Ashton Boatman

Chris Leah and his Wooden Canal Boat Society colleagues were on a trip to Liverpool with the boats “Southam” and “Lilith”. They had spent a night at Wigan Pier on a canal whose water was steadily leaking away.

As I hauled myself out of “Lilith”s forecabin into a sunny morning I looked down anxiously to check the water level. It would be an exaggeration to say that my worst fears were confirmed, for there was still water in the canal, but not much. Southam’s fore end was noticeably higher than her stern. I climbed down into Southam to light the range. Bex and Garry were soon up and about, so I decided to start the engine and have a go at getting the boats free.

I found that it was quite easy to get the pair to pivot across the cut, but with all the revving and thrashing and rocking and shafting I could muster, the fore end would just not come free. Fiona and Carlos emerged from Lilith’s back cabin, the engine’s roar proving an effective alarm clock. I was just beginning to wonder about strategies involving lines from the far bank, when a couple of steel boats appeared, heading uphill. I hailed the first one and the steerer agreed to give us a snatch off. I passed him a line from Lilith’s stern end T stud. He tied it on to his dolly, backed up and then went ahead, so that, when it reached the end of the slack, his boat was going at a fair lick. The line held and our pair started to move backwards off the obstruction. I gave our Samaritan a thumbs up and shouted my thanks, then I noticed that the T stud was now at a strange angle. The sudden tug had pulled out the spikes holding down the sterndeck from the rather decayed planks.

As I contemplated the damage I heard a shout from our helper. He threw me back the line and asked me to go ahead as he was now stemmed up (canal speak for aground) and needed to back off. I engaged forward gear and moved the breasted pair along the middle of the canal, throwing up black silt in our wake. Almost immediately Southam picked up some rubbish on her blade. I gave a burst of sterngear to clear it, but straight away she picked up more.

Fiona came to ask to be put off on the towpath as she and Carlos needed to go and catch a train. I explained, shouting over the roar of the engine, that I would stem up if I took the boats anywhere near the towpath, but I would endeavour to unload them at the first bridgehole. I glanced back and saw that the steel boat was still struggling to get free, the steerer pushing with a shaft . There was nothing I could do, but I imagine that we were now none too popular.

As we turned into the first bridgehole, the engine stalled as the blade picked up an extra large pile of garbage. I looked back again and was pleased to see that our helpers were on their way again. I shafted the bows over to the towpath under the bridge so that Carlos and Fiona could scramble off. A little work with the cabin shaft removed the blockage and I restarted the engine and continued, still breasted, while Bex and Garry, the only remaining crew, organised steaming cups of coffee.

At the first lock, in a rather bleak and barren area beside an industrial estate, Bex and Garry got off to work the lock, while I steered the breasted pair into the wide lock. Bex distributed bacon and egg butties, which we ate hungrily as the lock emptied. I decided that it would make sense to carry on breasted up (canal speak for having the boats tied tightly side by side) as there would probably not be much traffic and it would be easier to keep the domestic side of things ( ie regular brews and sandwiches) going if everyone was on Southam. Conversions are not so convenient as back cabins when it comes to steering and cooking at the same time. (“Southam” originally built to carry goods, was converted with a full length cabin in 1965)

The next pound was also low, but after the next lock there was a nice full pound. As the dreariness of Wigan slipped away behind us, we threaded woodlands through the narrowing Douglas valley. I had to lean hard on the tiller to swing the breasted pair round the many twists and turns. The distant high level M6 viaduct grew steadily bigger until, almost underneath it, we reached Dean lock. In the tail of this lock is a water point, so we stopped the pair and filled Southam’s tank.

Once again we had a low pound to plod through. I asked Garry to run ahead as there were swing bridges marked on the map. They turned out to have been swung out of use for many years, until we reached Appley Bridge, where Garry got off again to swing a new looking swing footbridge. Meanwhile Bex was inside the cabin making everything cleaner, tidier and less of a biohazard than before.

We passed a new housing development with a steep bank down to the water side carpeted with astroturf. How long, I wondered, before that lot lands in the canal and gets wrapped round someone’s blade. As we approached the next bridgehole, on a bend, the bows of a wide beam trip boat appeared. I pulled back the gear rod and the pair, with the momentum of the butty on the outside pulling them round, swung towards the towpath. I pushed the tiller to the inside and engaged forward gear again to straighten up. Southam’s fore end rose up and we juddered to a halt as the passing passengers smiled and waved. We had stemmed up on something big and solid. I pulled the lever back again and wound on power in sterngear. With black smoke from the exhaust and frothing water round our stern they came off surprisingly easily, but then the engine coughed and died.

I dived into the engine room and reached for the tools to strip down the lift pump. We had come a long way since the last time she stopped because of muck and water in the fuel, but I guessed that the agitation caused by stemming up had disturbed more residue in the tank. Soon I had the water and yuck purged from the fuel system and, engine restarted, I climbed back on to the sterndeck bearing a heady aroma of diesel.

Soon we were approaching Appley Lock, the last one before Liverpool. Like all the locks since Wigan, this one is paired, such was the volume of traffic at one time. At Appley the lock currently in use is the original single one of immense depth, while the later additions, now out of use, used two shallower locks for the same fall. As the emptying lock revealed the sill, the reason for the lack of water revealed itself. From under the top gates emanated not just a leak, but jets of water that the fire brigade would be proud of. The back ends of the boats, which had to back right into the deluge to get the bottom gates open, got drenched, and Lilith’s cabin flooded.

Below the lock a boat was waiting. A lockside conversation with its crew revealed that they were new to boating and, intimidated by its gargantuan proportions, were in two minds whether to risk working through this, their first lock. Bex and Garry offered to help them through, so I loosely tied the pair below the lock and had a go at cleaning the blade while I waited.

Although through the last lock, there remained 27 miles of canal to our destination. It would be important to get as far as Maghull, a suburb of Liverpool, that night in order to be ready to be ready for the link lads in the morning. I was eager to get a move on.

Back in the 1970s and 80s, when I had more links with Liverpool, the canal beyond the Mersey Motor Boat Club moorings at Lydiate was hardly ever used, except for an annual campaign cruise. Sometimes, on my way to join my barge, Parbella in the North docks I would cycle up the towpath, but I don’t think I ever saw a boat on the canal. We speculated about the possibility of setting up a working boat base on this unwanted backwater and dreamed of restarting carrying. Tony Syers my mate on the grain barges, had worked on the last regular traffic that went this way and always thought that it may be possible to restart the supply of grain by boat to Burscough mill, which had stopped in about 1960. The closure of a swing bridge in the docks, cutting off the canal from Seaforth grain terminal, put paid to these ideas.

Now, by contrast, with the opening of the link, via Liverpool pier head, to the South docks and maritime museum, the canal has become a destination, part of an urban regeneration strategy. However, just swanning into and out of Liverpool by boat is no longer allowed. It is controlled, and there are forms to fill in.

As we were arranging the trip , Tony gave me some numbers to ring to make the arrangements. I rang the office and tried to explain that I needed to take a pair of boats into Liverpool. “Oh” exclaimed a cultured female voice, “Have you had an information pack?” I tried to explain that I wasn’t interested in entering the docks but simply wanted to cruise the canal. I am visiting a friend who lives by the canal I explained, fearing that any hint of carrying goods may spark suspicion and bureaucratic hurdles. Nothing seemed to compute, so I ended the conversation as quickly as was decent and rang the mobile number that Tony had given me for the link lads. Here I got a far more sensible response. “Er yeah, we’ve got some boats going in on Wednesday, so just be at Ledsons swing bridge, Maghull, for 10 AM and you can go in with them”. It was now Tuesday dinner time and there was still a lot of ground to cover. This is why I had been pushing the boats ahead and refusing to stop for anything.

There was something on the blade that I just couldn’t seem to shift, so, when Garry and Bex returned, I decided to leave it and hope it would wear away and drop off. We hadn’t gone a mile though when it picked up something else. I stopped in a rural bridgehole where a wooded slope separated canal and railway. A little more poking with the shaft loosened the rubbish, and we proceeded unemcumbered by urban detritus.

The valley steadily widened and soon we were approaching Parbold. A pleasure boat was coming the other way and racing us for a bridgehole. I could see that it was his bridgehole, but I really didn’t want to give way after the problems it caused back at Appley Bridge. I blew a long blast on the hooter and set our bows for the bridge, unashamedly hoping to intimidate the smaller boat. It didn’t work and the plucky cruiser kept ploughing on straight at us. It was my turn to blink. I went astern and swung over to the inside. The cruiser, steerer head down like a motorcyclist inside his wheelhouse, growled past. I swung the pair back into the channel and just managed to straighten them up in time to get through cleanly.

At Parbold there is a tight turn where what was intended as a Wigan branch would have left the more direct trans Pennine main line. As things worked out the direct main line was never built and the Wigan branch became the main canal, the stub of the main route becoming a dry dock, now abandoned. We swung round this turn , passed the pub, then crossed the Douglas aqueduct and headed into the flatlands. We settled into a routine. When I thought a swing bridge was approaching I gave a couple of beeps on the hooter and Garry would come out of the cabin. I would let the bows brush the towpath and Garry would jump off and run ahead to swing the bridge while I let the boats drift slowly ahead. As the bridge swung clear, a burst of power took us through, then drift along the towpath again while Garry regained the boat .

Soon we were in Burscough, interestingly lined with moored boats, many of them wide beam. Garry had a long walk because I could not get near the towpath to pick him up. He climbed on at the entrance to the Rufford arm, now a source of traffic rather than the little used backwater that it used to be for it is now part of a through route to the Lancaster Canal as well as boasting a huge marina. We passed the mill that once kept the canal busy with grain boats, but is now sad and silent.

Though our need for water had been dealt with, there were toilets to be emptied, and the Nicholsons guide showed such facilities in the centre of Burscough. As scanned the towpath for suitable place to stop I noticed a familiar looking boat. Northern Lights is a steel boat of about 50 feet inhabited by Cookie, her partner Kenny and daughter Cara. Although they mostly stay around Burscough for work, I seem to bump into them all over the canal system. I steered over to the towpath and, as I hauled back on Lilith’s lines to absorb the last bit of momentum a smiling Cookie greeted me. She knew Southam well, as Dan, a mutual friend, had lived aboard her at Burscough some years ago.

It turned out that the elsan emptying facility was now closed as it was being redeveloped into posh housing. Bex and Garry were, however, keen to visit the shops, so they headed for the supermarket , while Cookie and I caught up on the news. Cookie told me that a friend had gone through the Liverpool Link but it was a bureaucratic nightmare as you have to convince two dock authorities as well as BW of the safety of your boat. I had entertained in the back of my head an idea of just nipping through to the South Docks if we found ourselves with time to spare, but this news put paid to that idea.

When Garry and Bex returned I was eager to get moving again. Time was moving on and it was still a long way to Maghull. Garry and I fell back into the same routine over swing bridges while Bex started cooking a meal. As we meandered across the West Lancashire plains we laid a trail of woodsmoke as Bex kept feeding the big ex army range. Before setting out I had loaded a good stock of ready cut firewood into Lilith so there was no anxiety about fuel supply.

The countryside around here reminds me of Belgium with wide, gently undulating, hedgeless fields of corn, cabbage and carrots. Here and there the odd spinney or row of poplars lends variety to the scene. The canal carefully follows the contours, though a straight waterway could have been built with minimal earthworks. Westwards, towards the sea, the land gently falls away. In between bridges, Garry had a go at steering the breasted boats, though at first I had to take them through bridgeholes. He went in to consume the product of Bex’s labours, while I enjoyed my portion at the tiller as the boats chugged into the evening.

It was dusk when we passed the Mersey Motor Boat Club’s Lydiate moorings. In the 1970s I had a girlfriend called Gill, still a good friend, whose parents had a 40 foot steel boat moored here. One midwinter weekend they let us go and stay on Rambler and take her for a trip. I think the idea was to do a Sunday trip into Liverpool. When we rose on Sunday morning the cut was locked solid with a good inch of ice. Nevertheless, being young, we began icebreaking our way towards the city. This is when I learned that, if using a shaft to break ice, you have to podge it down vertically, never whack it lengthwise on to the ice surface. Unfortunately the victim of my youthful error was an old wooden oar that Gill’s dad was very attached to. Beyond Maghull our progress was slowed as the ice thickened in the bleak countryside. At the first winding hole we gave up and headed back to Lydiate before our shattered trail hardened again.

This time Maghull was reached in the dark. I knew that we had to meet the link lads at a swing bridge, but I couldn’t remember the name of it, so consulting Nicholsons was of little help. At each swing bridge, of which there are a series through Maghull, I expected to see a queue of waiting boats, but there were none. Eventually , as we worked through what appeared to be the last swing bridge in Maghull, I decided to call it a day. We tied up to the towpath opposite a line of moored craft, at least one of which was occupied.

In the morning, as the bright sun started to lift the early mist, I unloaded my bike and set off in search of the elusive swing bridge. As I rode along I exchanged “good morning”s with many early dog walkers. Electric commuter trains rattled over a bridge taking the faithful to work. Soon I was out into the last fling of countryside, recognising it from my excursion so long ago, though on this spring morning it had lost the bleakness that I remembered. I passed a swing bridge giving access to a farm, and the winding hole where we had smashed our way round all those years ago. A couple of boats were tied up near the bridge, but I didn’t think this was the one so I carried on.

Suburbia began to encroach and a motorway roared overhead. The canal crossed a shallow valley on a low embankment and, at the far end of the straight I could see boats moored and beyond them a low crossing busy with cars and lorries. This, I thought, must be it, and headed back to see about breakfast.

I guessed that the bridge was about an hours boating away. Why it had been described as being in Maghull I’ve no idea. I would have said Kirkby. Perhaps it’s just that British Waterways don’t want to be associated with Kirkby. We decided to set out at 8.30 to give us plenty of time. As we passed the boats moored by the first swing bridge they started their engines and followed us.

As we approached the swing bridge I brought the boats in to the towpath behind the waiting craft and jumped down with Southam’s mast line to check the last bit of momentum. Two smiling BW men walked towards me. They were very interested in the history of the boats. I imagine they make a change from their usual stream of steel pleasure craft.

The skippers of the two boats that had followed us came to ask if they could go ahead of us. “No Problem” I said, and they returned to their boats. The BW men had now gone back to the bridge and were looking for a gap in the road traffic so that they could swing it. Eventually the barriers began to fall and there was a flurry of activity as engines were started, lines untied and pins pulled out. The BW men waved us forwards and the steel boats surged through the concrete narrows. As soon as the last boat was past us I pushed Southam’s gear rod forward and wound some power on.

As we cleared the bridge it started to close behind us. Round the first bend we ran along one side of Aintree race course for a good half mile. I was eager to keep up with the other boats, and for some time there was no difficulty about this. Bit by bit the exhaust got blacker and the wake frothier as our deeper draughted boat picked up more and more rubbish. Every now and then I gave a burst of sterngear, which usually cleared the blade briefly , only to pick up more rubbish. The other boats moved steadily into the distance until I lost sight of them, then, as we were passing under a railway bridge, the engine grunted, shuddered and stopped. Some work with the short shaft soon had the blade cleared again and we got moving once more.

No-one is likely to write poetry about the scenic delights of this canal, mostly light industry and sprawling housing estates, but I was really impressed by the wildlife. Each side of the channel there is a bank of reeds and lilies, inhabited by moorhens, ducks, coots and a surprising number of swans.

Eventually we came to the second swing bridge and the smiling canal men swung it open for us as we approached. As we passed through the bridge I tried to explain, over the roar of the engine, that we had been delayed by a bladeful. They smiled and waved and we headed on towards Liverpool.

Soon we were travelling along an open stretch of canal. To the left was a 1950s council estate with gardens backing on to the canal. To the right a border of bushes demarcated the edge of the Rimrose Valley country park, soft grassland gently falling away. We reached a narrows where once there had been a bridge. On the outside, inaccessible except by boat or by climbing over someone’s back garden fence, was a pile if rubbish, overwhelmed by brambles and ornamented by the corpse of a duck. Underneath this mess something gleamed to attract my eye. There seemed to be, incongruously, a pile of two foot high stainless steel stars dumped with the rest of the rubbish. Bex and I looked at each other. Why, I wondered, would anyone dump them here.

I knew Litherland well from my Liverpool barging days. Over to the right I could see the distant cranes of Seaforth container port and some of the wind turbines that now line the dock wall. Below a high concrete road bridge sat a pleasant canal cottage, once housing the bridgekeeper for the lift bridge, a meccano like structure that used to take a main road over the waterway. Beyond the house a couple of the steel boats were busy taking water but as we approached they set off again. We brought our boats to a halt on the moorings beyond the water point and sanitary station. This was the safe place, surrounded by a high fence and only accessible with a BW key, where we would stay the night, travelling on into Bootle to load in the morning.

I thought it was going to be a nice sedate weekend. Five Girl Guide leaders had booked "Hazel" for 3 days. They were all experienced boaters, with certificates to prove it, but had never worked a motor and butty. They wanted to go through a few locks, so, the plan was to go up the 3 locks to Staley Wharf, spend a night there, then back to Ashton and up the Peak Forest to the bottom of the Marple flight, before returning to Portland Basin on the Sunday.

Because they were all boaters we wouldn't need  any of our usual crew. The trip was set up by our trustee and Guiding official (she also finds some time to work for a living) Liz Stanford. Her husband, Peter, came along to add some much needed muscle power, returning home each evening to tend to their animals.

I realised that things were going to be more raucus than anticipated when I was showing them the hand signals that we use for communicating instructions. In my innocence it had never previously occurred to me that the signal that I use for 'untie' was suggestive of the sin of onanism. The ladies fell about laughing.

We set off and negotiated lock 1W very competently. At the far end of the long opened out Whitelands tunnel a downhill boat waited for us to clear.

As we passed its occupants told us that the water was low above the next two locks.

The long pound between locks 3 and 4 has been a problem since the canal re-opened in 2001. The main reason is that the top gates of lock 3 leak like sieves. Why on earth this problem has not been addressed over the last 20 years I have no idea.

At lock 2W we found that the balance beam on the top gate was on the verge of breaking free as a result of rot. I confidently predict that, when this fails it will be blamed on a boater.

Above number 3 the water was a good foot down. I decided to give it a try, but got no more than a couple of boatslengths before the motor stemmed up. I had a few goes at freeing her, but it seemed futile without raising the water level. I got on my bike and rode into Stalybridge town centre.

The pounds above 4 and 5 were low but the longer one past Tesco was brimming. As a couple of boats were tied in this pound I couldn't steal too much water, but I dropped it nearly a foot then headed back to the boats. The water had made little impact on the level in the long pound, but I thought the few inches gained might help.

I added an extra line to the back end line for Peter, as the strongest person present, to pull on. The line broke and Peter fell backwards on to his windlass, giving him a painful bruise.

The boats remained resolutely stuck. We discovered that the culprit was a large piece of submerged industrial machinery, similar to a very large washing machine drum.

Our team of Guide ladies was joined by various tough looking men who had been walking the towpath. We tried pulling and shafting in all directions. We attempted to remove the offending item, all to no avail.

A few years ago we offered to clear submerged rubbish from this location but were prevented from doing so on the grounds that it might disturb the wildlife!

A hire boat had followed us up the locks. It's crew kindly agreed to let lock 4 fill by leakage (that's how bad it is) rather than deliberately draw off more water. They were clearly keen to get past but our boats were blocking the way.

A knight in shining armour arrived in the form of the Grand Union motor "Bargus", heading down towards Ashton.. Normally operating as a fuel boat, "Bargus" had been relieved of her tanks and other paraphernalia ready to go on dock, so she was riding high in the water. She was loosely tied stem to stem with "Forget me Not" and backed away vigorously. Each time the line snatched "Forget me Not" moved a little, until finally she was free. Meanwhile "Bargus"s skipper, Jason, organised our ladies and Peter to haul "Hazel", which draws almost as much as "Forget me Not", over the underwater debris.

We set off again, with the hireboat in hot pursuit.

Nearing Clarence St bridge we stemmed up again. I let the following boat past then managed to back off the obstruction, almost scraping the moored boats in order to avoid it as I drove the motor ahead again. One of the ladies was standing on the gunwale next to me as I steered. She had quite a shock when the boat rolled violently as it rode over a sunken coping stone.

Rosie was the cook for the trip (I have yet to ascertain whether her husband is called Jim). During the delays she had been busy preparing a meal, which she was now anxious to serve.

The problem was, where could we stop for tea and enable Peter, who was on the towpath, to get aboard. I suggested the Tame aqueduct. This is narrow, so we would be blocking the way, but it was unlikely that more boats would be passing through that evening. There was nowhere else that Peter could get aboard.

We made the boats fast on the cast iron trough over the river Tame. This structure, revolutionary at the time, replaced an original stone arch that was washed away by floods before the canal was complete. Everyone clustered around the table in "Hazel" to enjoy a wonderful meal.

Stomachs quietened, we plodded on, stemming again at a narrows that is notorious for fly tipping, though in this case I think the problem was rocks from a tumbledown stone wall.

It was getting dark by the time we reached the winding hole at Staley Wharf. The boats were reluctant to turn because they were virtually on the bottom. When we finally got round we were confronted with another problem. Tying towpath side is not possible because a ledge of rock prevents boats from getting close. In previous visits we have tied on the outside but, since our last visit a couple of years ago, this has become a jungle. I aimed the bows for a small gap in the foliage at one end of the winding hole. It was possible to get "Hazel"s bow in here and get off. An attempt to drive in a pin was unsuccessful as the ground was solid. We threw lines over the top of the greenery and made fast to the top of a high factory fence. The lines were high enough to avoid the risk of decapitating anyone with the temerity to explore the rough path that ran through the area.

Peter got on his bike to head for home. The rest of us went inside "Hazel". The ladies got out the gin.................

In the morning we woke to a rainy day. I walked up the locks with my windlass to try to gain a little more water. As I approached Armentierres Square a rush of water from lock 7's paddles showed that a boat was on its way down.

Wrapped up in waterproofs, we set off into proper Peter Kay rain.

Ally joined me on "Forget me Not". Immediately the motor boat stopped as it ran on to a solid object.

We got her free and carried on to the first bridgehole,

where we were stopped again.

The following boat caught us up and stopped, presumably having a rest whilst we fought our way forward. We got the boat free and carried on.

I steered and carefully avoided the objects that we'd encountered on the way up.

There was no avoiding the obstruction at lock 3, though I now knew more about its nature and location.

Inevitably the motor stemmed up. We let the butty drift past her but she jammed nearer the lock.

During efforts to free her Peter fell in at the head of the lock, which mercifully was full and no water was running. He gained another bruise, but climbed out of the water and was soon at work again. I employed the risky practise of inserting the shaft under the boat and using it to lever her free. A very good way of breaking your shaft, so I only do this as a last resort.

"Hazel" came free and was worked down the locks.

I managed to get "Forget me Not" moving and into the refilled lock, picking up the butty again below lock 2.

At lock 1 I showed Ally the trick of holding the motor in sterngear against the bottom gate as the butty works through. This gets exciting as the paddles are opened and the counter dips into the resulting maelstrom, but the boats are perfectly positioned for exiting the lock.

The aforementioned lorry scrapyard is no longer there. I had to go to Darwen in deepest Lancashire to seek a replacement. This was a more modern part and needed modification, which was done as a donation by North West Propshafts of Salford. http://www.northwestpropshafts.com/

The plan had been for Stephan to meet us at Staley Wharf to fit the part, but, we had got there too late in the day. I rang him and he agreed to meet at Portland Basin. We dropped "Hazel" on the towpath side at the basin for Rosie to serve up another wonderful meal. I maneuvered "Forget me Not" to the outside for easy access by Steph.

With the aid of many blasphemous words, Steph worked  face down into the black and oily bilge to exchange the components. He then rushed off to rapidly wash and change for he had a date to fulfil. The timing had not been good.

With another excellent meal consumed we made the turn on to the Peak Forest, now much easier to navigate after much needed dredging.

At the far end of Hyde is Captain Clarke's Bridge. A turnover bridge that also carries a small road.

https://oldhyde.blogspot.com/2011/08/captain-clarke.html

As we approached the bridge I thought about how difficult it used to be to get through before the dredging. I was surprised when the motor boat bounced on something in the narrows. The engine began to struggle, then stalled. We clearly had a bad bladeful.

We pulled "Forget me Not" to the bank and I started poking under her counter with the cabin shaft. At first I thought we had picked up a roll of tarpaulin, for the object was tough but had some give in it, with no obvious way of getting a grip on it. I was just thinking I'd need to get in the water when my hook caught on something. I pulled hard but it wouldn't come free. A small round gold coloured plastic container floated to the surface. Liz picked it up and opened it, just as the item released.

"There's a bullet in this" said a surprised Liz.

I dropped the offending item, a child's school rucksack, on the deck, with a clunk. Liz investigated. She found inside the bag a set of electronic scales,

handy for measuring out small quantities of expensive substances. Underneath this there was a plastic carrier bag. She opened this to reveal 3 guns, two pistols and an automatic.

There was also a quantity of ammunition, some of it spent. The cache did not appear to have been in the water very long.

We set off again. Cookie and Liz steered the motor while I sat in a canvas chair on the deck patiently trying to get through to the

police. At last, someone answered and we arranged to meet an officer at Woodley.

We stopped at the tunnel entrance and soon the officer arrived. Somehow they selected for this task probably the only constable in Greater Manchester who is terrified of canals. Rivers, lakes or oceans hold no terrors for her, but she won't go near a canal if she can help it. She stepped forward gingerly to peek in the bag, which was now residing on "Hazel"s foredeck.

Her role was obviously simply to ascertain that the was a genuine find and not just some discarded toys. She said that the firearms team would have to examine it and could we wait there until they arrived. We explained that it was impossible to stay there as we were blocking the canal. The real reason was that we wanted to get further on so that we were poised to get back to Ashton the following day. She managed to negotiate with her bosses that we would meet the experts at Chadkirk.

We said goodbye to the officer and set off into the dark wormhole of Woodley tunnel

(originally known as Butterbank tunnel).

Chadkirk is a secretive gem.

Our nice canalaphobic constable had never heard of it even though it's right next to Romiley. From the towpath some steps lead you to a narrow lane lined with old houses. If you turn left, down a steep hill you come to St Chad's holy well, then the mediaeval chapel, set among well tended gardens.

If you turn the other way it takes you under a low aqueduct then uphill into central Romiley, handy for shops and pubs. Where we tie the canal is carried in a concrete box channel, a repair made about 30 years ago when the waterway started to slip down the hillside. On the outside the impressive gardens of some of Romiley's more prestigious residences reach down to the canal. The towpath is normally busy with friendly dog walkers.

I met our helpful PC and her sergeant at the bottom of the steps and led them to the boats. Soon the towpath was buzzing with police. They took the bag of weapons and carefully opened it on to a tarpaulin laid on the towpath some distance away. Some of them donned white overalls to avoid contaminating the evidence. The constable took a statement from me, written on her mobile 'phone.

Rosie produced another culinary miracle, which we soon demolished. The gin had run out so we had to make do with wine. After dinner some of the ladies enjoyed standing in the forward well watching handsome young policemen coming and going along the towpath.

I don't know when they finished their work. When I retired to "Forget me Not"s cabin it was getting dark and they were still working by torchlight.

Some guests were concerned about getting back to Ashton at a reasonable time. We started on Sunday morning at 9 instead of our usual 10. Steering was done by our most confident steerers to ensure a quick trip up over Marple aqueduct,

wind, then heading back along the lower Peak to Ashton.

Captain Clarke's Bridge was approached with some trepidation, but we went through smoothly and collected no more guns.

Steady rain got heavier and heavier until it felt like the gods were having fun tipping buckets of water over us.

We did have something on the blade as we approached Ashton.  I gave a 'chuck back ' (briefly engaging reverse gear) to try to clear it. One of the bolts broke in the new gear change mechanism. I had to travel the last couple of miles in the engine 'ole, ready to change gear at Peter's command.

We reached the basin at an acceptable time. I breasted the motor up to "Lilith", then positioned "Hazel" where she could be unloaded easily into cars.

The ladies want to come back for a longer trip.

https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/greater-manchester-news/rucksack-containing-machine-gun-carrier-21076074

We trundled on up the lovely Peak Forest canal. I steered the motor, Aaron the butty and Elizabeth worked the bridges. I thought we'd lost her after she swung the bridge at Furness Vale as she didn't wait at the next bridgehole, thinking there might be another swing bridge further up. Luckily she was sensible enough to turn back when she reached the junction of the Bugsworth branch. It's a fascinating place but a bit noisy because of the A6 nearby.

                                                                      Up the Peak Forest

With the cancellation of the Lymm Historic Transport Day we scrubbed the plan to go along the Bridgewater and took a trip with "Forget me Not" and "Hazel" up the Peak forest canal instead. I was a bit disappointed that so many people pulled out at the last minute, but this tends to happen with well being trips. We had a late start from Ashton because of engine problems on "Forget me Not" eventually I had to call in the cavalry in the form of Stephan the engineer. There was an awkward moment when it looked like the starter motor had given up, but Steph persuaded it to go again and eventually we were able to set off with Kim steering the motor, Joan steering the butty, Aaron helping out wherever necessary and me just pottering about and enjoying the ride.

It was wonderful to be navigating the lovely and recently dredged canal. With the starting problems sorted "Forget me Not" ran well with her overhauled injectors.

Hyde Bank Tunnel.

A couple of pictures of Dave Buxton making a new cupboard door for "Hazel" at Stalybridge today.

When the Dutton Dry Dock Co donated their Land Rover we stopped our Go fund Me appeal for a van and said we'd spend the money so far raised on trailers for it to tow. The first one was a box trailer for deliveries and collections for the shop. The price of trailers suddenly went through the roof and we had to go all the way to Kent to get a reasonable deal on a box trailer.

Some people thought they might be able to repair the old van, but, really it wasn't going to happen. The rust had eaten too far into the bodywork. We needed the space at the boatyard for the second trailer. This is a big sturdy plant trailer, in need of some TLC, obtained from Portland Basin Marina. The old van went via Car Take back.

Stephan got to work on the plant trailer, stripping away loose bits to get it ready for its first job, transporting a little cruiser called "Miss Maggie" from Lymm to the River Ouse , a few miles downstream of York.

The boat was one of several abandoned boats donated by the Bridgewater Canal during the winter which we sold via Ebay. This helped to see us through the winter lockdowns. Many thanks to Paul and Lynnette of the Dutton Dry Dock Co for arranging it. The difficulty was that it needed to go on a long journey to meet it's new owners, Amanda and James. This was difficult with no suitable trailer and the inhibitions of a third lockdown.

I set off to collect the boat with the Land Rover, plant trailer and two outboards, a little air cooled one and a vintage Seagull. I tried the air cooled one first but, though it started easily, it would immediately cut out. I tried the Seagull, but the transom was too thin for it's clamp. I inserted a piece of wood to make up the gap, tightened the screw and spun the engine. It started first pull.

I had about 3 miles to go along the Bridgewater canal. My difficulty was that the engine had a short tiller. If I sat down to steer I couldn't see where I was going. I stood up and briefly let go of the tiller while I tried to work out how to solve this problem. The engine note changed and I looked down in horror as the Seagull leaped off the transom and disappeared into the middle of the canal, leaving "Miss Maggie" to drift into the brambles.

I refitted the air cooled engine and tried to start it. After a while I realised that it would only run if I fixed the throttle on to full power. It would not tick over. Luckily, full power was not very powerful. I slowly proceeded through the centre of Lymm, standing up and steering with my foot. The arrival at Hesfords boatyard was not very elegant as I had to aim the boat, cut the engine at just the right moment, then leap off with a line before it drifted away again.

I backed the trailer into the water and guided the boat on to it. One of the boatyard workers told me what a nicely kept boat it was just a few years ago. I don't know why it was abandoned, but my guess is that its loving owner died and their relatives either didn't know or didn't care about the boat.

The boat fitted snugly.

When I was charging "Hazel"s batteries I noticed that the charging light was dimmer than usual. In the morning I was disappointed to find that the batteries hadn't fully charged. Luckily there was enough charge for our weekend guests and it has been sunny so the solar panels have been working well.

I thought the problem might be bad connections so I checked and tightened them all. I tried charging again, with no luck. It was looking like a fault in the charger.

I rang Exegon, the company that made the huge great yellow box that charges "Hazel"s big bank of AGM batteries. As soon as I explained the symptoms Gary the technical bod knew what was wrong. I was concerned about the task of getting the thing to their works in Melksham for repair. It's weight is close to my Safe Working Load. Gary explained to me how to remove the circuit board so that I could post it to him.

When I opened it up I found the innards were nothing like what Gary had described. However, I found what looked like the circuit board, quickly packaged it up and had it in the post about 10 this morning.

Meanwhile we have another bunch of guests on the boat. The batteries will be pretty depleted by the time they leave. Fingers crossed that we get it back quickly.

Aaron shafting "Hazel" back from the charging point.

It's bank holiday Monday evening and I'm staying on board "Hazel" tonight to get her batteries fully charged ready for her first guests of the year. It's an airbnb booking so not her proper work, but it helps to subsidise the well being work. We've applied for some grant funding. If we get that we can cut down on airbnb's so that more of the people who really need it can enjoy time on "Hazel".

We charge the batteries at the garage of Dixon & Smith, Motor Engineers, in Dukinfield, who kindly let us plug in. It's an easy job to shaft her across the aqueduct and tie on the outside beside their garage. It can get interesting in windy weather though. Tonight is a little breezy but very sunny. A lovely summer's evening with doves cooing, other birds twittering, occasional trains passing and the constant murmur of walkers chatting on the towpath.

For many years Dixon & Smith used their great skills and ingenuity to keep my succession of old Ladas running, then the WCBS tormented them with a series of old vans. Now they are semi retired and, though they still do some paid work, spend much of their time working on their own vehicles, which include motorcycles and two beautifully restored 1950s American pickups.

I'm staying in "Hazel"s back cabin. The conversion is all cleaned and sanctified ready for our guests. The back cabin is in some disarray because its winter overhaul is not yet finished. I like staying in here anyway, especially in Winter when I have the range alight to keep me snug and boil my kettle. Too hot for that tonight so I have a flask.

Can't wait to get boating again. It's been a long winter.

Here's a picture of "Hazel"s interior.

Today Aaron and Nessie brought "Forget me Not" and "Hazel" back from their time under the motorway bridge to Portland Basin.

On the way we passed this lovely conker tree that we planted a few years ago (do kids play conkers any more)?

There was a bit of water bird agro as we passed a woman and her child feeding the swans from a bag. A goose climbed out on to the towpath and tried to grab the bag, which fell to the ground and spilled its contents. The swan was not happy and chased away the goose together with its wife and children.

Now they are back at the basin we have to get them cleaned up and ready to go back into service. Any volunteers?

Back in 2010 Southam and Lilith were stuck at Scarisbrick for about 2 months. Southam's  gearbox was removed, stripped down and, after much headscratching, repaired. While the boats were there I visited at least once a week to check on them and change batteries so that Southam’s bilge pumps would keep going (Lilith has hardly leaked a drop since her rebuild in 1983). Initially I drove over in the van but, aware of the carbon footprint, I arranged with nearby Red Lion Caravans to charge batteries and had an enjoyable weekly train ride to either Burscough or Bescar Lane, taking my folding bike for the last bit of the journey.

Sometimes the train from Ashton took me all the way, but more frequently I would have to change at either Victoia or Salford Crescent. As with many cities, Manchester’s railway network grew up in a time of competing railway companies. There were once 4 main stations, but now they have been whittled down to two, Victoria and Piccadilly. This is most inconvenient for travellers. In recent times Salford Crescent station has been opened to act as an interchange between trains heading in a North Westerly direction from the two different networks.

One day, on my weekly day out in Scarisbrick, I had to change trains at Salford Crescent. It was a sunny morning and, as I waited on the single island platform, I enjoyed watching the activity as trains came and went and waiting passengers milled about on the platform.

A group of young women in party attire gathered at one end of the platform and engaged in lively banter with much giggling. As they were the most animated group on the platform, naturally my attention was drawn to them. I was beginning to speculate about the story that may lie behind them being all dolled up and full of beans at 10 AM when I heard an insistent voice questioning me.

“Dyu wanna bird?” asked the voice. I turned to look at my interrogator. There was a pause as I tried to get my head round what was happening. The source of the question was a budgerigar like man with thick greased black hair and a face remarkably similar to Eric Idle. “Dyu wanna bird?” he repeated. I must have looked incomprehending, partly because it’s an awful long time since I’ve heard a woman referred to in this sexist way. To make sure I understood he varied the question slightly, “Dyu wanna woman? I can get you one”

Unthinkingly continuing the Monty Python theme ( those too young to know what I’m on about should search you tube for “Monty Python wink wink nudge nudge sketch”) I answered stiffly “No thank you, er , I’m perfectly well supplied”. “Oh” exclaimed the miniaturised Eric Idle “well supplied are you, Eh! Eh! Well supplied Eh”! He changed the subject. “What you doing here anyway”? Quite what business he had querying my presence on a station platform eludes me, but I replied guardedly “Well, I don’t live a million miles from here”. “Not a million miles Eh! Eh”! continued the insistent budgie. “Where you from then”? “Ashton under Lyne” I replied. For some reason this ruffled the man’s feathers. “Ashton under Lyne! Ashton under Lyne”! he squawked , “It’s a ****hole”

I was now revelling in the Pythonesque quality of the exchange and stuck to the my character. I gave him a look like I was viewing something smelly in the gutter and said “I find it rather pleasant myself”. Deciding that it was time that I asked the questions, I continued “Where do you live”. Eric the budgerigar straightened his back and declared proudly “Wigan”!

“Wigan”? I screeched, mimicking him, “Wigan”? He looked hurt. “What’s wrong with Wigan”? he asked.

Our train was just showing its face at the platform end and, as it rumbled to a halt I replied “Well, it’s alright if you like pies I suppose”*

I quickly wheeled my bike to the far end of the train, partly because I felt that the conversation had come to a natural end, and partly because I thought there may be a bike rack there. I was mistaken in this and I had to lean my bike against a handrail, trying not to block the doorway with it.

The carriage was well filled. I normally like to find a window seat facing forward, but there was no chance of this. The only available seat was nearby, facing back towards the door and my bike. I sat down. This particular class of diesel unit has single seats facing inwards next to each door. On one of these, right in front of me, there sat a slightly built man in his sixties. He was smartly dressed in a stylish black leather jacket and tight fitting jeans. As I sat down he turned to me and said “I’m warning you now, don’t **** with me”. I don’t know if my sigh was audible, but it was heartfelt. I pointed out that he needn’t worry as I had absolutely no intention of ****ing with him. I refrained from adding that he simply wasn’t my type as, despite his size, he did have an aura that spoke of potential extreme violence.

“Leave him alone Dad” came an order from across the train. On the equivalent seat on the other side sat a man of about 40, clearly the hard old man’s son, again smartly dressed, but much larger, chubby faced, and with an air of Kray about him. He apologised to me for his father’s behaviour and explained that he had been drinking. I smiled and nodded. The older man then launched into a tirade against his son, the gist of which was that the youngster was a lazy good for nothing who was benefitting from the business that resulted from years of hard work. The son’s response was to point out that he was the stronger of the two and no-one could challenge him, hinting that he may indulge in patricide if pressed too far.

In the seat behind me sat a Chinese man, quietly minding his own business. As the cross corridor exchanges with his father had reached a stalemate, the son rose, leaned over the innocent oriental gentleman and fiercely asked him what he was looking at. The gentleman said nothing, simply nodding, with a look of fear on his face, as the son continued a tirade concerning the folly of uncalled for looking.

The situation subsided and, for a while, I enjoyed looking out for the remnants of the colliery railways that used to criss cross this part of Lancashire.

The older man turned to me and asked me where I was going. I decided to be guarded, if not downright misleading, in the answers that I gave. When I told him that my destination was Bescar Lane, he wanted to know why I was going there. I told him that I was going to spend some time in the countryside. He got up and turned on the Chinese man, once again berating him for the sin of looking. The son intervened, telling his father to leave the man alone as he had done nothing wrong. Father and son then engaged in a ding dong argument about who was the harder and most feared of them.

The old man’s ‘phone rang. He sat down and I listened to one side of a conversation. When it was finished he turned to his son and said “That was the police, they’ve arrested Billy but they won’t tell me what for. Data protection”

He began to tell me the story of his life. All his brothers and sisters had moved away from Wigan and become high ranking police officers, but he had chosen to stay and run the family business. I began to wonder about the nature of the business, but decided not to ask.

The old man seemed to want to be friendly, but our conversation was interrupted when the Chinese man allegedly looked at the son, prompting another outburst. This time it was dad’s turn to take the part of the innocent, prompting another outbreak of inter generational warfare across the train.

When a cease fire was once more achieved, the older fellow turned to me and said directly “I can’t make you out. You’re dressed like a tramp with an old bike and going to a station in the middle of nowhere, but you’re carrying a laptop. What are you”? I chuckled inwardly. I love confusing people’s stereotypes.

Mischievously I told him that I was in fact a lucky lottery winner. Used to a hand to mouth existence collecting aluminium cans with an old bike, I had spent my last pound on a ticket and won the jackpot. This had not changed my life at all, except that it gave me the freedom to travel by train and not having to be picking up discarded cans any more. My money was invested wisely and I gave most of the interest to charity, taking for myself only the amount that I needed. I spent my time travelling about by train and bike and sleeping in the woods if the weather was fine. I had recently bought a laptop because my intention was to write a novel.

The train descended into a brick lined cutting and slowed to a halt at Wigan Wallgate station. Most of the passengers, including my two friends, detrained here. A few more people boarded and, with a psssshhht of compressed air, the doors closed. I glanced at the platform and noticed that the father and son were standing on the platform, deep in conversation with Eric the budgerigar.

The rest of my journey was quiet and I could enjoy looking out of the window. As usual, I was the only passenger to alight at Bescar Lane. A pleasant, level, mile and a half bike ride brought me to the boats. After changing batteries and checking that everything was OK, I connected up one of the inverters that are kept on Southam and plugged my newly acquired secondhand laptop into it. It worked fine and I settled down to write an article for the Wooden Canal Boat Society newsletter.

* For some reason there is a tradition throughout Lancashire that Wiganers subsist on a diet of nothing but pies, for which reason they are known as pie eaters ( pronounced piiiiiiiaytus ). Quite what the origin of this belief is I don’t know, but it’s obviously not true as I have already observed that they also drink beer and eat crisps.