Ashton Boatman

2010-11-04 @ 07:08:25 by ashtonboatman

Willington

I pushed my laden bicycle through the wasteland woods. Near the lake was a large clearing, grass shorn a lawn like sward by the constant action of rabbits teeth. Here and there were the ashen remnants of big bonfires, the many hewn and mutilated trees indicating the source of fuel. The trees were largely silver birch, hawthorn, poplar and willow, with a smattering of oak. Though most of the damage to trees was done by axe, clearly some of the vandals had been armed with a chain saw as several trees, including a substantial oak, had been cleanly reduced to stumps.

I picked a camping spot, next to a bushy hawthorn near the lake, but, still lacking provisions and water, I decided to go and explore the village. I carried my possessions through soft and mossy woods and hid them behind a tree beside the railway, then mounted my 'bike again and rode back along the towpath into Willington.

My first pre-occupation was still water. On my way from the Trent bridge I had passed a church. Churches often have taps to assist people leaving flowers on graves, but this one had only a rainwater butt. Returning to the village centre, I decided to buy food before the shops shut. In the shop I took out my camera battery to see if, in addition to bread and vegetables, they could supply one of these. As anticipated, the request was met with a shake of the head, but this was backed up with directions to an ironmongers that might be able to help.

I cycled quickly along a street of 1960s suburbia to find a row of shops, of similar vintage, amazingly all active. I locked my bike in front of the ironmongers and went in. The place was piled high with all kinds of tools and household items, many in display boxes that were fading from long exposure. Knowing something of the economics of running a humble charity shop, I wonder how such places survive in the face of competition from out of town superstores.

An elderly gentleman appeared from the back of the shop and I showed him the unusual battery. He took the battery, turned to a rack of different kinds of battery, picked one out and handed it to me. With the exchange of a few coins the transaction was completed and my problem solved.

Up to now I had avoided asking a shopkeeper for water to avoid them embarrassment. I was aware that, after just one night in the open, I would be unkempt and therefore rousing their suspicions. A request for water would mean that they would have to either leave me unsupervised in the shop or think of an excuse to refuse my request. However, I had the feeling that I was trusted in this shop. My request for water was accepted like it was a daily occurrence, and I left with two of my problems solved.

Back at my campsite I extracted my belongings from their hidey hole and busied myself unpacking and setting up my shelter. Once I was satisfied with this I went gathering dead wood (no need to cut down live trees), then, with paper and dry sticks to kindle it, I lit a fire and began cooking.

With only one pan my culinary style was rather cramped, but I was soon reclining beside the lake and eating a kind of sausage and vegetable stew that was very satisfying. As I ate, the kettle heated on my little fire to provide me with a nice cup of Earl Grey tea. I sat to drink this on the bank of the lake and enjoyed watching the ducks and moorhens, busy on the water. Every now and then a train rattled by to punctuate the ornithological activity.

My phone was down to a single bar of battery power. I needed access to mains power to recharge it, but the only way I could think of, despite my dismal experience the previous night, was to visit a pub. I Sorted out my most valuable things to take with me and pedalled back along the towpath into Willington. There were several hostelries to choose from. I went into one by the crossroads and sat watching an American police thriller on TV. It was one of those complicated ones where some of the cops are crooks, some of the crooks are cops and a lot of bullets get fired.

I was quite tired and I enjoyed my pint and the film, though it was not one that I would choose to watch. I lost myself it the tortuous plot. A slim young couple came in to play pool and chatter lightheartedly. It was like some strange ballet as they paraded round the table, eyed up their shots, aimed their cues, all the while chattering and laughing.

When my glass was empty and my 'phone charged I returned to the street, unlocked my bike and rode back 'home' to the lakeside. Dusk was now gathering. The lights were on in the trains as they rattled by. Still the waterfowl were active on the water. I climbed into my sleeping bag and lay on my side watching the restless birds and the passing trains until I fell asleep.

2010-09-05 @ 18:19:15 by ashtonboatman

The wide valleys of middle England

It was still dark when I woke. I lay in my sleeping bag listening to the twittering of birds as the sky gradually brightened. Last night's fire had provided me with a flask full of hot water, so I made myself some black coffee and lay listening and watching.

With sleepiness eased away by the caffiene hit, I sat up in my bag and fumbled about until I had the makings of a bowl of muesli. The sun was up now and I heard early morning dog walkers on the footpath, no doubt wondering about my bike that was locked to a tree.

Breakfast completed, I dressed and started packing my equipment, dragging it through the hedge and loading it on to my bike. I noticed my friend the wren pecking around my rucksack and looking at me with interest. In folklore the wren is a king of birds, wise and cunning, symbolising wisdom and divinity http://www.thewhitegoddess.co.uk/articles/mythology_folklore/the_wren_-_king_of_birds.asp I like the story of a wren winning a competition for who could fly highest by hiding in the eagle's feathers until the eagle could go no higher, then popping out and flying up some more.

A woman walking her dog eyed me with suspicion as I pumped my tyres. I mounted my humble steed and pedalled slowly uphill along the footpath, soon passing the woman along a field edge. The path led to the edge of an estate of middle class houses, circa 1970. My route lay through the middle of this, so I spent 20 minutes pedalling through suburbia looking for a way out. The ancient map that I was using was a little ambiguous about roads in this neighbourhood. My intention had been to find the little road that crosses the Derwent valley to the village of Elvaston. Instead, I found myself among the roaring traffic of the Derby ring road.

Desperate to get off this roaring dodgems rink I followed a track that seemed to follow the river downstream, but it petered out and the way was barred by a huge fence protecting a sewage works. I returned to the road and soon crossed the river. I was pleased to see that there was a riverside path heading downstream, and I thankfully set off along this peaceful, smooth surfaced route, encountering only friendly walkers and the occasional cyclist.

The Derwent is a beautiful river that tumbles down from the bold limestone hills, but here, in its last few miles before securing oblivion in the mighty Trent, it is ponderous and wide. It is a heavily managed waterway, with weirs every now and then, high, neatly graded flood banks and pumping stations. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to ride beside its gently curving banks. Eventually I reached the little lane to Elvaston and set out for this pleasant brick village. On my way I skirted the grounds of Elvaston Castle, Where the famous "Women in Love" scene of Alan Bates and Oliver Reed wrestling naked was filmed http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/areas_a_h/elvaston.htm 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xY_Kb5Qkj-4&oref=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DxY_Kb5Qkj-4&has_verified=1

After following the bendy road through the village I turned left on to what, not so many years ago was the main A6, now by-passed, so it was a pleasant quiet cycle ride into the river crossing place of Shardlow.

One of the first buildings in the village was a shop, a welcome sight as I needed provisions. In particular I wanted a battery for my camera, but the shopkeeper shook his head and said I'd only get one of the sort I needed at a specialist camera shop. I trundled on and crossed the canal near the magnificent restored warehouses http://www.clockwarehousepub.co.uk/

It would have been nice to head down the towpath, which would keep me close to my straight line on the map, but I was aware that the long horse bridge at the junction of the canal and the Trent had been removed, sparking a long running controversy about its replacement http://homepages.which.net/~shardlow.heritage/lhbdocuments.html Instead I carried on past the marina and across the Trent bridge until I saw a cycle route marked Long Eaton and Kegworth. Kegworth was on my route, so I followed it. Somehow Kegworth disapeared from the sign posts, but I carried on alongside a road until I reached a river lock. I realised my error. I was looking now for the river Soar, but this was Sawley lock on the Trent. My map was of little use, pre-dating many of the roads and omitting the smaller ones. I retraced my pedals a little way and decided to strike off down a lane that said "no through road for motor vehicles", which seemed to indicate that unmotored vehicles would be able to get through.

After skirting Sawley Marina, the road took me through rough low lying fields. A tractor with a flail mower was busy macerating the hedges. The land had a degraded feeling, as often happens in the vicinity of cities. I passed a gravel pit and struggled up a steep bank to find myself at a huge roundabout, mad with hurrying traffic. This was just what I was trying to avoid.

I dodged across the roundabout and followed a dual carriageway that was familiar to me as I had often driven this way on journeys to and from my parents home. It led me to a junction on the M1. After crossing this I was able to leave the motor mania behind as I freewheeled downhill into Kegworth.

I turned off the A6 and rode gently downhill through Kegworth until the river came into view. Some steel boats were moored in a loop of the river and beyond the main river bridge the road crossed a cut that took boats on a shortened route. A flood lock, with the gates chained open most of the time, closing only in times of flood to control the water.

I left the road and carried my bike down some steps to join the towpath, no more than a rough path through a field. I sat down and ate some of the food that I had bought in Shardlow. I watched first a fibreglass cruiser then a smart washer josher type narrowboat with brass all over it pass by.

My map didn't show my destination, Zouch, as it is such a small place. I wasn't sure of the best way to complete the trip. My thought had been to follow the river, but the path looked very rough. The alternative would be to go along the Eastern edge of the valley through Sutton Bonington. My judgement was swayed by a signpost pointing towards a bio-energy project, so, lunch over, I set off along Station Road towards Sutton Bonington.

The station was a long lost stop on the Midland main line. Little trace remained and today's trains whizz past without a thought. A right turn on to College Road took me parallel with the railway past the campuses of this a university village. I imagine that the bio energy project that took my interest was somewhere within this complex, but I saw no further trace of it. 

Another right turn took me across the railway again and down Marle Pit Hill to join the long long main street. Eventually the village was behind me and I came to a junction. A right turn took me across the flood plain of the wide Soar valley. My destination, Zouch, was entered by a bridge over the lock cut of the Soar navigation. Just upstream the weir stream leaves under a low towpath bridge. The village is just a gathering of houses each side of the single road. On one side is the main flow of the river and weir and on the other side is the navigation channel leading down to a lock. It seems a pleasant, unassuming place, though it must be rather nerve racking to live here in the winter, at the mercy of the Soar's vicious floods.

Zouch is the last settlement in my gazetteer of british place names, which is why I selected it as my first destination. It should not be confused with the nearby town of Ashby de la Zouch, though I suspect the derivation is similar. Ashby got it's name from the Norman Roger la Zouche, which apparently means stocky. I have found no source for the name of this little gathering of houses, but I imagine it was in some way related to the same short fat frenchman.

2010-08-20 @ 21:41:55 by ashtonboatman

Derby

I'm not sure exactly where the path left the old railway track, but parts of it became obviously too steep for trains. I suspect that the railway once went on to a now long demolished viaduct. The path ended at a gateway on to dreary industrial estates and roaring dual carriageways. I'm afraid Derby is a city that has never attracted me. It has always seemed too quick to replace the old and interesting with the modern and mundane. Perhaps I have been over influenced by accounts of the campaign to save the Derby Canal back in the 1950s. The canal had fallen into disuse and was one of the few that didn't get nationalised in 1948. The Derby Canal Company sold it to Derby Council who systematically destroyed it. Now volunteers are trying to get a least some of it ressurected.

I picked my way through a great greyness of light industry until I eventually found the city centre. Aside from the roaring roadways I found an old bridge over the Derwent with an old chapel of warm brick clinging to the far side. http://www.derby-guide.co.uk/bridge_chapel.html

The main reason for my excursion was to get an effective bicycle pump before the shops shut. I rode further into the centre looking for a pedestrian to ask. A woman directed me to the main bicycle shop and I started riding along the route that she indicated, but quickly forgot the details. I came upon a pedestrianised area and wondered about the legality of cycling through it. I was reluctant to walk because my foot was sore with plantar fasciitis. A cyclist rode confidently across the paved area, so I decided to do the same.

Turning a corner I noticed a small black skinned police officer. I don't know if they've abandoned height requirements for police, but this one was tiny. I doubt she would be much use breaking up a pub brawl. She waved me to a halt and politely explained that cycling was not allowed in this area and they were going to have a crack down and start fining people next week. It was the nicest ticking off I've ever received ( and I've had many). I wonder if this little arm of the law has learned to charm criminals into submission. Another cyclist came the other way as she spoke and she stopped him too. Luckily I remembered that the shop I sought was on Ashbourne Road, so I diverted her attention from my misdemeanor by asking directions. The way was straightforward so, giving my thanks to the smiling law enforcer, I hobbled round the corner before remounting.

The route was straightforward, though clogged with traffic and roadworks. It took me along Friargate, under the ornate bridge that once carried the railway near which I was to stay. It is now a bridge to nowhere as the continuing viaduct has been bulldozed away to make way for yet more roads. Apparently these are the arches that inspired Flanagan & Allen's famous song http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/features/friargatebridge/ http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/areas_city/friargate.htm

The bike shop was full of expensive space age bikes. I wandered round fascinated. I like bikes, and like to have a range of different types to ride. Poverty restricts me to only having the ones that others throw away. This is fine as many people are hugely wasteful. I was once given an almost new racing bike because its owner didn't want to be bothered fixing a puncture. This shop made me briefly wish for wealth. I particularly liked the ingenious hi tech folding bikes, lightweight and with a million gears but folding to the size of a briefcase. I felt a bit silly just going in for a bike pump,but it's hard to get proper ones nowadays.

I picked a suitable traditional pump from the display and paid for it at the till. Outside I went to pump my tyre but found that I didn't have the adapter to enable it to pump through a woods valve.

The Dunlop valve, (also called a Woods valve or an English valve) is a type of pneumatic valve stem in use in some countries, such as Japan,^[1] Czech Republic, India, Pakistan, Poland, Romania, Russia, the Netherlands, Germany, Britain, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, and developing countries. It has a wider base than a Presta valve, similar enough in size to a Schrader valve to use identically drilled valve holes in rims,^[2] but it can be inflated with a Presta valve adapter.^[3] The inner mechanism of the valve can be replaced easily, without the need for special tools. The inventor was C. H. Woods. It superseded Dunlop's original valve for pneumatic tyres.^[4]

I must have left it with my gear at Breadsall. I had to go back into the shop for one. The young assistant looked in vain through various boxes of bits. "Sorry" he said, "but we don't seem to have one", then added "I don't think we've sold a bike with Woods valves all the time I've worked here". This was better than the last whizzy bike shop I went into for a Woods valve where they actually laughed at me. They are rather unfashionable it seems, though a lot more practical and easy to use than any other type. I asked directions to Wilkinsons as they sell adapters.

After running the gauntlet of traffic and roadworks again I found Wilkinsons, bought the adapter and, at last, got my back tyre properly inflated.

It was teatime. The shops were beginning to shut and my stomach was feeling empty. I had some bread and various spreads that needed using up, so I decided to consume these. I cycled around until I found a bridge under the railway that used to be for the canal, now a cycle track. I sat on the lawn between the old canal route and the river and ate my simple meal. Cyclists whizzed past, giving me odd looks as I dined. Trains whirred and rumbled over the bridge.

With the loaf finished, and the last dregs of coffee squezed from my flask, I decided to try to follow the line of the canal. This took me through some riverside parkland and under a concrete road bridge until I came upon the weir above which the canal used to cross the river on the level. Boathorses crossed a simple wooden bridge as they towed their boats. I wondered how they managed when the river was in spate.

I didn't feel like going home to my hedgerow, so I thought I would go and watch activity at the station for a while. I'm always fascinated by trains coming and going. I parked my bike at the bike rack. Every other bike there seems to have a noticed attached warning that it will be confiscated if it's not removed by a certain date. Some of them were very expensive looking bikes. The station was very active. I wondered what had become of the old Derby Works. I was just speculating about this when an Inter City 125 or HST set emerged from the works, which I think is now an East Midlands Trains maintenance depot. It passed the station, then cruised back on a parallel track with an orange boiler suited mechanic hanging out of the cab and waving like royalty to the passengers on the platform. It's odd that it seems like yesterday that these trains were the latest thing, but that was 35 years ago and now they are being retired.

I don't know why, but when I'm in a strange town on my own, which I like,I always imagine that, when I feel the need for company I can overcome my natural reserve, go into a pub and become the wonderful witty gregarious person that I always think I should be. This was what I thought to do next. I had spotted an old fashioned looking pub called The Brunswick, so I moored my bike to a convenient lamp post and entered. The interior was pleasantly traditional with lots of wood. There was a huge range of real ales, some brewed on the premises I understand. I was served a pint of one of these, can't remember what it was called, by a dour barman and sat in a corner. The beer was very pleasant, but there were hardly any other customers and I began to feel uncomfortably socially inept. I became very aware that I was oddly and scruffily dressed and a little dirty from my day's activities. I drank my beer and silently left to return to my hedge.

I unravelled the dirty blue tarpaulin that would form my shelter and tied it to the bushes. As I did this I noticed a wren hopping from branch to branch, almost within touching distance and showing a curious interest in my activity. At first I thought that I might be near its nest, but it showed no sign of distress, just interest. I dug some paper out of my bag and broke up some thin sticks for kindling. With a flash of flame from my lighter I soon had a good little blaze going and, with some bigger sticks added, settled the kettle on it. The wren continued to watch, though from more of a distance. The light began to fade and I poured the boiling contents of the kettle into my flask before extinguishing the fire and wriggling into my sleeping bag under the tarpaulin.

2010-08-17 @ 20:39:35 by ashtonboatman

On me Bike

I unloaded my little bike with all its dangling bags and pots and pans through the narrow doorway of the train and carried it over the footbridge. Duffield used to be the junction station for the branch line to Wirksworth. I was pleased to see that, under the name of the Ecclesbourne Valley Railway, http://www.e-v-r.com/ the tracks are now relaid ready for train services to start next year.

I mounted my bike and rode up the hill to the strangely quiet A6. A handy co-op enabled me to stock up with various provisions and I was soon on my way. The reason for the road's tranquility was the total closure of this former trunk route through Duffield. I zigzagged my bike between hi vis clad workers with pnuematic drills and bumped over dug up sections of road until, clear of the roadworks, I turned left towards Dufield Bank.

I stopped on the railway bridge and watched a couple of Voyagers streak by as I snacked on some of the food I had bought, I tried, fruitlessly, to increase the pressure in my back tyre, then carried on to the other side of the valley.

Duffield Bank was once the home of a wonderfully eccentric Victorian country gentleman named Sir Arthur Heywood. He was fascinated with the idea of constructing the smallest practicable railways and envisioned a world where these tiny lines would serve the needs of farms, factories and country estates. Though I have little time for aristocracy, the idea of networks of tiny railways (allied of course with narrow canals) serving our transport needs seems to me to be the kind civilised of world that I would like to live in. For me though, everyone would need to be of equal standing rather the master and servant relationships of Heywoods day.

In an old quarry behind his house Sir Arthur had built a complex layout of lines to 15 inch gauge. He designed a range of little locomotives, along with goods wagons, passenger coaches, a dining car and sleeping carriage. On occassion he would get his bemused servants to drive the train round and round the circuit all night while he slumbered in the sleeping car.

Sir Arthur Percival Heywood, 3rd Baronet (25 December 1849 – 19 April 1916) was the eldest son of Sir Thomas Percival Heywood. He grew up in the family home of Dove Leys at Denstone in Staffordshire.

He is best known today as the innovator of the fifteen inch minimum gauge railway, for estate use.

,_3rd_Baronet

Though narrow gauge industrial railways were once common, Heywoods ideas never really caught on. One of his locomotives, however, much rebuilt, is still in regular service hauling tourists on the Ravenglass and Eskdale Railway in Cumbria. http://train.spottingworld.com/River_Irt

Duffield Bank certainly lives up to its name and I struggled up a hill before the road levelled out a little and I pedalled my way towards Little Eaton. My tyre was still feeling very soggy and I kept my eye out for somewhere that might sell a bicycle pump, though I knew this was unlikely.

Litlle Eaton, now a pleasant suburb of Derby, was once the transhipment point between the Little Eaton Gangway and a branch of the Derby Canal. This ancient transport system for locally mined coal lasted until 1908, when it was superseded by a railway.

The Little Eaton Gangway, or, to give it its official title, the Derby Canal Railway, was a narrow gauge industrial wagonway serving the Derby Canal, in England, at Little Eaton in Derbyshire.

I searched in vain for the site of the former transhipment basin, then followed a road that led towards Derby. I noticed a parallel ditch hidden in rough woodland and, on investigation, realised that this was the old canal. 

The Derby Canal ran 14 miles (23 km) from the Trent and Mersey Canal at Swarkestone to Derby and Little Eaton, and to the Erewash Canal at Sandiacre, in Derbyshire, England. The canal was authorised by an Act of Parliament in 1793 and was fully completed in 1796. It featured a level crossing of the River Derwent in the centre of Derby. An early tramroad, known as the Little Eaton Gangway, linked Little Eaton to coal mines at Denby. The canal's main cargo was coal, and it was relatively successful until the arrival of the railways in 1840. It gradually declined, with the gangway closing in 1908 and the Little Eaton Branch in 1935. Early attempts at restoration were thwarted by the closure of the whole canal in 1964. Since 1994, there has been an active campaign for restoration spearheaded by the Derby and Sandiacre Canal Trust and Society. Loss of the Derwent crossing due to development has resulted in an innovative engineering solution called the Derby Arm being proposed, as a way of transferring boats across the river.

Further along the road was a roundabout where the local road met with the Derby ring road and the old canal was oblitterated by the thundering new routeways. I had strayed a little from my line on the map and, to rejoin it, I would have to follow one of these dual carriageways. Here commenced the least pleasant bit of my journey as I laboured uphill, harried by uncompassionate trucks. I reached a point where a trackway that seemed to go in the right direction dived under the rubber strewn highway. Thankfully I scrambled down the banking to join this milder road, which I followed across the fields to the village of Breadsall.

I coasted steadily down Rectory Lane into the main Village. My ancient map showed various routes going in the South Easterly direction that I required, but the only one that I could find, Station Road, very firmly stated itself to be a private cul de sac. I rode out of the village in the direction of Derby, but, not wishing to get entangled in the urban sprawl, decided to follow a bridle path that I spotted going the right way. After a few hundred yards I was surprised to see a set of level crossing gates ahead of me in a wooded area. This turned out to be the trackbed of the old Great Northern line from Derby to Nottingham, now transformed into a footpath and cycleway. Near the crossing the old Breadsall station remains had been excavated and put on view. 

It was now past 4 PM and I was concerned to find a bicycle pump. It was clear to me that the ratty old pump that I had brought would not achieve sufficient tyre pressure for a comfortable ride. I found a good camping spot in the corner of a field and hid my survival packs under some bushes before whizzing off down the old railway track, which was surprisingly steep, towards Derby.

2010-07-31 @ 05:29:46 by ashtonboatman

On my way at last

The donkey rattled and bucked along the line that had miraculously escaped Dr Beechings axe. It deposited me and my bike at Romiley and then scuttled off up the single track to Rose Hill.

The Sheffield train soon arrived and I climbed aboard. It was full of elderly walkers with boots and rucksacks heading for the hills. One venerable gentleman had a bagfull of maps and kept everyone else informed about the passing countryside with a running commentary. We threaded the beautiful Hope Valley and at each stop some walkers got off and other returning ramblers climbed aboard. Strangely, the homeward bound walkers were visibly younger. Perhaps the hills have a rejuvenating effect.

The geographical encyclopaedia got off at Grindleford, where we entered a long tunnel through to the suburbs of Sheffield. Soon the diesel unit was sliding into a platform to terminate at the main station.

In a bay platform there rested a shiny and sleek new East Midlands Railways train for London, first stop Derby. I boarded it but couldn't find a place for my bike. The train was empty and not due to leave for 30 minutes, so I went to look for another. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a Cross Country Voyager arrived and soon me and my bike were aboard and swishing through the Derbyshire countryside like a guided missile.

My destination, Duffield, flashed by and the train began to slow for the Derby stop. I unloaded my bike and went to look for the next Matlock train as these stop at Duffield. I had not long missed one, and so I spent 45 minutes happily watching trains come and go. Across the tracks the former headquarters of the Midland Railway is now a college.

A single railcar clattered into platform 1 with Matlock on it's destination panel. I clambered aboard and were soon rattling along back the way I had come. As we slowed for the Duffield stop I went to get my bike, but my way was blocked by the guard who was trying to fine an old lady for not buying her ticket at the station. She was having none of it and was quite happy to pay the proper fare but not a £20 fine. I thought this was a brilliant technique for discouraging passengers. It was obvious to me that the lady was not a fare dodger but just someone who didn't understand the rules.

Reluctantly, the guard let me past, then opened the door to allow me to detrain at Duffield. The bike ride could now begin.

2010-07-26 @ 05:22:12 by ashtonboatman

What I did on my holidays

I have a strange idea of holidays. Unless I go on my own or with my partner or a few good friends, canal boating is work, though work that I enjoy. I don't like too much heat, so travelling to hot countries is out, even if I could afford it and didn't feel bad about the carbon footprint. I don't like inactivity, so lying on a beach is not for me. I don't have a lot of money, so that rules out all sorts of options.

What I like to do is to get on my bike and cycle slowly through the land, seeing what I see and stopping to explore whatever interests me. In the evening I find a secluded spot, usually a bit of woodland off the beaten track, and set up camp. I light a fire to cook a meal and sleep under a tarpaulin stretched between trees.

I mark a line on a map between two points picked pretty much at random, then follow that line as closely as I can. 5 years ago I set off on a line from Ashton to Zouch, a little known row of houses on the River Soar near Loughborough. I got as far as Duffield near Derby. Last week I decided to continue the journey.

My plan had been to set out on Monday, but the need to collect an engine for "Forget me Not" caused me to put it off until Tuesday. All of Tuesday was taken up with sorting out bilge pumps so that the boats had a chance of staying afloat whilst I was away. It was on Wednesday morning that I was finally able to drop the van off with a volunteer driver and set out.Full of the joys of the open road I set out on my bike, with bags and pots and pans dangling all over. I got about 300 yards when a telltale psssshishpsssishpssssish from the back wheel informed me that I had a puncture. I unloaded the bike, upended it and removed the tyre. Soon the tube was mended, but I discovered that my brand new bicycle pump would not put sufficient pressure into the tyre.

On a soggy back tyre I rode back to surprise the boatsitters at Portland Basin as I searched for another pump. The only one I could find had been sunk when "Hazel" went down and was a little rusty. It also lacked the right size tube, so I had to walk up to Wilkinsons to get a universal one. Their tube leaked so much air at the joints as to be useless, but I was able to transfer the universal adapter part on to another tube and get a bit more air into the tyre.

As I rode on through Dukinfield it soon became clear that the pressure was still not sufficient. I plodded on and soon came to Hyde North station, heaved my loaded bike over the footbridge and enjoyed bread and Houmus as I waited for the train. Soon the hourly nodding donkey to Rose Hill clattered over the points and stopped at the platform. I hauled my bike aboard the lightly loaded railbus and sat down as the engines started to rev. I was on my way at last.

A winter's night on “Hazel”.

It's the time of year when we don't get much sunlight and so “Hazel”s batteries need to be topped up from the mains every now and then. She has a huge bank of batteries that need a special charger and can't all be charged at once. Someone, normally me, has to stay to switch from one set of batteries to the other sometime in the night. I don't mind as I get to stay in “Hazel”s wonderful back cabin.

To charge up I have to shaft the boat the short distance across the aqueduct to Dukinfield and tie up beside the premises of Dixon & Smith, Motor Engineers. Pat and John are kind enough to let us plug in whenever we need power. Tying up is easier said than done because of all the rubbish in the canal. To get the bow close enough to get on and off the boat, the stern has to be pretty much in the middle of the cut as there is something big that catches the middle of the boat and causes her to pivot. There was nothing to tie the stern end to as the boat lies along the end wall of a factory. Between the factory and the water there is a small bank of rubble so, some time ago, I drove a pin into this and attached an old ratchet strap to it. In order to tie up I have to hook the ratchet strap with the cabin shaft and pull it to me. I then pass the stern line of the boat through the ratchet strap and tie the line to the timberhead. At the fore end there is a chain with a hook on the end secured to a post on the bank. All I have to do is put the fore end line into the hook and tie back to the T stud.

When tied like this, the back cabin is facing the railway bridge and I enjoy hearing Trans Pennine Expresses growling by, interspersed with the occasional freight. If I open the doors I can watch them and wonder if the passengers notice my cabin light below them on the canal.

For ages the weather has been rainy. I've been fed up of the rain, especially as I'm trying to work on “Forget me Not” on dock. Now, all of a sudden the wind has turned to the North and we're getting those cold clear winters nights that I love. Tonight the mopstick was frozen to crunchiness by 8PM.

I've been writing all evening, or rather talking to my computer, my friend Jackie will type up what I've recorded. Now it's bed time. The cabin is so warm I keep falling asleep. I tried opening the doors to let the heat out, with the range roaring away it gets extremely toasty in here.

Whilst writing the above paragraph I fell asleep. I woke again in a cooling cabin a couple of hours later, so I turned out the light and snuggled into my sleeping bag. In the morning it was cold. I had a flask to make coffee so I decided not to light the range. All I had to do was to shaft the boat back over the aqueduct to Portland Basin. I quickly dressed and put on all the gloves I could find, then climbed out into the crisp cold still dark morning. After disconnecting the charging cables I untied the lines, stiff with frost, and threw the ratchet strap back on to the bank. I then grasped the icy shaft with my gloved hands and, taking care not to slip on the frosty roof, pushed the fore end out into the channel, cat ice chinkling as the boat pushed it aside.

The stern end was stuck on something and, as I couldn't exert as much effort as usual because I was standing on a slippery surface, it took a while to get it free. By this time my hands were becoming very painful in spite of the 3 pairs of gloves that I was wearing. I decided that I would have to go inside to warm up. I went into the main cabin and lit a fire, enjoying its heat while I drank a cup of coffee.

When I had thawed sufficiently I climbed back on to the roof in the now bright and shiny but still cold morning, and started to move the boat towards the aqueduct, jumping down on to the towpath to give her a good tug with the fore end line before climbing back aboard to swing her round with the shaft and tie up abreast of “Lilith”. With everything secure I headed for home to get ready for another day working on “Forget me Not”.

2010-07-12 @ 20:15:00 by ashtonboatman

A sign of the times.

It was a hot sunny day and I was busy working on the boats at Portland Basin when I noticed a wheelbarrow parked on the towpath across the canal. As we have wheelbarrows on the boats for collecting on recycling trips, I went over to see if someone had borrowed on of ours. When I got there I could hear banging and slushing noises from the other side of the stone wall. The ground drops steeply down about 20 feet of wooded rocky bank to the River Tame. I looked over and saw three men sploshing about in the river and dragging out rusty bikes, scaffold poles etc. One of them saw me looking and explained that they had decided to clean up the river.

This public spirited explanation was slightly marred by the fact that they only seemed to be removing metal objects, leaving behind much, equally unsightly, but valueless, plastic.

They dragged their ochre encrusted booty up the bank, over the wall and managed to load it into the sagging barrow ( which wasn't one of ours). I imagine they must have had a van nearby because it's over 2 miles to the nearest scrapyard that takes iron.

I think it's a good thing that people clear up and weigh in the clutter that others have carelessly discarded, but I also see desperation in the men's actions. I haven't seen this sort of activity since the 1980s when long years of unemployment spurred the picking up of beer cans, dragging ditches for scrap metal and other forms of scavenging. Anything to make a few bob to try to make ends meet. Are we now going to have another no hope generation like that of the Thatcher years? Growing up with no understanding of the concept of working for a living.

2010-05-02 @ 16:30:07 by ashtonboatman

Stranded at Scarisbrick

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/Liverpool_trip_April_2010/Stranded%20at%20Scarisbrick%202.JPG.html

"Southam" and "Lilith" are still stuck at Scarisbrick. It could have been worse, they could have been stuck in Bootle! The man at Red Lion Caravans opposite is being very helpful, charging batteries to keep the bilge pumps going and keeping an eye on the boats for me. Frank the engineer has stripped down the gearbox. We thought that it was going to need new clutch plates. I managed to contact the remains of the old Parsons company that made the gearbox, now run by one man in his spare time. He can supply new clutch plates, but we would have to wait 12 weeks and they would cost £600. Luckily, after discussing the problem with the man, I don't think we need them. The difficulty lies elsewhere and should be relatively easy to fix. With a bit of luck the boats will be on the move again soon. I've learned a lot about old marine gearboxes, especially how much it costs to get bits for them.

Meanwhile I've arranged a tow for "Forget me Not" so that we can do the monthly recycling trip on Sunday 9th May. It's a week late from the usual first Sunday because of the Bank Holiday weekend. If you would like to come on this trip just turn up at Portland Basin, Ashton under Lyne, at 9.30 AM on the 9th.

Mad March recycling trip.

Despite having to scrape a thick coating of ice off the van windscreen I was surprised to find that the cut had frozen overnight yet again. Fian had spent the night boatsitting and I was a little concerned as she tends to feel the cold. Smoke was drifting from "Forget me Not"s chimney, so she was obviously awake, but I followed proper boating etiquette and avoided her cabin until she emerged. She said she had had a wonderful night and actually enjoyed being woken by squabbling geese at 3 AM!

After checking the bilges and feeding Captain Kit I carefully climbed across the ice sugared boats and started "Southam"s big engine to back her over to the towpath side for easy access by volunteers. "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" made a fine sight breasted up at the wharf. Soon people began to arrive and I had a busy time allocating people jobs, giving out safe boating information to first timers, of whom there were many and generally checking that everything was ready, dealing with a closed damper on a range that was causing people to be kippered etc.

As 10 AM approached I asked everyone to climb aboard and began shafting "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" round to face towards Droylsden. This was easier said than done as the ice, though thin, was a great impediment.

With the two currently unpowered boats a little way past 90 degrees of their 180 degree turn I noticed that the person I had asked to steer "Forget me Not" had taken it upon himself to go and start "Southam". Despite my waving he untied the boat and set off, but stopped again when my dancing, waving and shouting was relayed to him.

I had a dilemma that often occurs when working with volunteers. It's important for smooth running and safety that everyone follows the skippers instructions, but if you're too severe in imposing your authority you soon find yourself working alone.

I ran over to "Southam", which was now drifting in the middle of the cut and could only be accessed by climbing down off the footbridge. I found that the stern end mooring line was still tied to the T stud, it had been simply lifted off the mooring pin and thrown aboard instead of being untied and coiled ready for use as it should be. Even worse, the mooring pins had been left in the towpath. I climbed back on to the footbridge, retrieved the pins and re-gained the boat, explaining, I hope tactfully, that I had good reasons for my steering allocations and pointing out the shortcomings re lines and pins.

Moving the boat forward I nudged her past the bows of the other two boats and quickly explained that as I towed "Forget me Not" forward the line from "Lilith"s stem should be taken back and tied on to "Forget me Not"s stern. I took the strain of "Forget me Not"s line on "Southam"s T stud and pulled her forward, though she bounced off the knuckle of the Peak Forest turn because "Southam"s premature move had resulted in the turn being incomplete. My instructions must have been misunderstood because "Lilith"s line had not been carried to "Forget me Not"s stern and, as the two boats had separated, had to be thrown some distance. At the third attempt the line made its target, but almost too late. Boats do not have brakes so, once "Forget me Not" was moving her 15 tons or so was not going to stop. Seeing "Lilith" lurch into line I engaged forward gear again, but a few minutes later waving and shouts of Stop caused me to pull the lever back to nuetral again. "Lilith"s line had not been properly secured and was slipping off. There was no way I could actually stop the train of boats so had to let them drift while the line was re-secured. "Southam" stemmed up un the outside of the turn by the old Junction Mill chimney, now an icon of Ashton. "Forget me Not" wedged in alongside and, once more, the ice made things difficult as we tried to shaft the boats off the rubbish. As I tried to back her out "Southam" picked up a sturdy canvas bag on her blades, which had to be cut off, hanging over the side with a knife while young Daniel Cocker held on to my feet.

Eventually we got going again. Julie Edwards had rung up earlier to say that she would be late and would catch us up. She was waiting at Margaret St Bridge and hopped on to "Southam"s sterndeck as we passed, sharing with me the noise and smoke for the rest of the journey.

Despite my efforts with the knife, there was clearly stil some rubbish on the blades. The engine was struggling and making black smoke, the rudder was juddering and the water was boiling round the stern rather than going back in a clear stream. I kept giving bursts of sterngear to try to throw it off. This had some effect, but never got the blade completely clean and it would always pick up some more. As we passed the site of Robertsons Jam factory, now nearly demolished, a grunt from the engine indicated more rubbish collected. I tried reverse again and the engine stalled. Restarting it, I tried forward again. This unravelled the rubbish, but, looking down into the water, I could see something trailing behind that would obviously go back on to the blade if sterngear was engaged.

We tied up "Forget me Not" and "Lilith" breasted at Fairfield Junction quite neatly and winded "Southam", a manoeuvre slightly impeded by the crap on the blade, then everyone unloaded themselves and started digging out barrows from "Forget me Not"s hold. There were lots of new people and setting off on the collection round was a little chaotic. Most people got the hang of it quite quickly though and soon the two teams were busying themselves collecting from the Moravian Fields estate.

With so many people the speed of collection made up for time lost at the beginning of the trip. I became a little disappointed by the quantities and began to wonder where half the volunteers were, beginning to grumble that they were probably back at the boats having a brew, only to find that they were actually all busy emptying a garage full of stuff that had been donated.

When we had knocked on the last front door and barrowed the last load back to the boats, Fiona started handing out dishes of the excellent food that she had brought, with alternative options for carnivores and herbivores. Time to relax and eat and chat.

After two plates of excellent grub, I picked up the cabin shaft and started poking at the tangle of garbage on the propeller. This turned out to be mainly carpet, which was wound tightly on and bound with all manner of fibrous plasticky stuff. After much prodding and pulling I managed to get it all off, building a great mound on the sterndeck.

The next task was to wind "Forget me Not" and "Lilith". This is carried out by pulling them forward alongside "Southam" then, as their bows approach the tug's stern, pulling back on their front lines whilst shafting the stern ends sideways. This usually swings them round quite neatly and puts them in a good position for setting off, which was achieved quite neatly this time.

With the train travelling quite nicely along the canal and Kevin enjoying having a go at tug steering, I decided to walk alongside, stopping at Lumb Lane bridge (one of the lowest on the canal system) to try out the video function on my new camera The early morning frost had given way to a really nice sunny day, with refreshingly cold air. I enjoyed my walk, but kept my eye on the boats to make sure that everything was OK. I jumped back on board before the tricky turns through Guide Bridge, which were negotiated neatly by the steerers. I took over at Margaret St bridge to deal with the tricky arrival at Portland Basin. The procedure here is for "Southam" to head straight for the wharf then swing round to run parallel to it. "Forget me Not" follows and, if you judge it right, she will run neatly alongside the wharf to be stopped with her back end line (which is on the front of the engine room) while "Lilith" neatly slides alongside her. "Southam", once the towline is thrown off, then goes over to the towpath side of the canal to make it easy for volunteers to get off. She is then shafted back across to tie alongside "Lilith" (trying to do this by engine power is a nightmare because of the impossiblity of manouvering this boat in reverse gear).

Very quickly all the volunteers melted away in the afternoon sun and I made my way home.