wet, but, careless of this, I hopped over the gunnel into the fore end, slipped, fell and sustained a bruised bum to go with my bruised shoulder.
The journey by train to Moston was straightforward. The trains were running like clockwork, all bang on time. Information on the platforms at Victoria is not great though. I just missed my Rochdale train and had a 30 minute wait. It was a very tight connection but I would probably have made it had I been able to instantly see which platform to go to.
I was hungry and hadn't drunk much all day, so, at Moston, I bought fish and chips and a carton of orange juice at exhorbitant prices. I must admit, the chips were very good though. I found the relevant house, picked up the laptop and headed back to the station. A train was scheduled in about 20 minutes. It said 'delayed' on the departures display, but I wasn't too bothered.
The loudspeakers kept apologising for the 19.16 to Rochdale being delayed. Soon a young man in working attire, wearing a baseball cap, joined me. We struck up a conversation. He told me he was a kitchen fitter. The job he was working on was a complete nightmare because the designers had given wrong measurements.
The loudspeakers warned the non existent people on the other platform to stand back as the approaching train didn't stop there. The only intending passenger had just given up and left. The train did stop and several passengers got off.
The clockwork mechanism seemed to need rewinding.
With a few minutes to go, our train was cancelled. Next one 20.36. I wasn't bothered. I was quite enjoying sitting on the platform bench chatting. I mentioned that my wife was a retired probation officer. He told me that he had been on probation and it was not fair. Strangely, I was not surprised. It turned out that he was just defending his brother who had been set upon by a gang of bigger men outside a club. They said he'd used more than 'reasonable force'. Well, he did put that guy in a coma, but I sympathised with him. The conversation turned to the subject of violence, which seemed to suit him. He told me that, by law, if an intruder comes upstairs to your bedroom you are allowed to use any amount of force to repel them. Perhaps I have some legally qualified friends who can confirm this as it's a new one on me. Of course, the infamous recent airport incident came up. The kitchen fitter thought the copper was justified in kicking in the head a man who was tasered and on the floor. He's not racist, he has an Indian aunt, but the bloke who broke the officers nose will get away with it because he's Asian. I disagreed, but it's amazing how many think like this. Fertile ground for rabble rousers. At least he didn't use the P word.
The time crept towards 20.36 and another passenger arrived. "You timed that well" I said, but he didn't seem to understand. A slightly built bearded man of Middle Eastern appearance, he spoke English, using all the correct words, but, not necessarily in the correct order.
The minutes ticked towards 20.36. I stood up in anticipation of boarding the train. At 20.35 the time expected shifted to 20.37. At 20.36 it shifted again to 20.38. For several minutes this pattern was repeated. They were still announcing that the 19.16 to Rochdale was delayed. Then appeared the dire words "Delayed" for our train rather than an estimated time of arrival. We were then given the helpful information that the train was at Victoria, which presumably meant that the unit had not yet made the journey out to Rochdale, where it would terminate before heading back towards Manchester and picking us up on the way.
After a few minutes dithering I started clipping the lights on to my bike, as it was now proper dark. I said goodbye to the kitchen fitter (the Middle Eastern man had already given up and gone) and wheeled my bike up the slope to the road.
Not so many years ago I used to cycle up to 150 miles in a day, so it's rather galling to be daunted by a ride of 6 or 7 miles. My strength seems to be gradually returning though. I picked my route to minimise hills, as I'm still finding these challenging. I enjoyed the ride,though I was getting a bit hot and I was anxious that I might run out of oomph part way.
The first bit was a busy dual carriageway, then, from Failsworth, a small suburban road, followed by a bit of countryside along the dark Coalpit Lane to join the main A627 at Bardsley.
It was along this road that my evening's adventures nearly came to a disastrous end.
Bardsley Brew is a steep hill leading down into the valley of the river Medlock. Nearly at the bottom there's a turning to Park Bridge called Waggon Road. The sight lines at the junction are not very good. I enjoyed whizzing down the hill, keeping up with the cars at about 30mph. Suddenly I realised that a car was pulling out of Waggon Road right in front of me. I swerved and shouted and, thank the gods, the driver braked and I missed his front bumper by a midges wotsit.
After this scare I just had a brief climb into Ashton and more suburban back streets before I could unlock the gate, park the bike and go indoors to brew up and flop in Emuna's reclining armchair.
We've done a few trips up the Peak Forest recently. Some commercial trips and some wellbeing trips. Mostly we went to Marple aqueduct but on one we went all the way to Bugsworth. The most recent one was up to Gee Cross for a family of wonderful kids. Here's some photos of the trips.
Leaving Captain Clarke's.
Gee Cross.
Gee Cross,
Gee Cross,not sure what "Forget me Not" was pushing!
Gee Cross.
Approaching Woodley.
Scaffold Bridge Woodley.
Scaffold Bridge Woodley.
Woodley.
Joan and Helen on butty.
Woodley.
Woodley.
Romiley.
Chadkirk
Chadkirk.
In Hyde Bank Tunnel.
Leaving Rose Hill Tunnel.
Bra and other rubbish removed from propeller, hence so much smoke.
Em was pricing up some books for the charity shop when she came across The Times Inland Waterways of Britain. She passed it to me to have a look. Inside I found 2 pictures of Portland Basin dating from when Forget me Not was still nicely painted and signwritten. Since then the boats have deteriorated rather, particularly since Covid, but now they are on the up again. I'm hoping that Forget me Not will soon be looking decent again.
It's holiday time so everyone seems to be jetting off to some far flung destination. I don't know if it makes people any happier, but it certainly puts a lot of CO2 into the air.
Kim has gone for a month in Australia. Before he went he made another new deck board for Forget me Not . Meanwhile, Nessie and Aaron cleared out another section of hold. We collected some free paving slabs. They are intended for Southam but are being stored in Forget me Not for the time being. That should stop her hogging!
Recently we ran a trip for Works4u college students. /https://works4u.org.uk/ They asked for a 4 hour trip, so the idea was to go to Hyde and back, normally about 3 hours, then see how much time was left, probably enough for a trip through the Asda tunnel and back. The lift bridge in Dukinfield had some fresh rubbish in it and we were stuck there for over an hour, so it was just a trip to Hyde.
Our guests seemed to enjoy it, especially seeing us struggle to get through the bridgehole.
Here's a picture of the boats near Well Bridge. Aaron is steering the motor, Nessie on the butty and Helen being a figurehead.
