The thoughts, fantasies and random ramblings of Ashton Boatman Chris Leah, largely, but not exclusively, connected with his work for the Wooden Canal Boat Society, restoring historic wooden canal boats and putting them to work doing good deeds for the community and the planet.
We now begin the long slow task of spiking up the bottoms to the
garboard strakes. About 400 holes to be drilled from the top of the
garboard through the 9" width of that plank and through the 3"
thickness of the bottom boards. A big 10mm square spike then has to
be driven up from underneath (an excellent job for anyone wanting to
increase their arm muscles) to pop out at the top edge of the plank
where it will be bent over. That bottom is not going to fall off!
Just a note on boat jargon. Sorry, I forget that not all readers
speak boat. The garboard strake is the first plank of the sides of
the boat. This is attached to the flat bottom of a narrow boat by big
iron nails or spikes driven up through pre-drilled holes through the
bottom boards and through the width of the plank. It's hard work.
Though we have already got two oak logs and two greenheart beams,
we realised a while ago that we would still be a few planks short for
replanking "Hazel". I was just starting to look around for
more sources of timber when a friend of a friend posted on Facebook a
message that he was felling some oak trees and thought they might be
of use to someone. I got in touch and soon I was heading for Cumbria
to have a look.
Joe reckons he's the most eco friendly tree surgeon in Cumbria,
which means he often does himself out of work by persuading land
owners that they actually don't need to fell any trees. In this case
however, an expert from the Woodland Trust
http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/en/Pages/default.aspx#.TvTBeXreLv0
had been along to advise on the management of the woodland and had
advised on its thinning out. Joe does forestry work for the woodland
owner from time to time and had been asked to find a buyer for the
timber.
My first trip was to have a look at the wood. I took the WCBS van
for the day, drove up the M6 and found Joe at his yard beside a
gurgling stream near Tebay. We climbed aboard his elderly Range Rover
and he drove me over the hills and down into the Eden Valley where we
eventually turned through wrought iron gates and hooted as we passed
the facade of a minor stately home known as Crossrigg Hall
http://www.britishlistedbuildings.co.uk/en-422659-crossrigg-hall-bolton,
then up a track through an avenue of Welingtonias
Sequoiadendron is a genus of evergreen trees, with two species, only one of which survives to the present:[1]
into the woodland.
Someone was cutting up a felled oak with a chain saw so we walked
over to where he was working and had a chat, then Joe showed me round
the woodland and pointed out the trees marked with the yellow spot of
doom.
The expert had consistently marked the younger trees for felling.
The strategy would be to take out the smaller trees to open up the
woodland and allow the more mature tees to spread out. While this
makes sense aesthetically, it means that the timber will not be very
useful, at least, not for boatbuilding.
I was disappointed, but then Joe showed me a more mature oak that
they had decided to fell because it had die back in its upper
branches. This was of a useful size and had just the right curve in
it. Another tree had caught my eye as, though of a disappointingly
small girth it had some useful looking curves in it.
David, the owner of the estate came out to join us and we went to
look at the relevant trees again. We agreed a price and got back in
the Range Rover to return to Joe's yard. Inside the old caravan,
nicely camouflaged with green painted wood, that he uses as an
office, there was a nice warm atmosphere created by the woodstove.
Millie, Joe's obsessively affectionate spaniel played catch the ball
unceasingly as we drank tea, then I headed back home again.
A few weeks passed as I tried to find a reasonably priced lorry to
move the wood. What a shame there's no canal to Appleby. With this
problem settled I tried to get back in touch, with no immediate
success. It turned out that David had gone on holiday. Ultimately,
with Christmas fast approaching, the connections were made. Joe
offered somewhere to stay.
Tom Kitching is an excellent fiddler https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Iq4GZBUAvc and he's also part owner of the wooden tank narrow boat "Spey"
Unusually he found himself with no fiddling or boating to do for the
week before Christmas, so he offered to come and help with "Hazel".
I suggested a couple of days in Cumbria planking logs.
The plan was to pick Tom up from his home in Chorlton at about
7AM, but with having to prepare the boats at Portland Basin for my
absence and road chaos it was about 20 to eight when we finally got
moving through the darkness towards the motorway. I had filled the
back of the van with all kinds of things that I thought might come in
useful. Somewhere around Lancaster I suddenly realised that I'd
forgotten the chain block. This could be a problem if we needed to
move the logs at all for cutting.
The long motorway drag ended at Tebay, where we took a B road
through Old Tebay village in a roughly North Easterly direction. We
passed the end of the track that leads to Joe's yard as I'd arranged
to meet him in the woods. Tom had asked to stop at a shop and,
spotting a sign advertising the village shop, we turned off into
Orton Village. As I waited in the van and studied the map I'd printed
out, a small woman approached and introduced herself as Joe's mother.
I had briefly met her on my previous visit. She explained that she
was going to see her grandchildren singing at a Christmas event at
the church that evening but she would make us a hotpot and we could
stay either in her house or Joe's office. I thanked her and
introduced her to Tom, then we set off again.
Leaving the main road on high moorland we bounced and swerved
along tiny stone walled lanes, over rustic hump backed bridges and
through villages built along rushing streams. This part of Cumbria
seems pretty much untouched by tourism, and perhaps I should shut up
before I encourage more visitors to spoil it!
Eventually we turned in through wrought iron gates between stone
pillars and down the gravelled drive to draw up in front of the grand
porch of Crossrigg Hall. I got out and rang the bell, half expecting
Jeeves to open the huge front door. I waited a long time, listening
to Joe chainsawing away in the woods. I was beginning to wonder if
the bell was working, perhaps I should use my mobile 'phone, when the
door slowly opened and David, the owner, peeked out. A jovial man in
his sixties, he greeted me jovially, and jovially handed me an
invoice for the timber.
We drove on through an avenue of huge Wellingtonias
http://www.kew.org/plants-fungi/Sequoiadendron-giganteum.htm
to park the van behind Joe's Range Rover and Trailer. Joe had
arranged to be there to cut up firewood from the various branches of
the trees that were being felled. Walking over to the larger of the
two trees my heart sank as I saw that it would need rolling before we
could plank it as it was lying with its curve upwards rather than to
the side.
There was a track leading to the log so I decided to try backing
the van towards it. After about 15 yards the wheels sank into the mud
and the van became immovable.
David came out with paperwork to settle up. He would have liked to
have stayed to watch the fun, but a seasonal flight to the
Mediterranean was calling, so, cheque in hand, he had to rush away
again.
We carried our equipment the rest of the way. If I had remembered
the chain block, rolling the log would be easy, instead, after Joe
had lopped off the branches and cross cut the log at the place that I
indicated,
we had several hours work with jacks, levers and a rather
inadequate winch of Joe's before we got the log on its side.
The wooden guide rails that Bernard had made for this job were
assembled and laid on top of the log, supported in places by lengths
of 3"X3" to allow for the knobbliness of the log. I started
the chainmill and made the first cut, mainly removing bark and high
spots on the log. I re-set the guide rails and made another cut, this
time getting into the meat of the log. We lifted off the guide and
the first slice to reveal the beautiful grain of the oak. It seems a
shame to cut planks from this then cover them with tar.
With the bark completely gone we were left with a flat surface for
the chainmill to run on for the next cut, so the guide rails were put
to one side. It was hard going though, harder than when I'd been
cutting greenheart. This was probably because I hadn't got the chain
quite as sharp as it might be. By the time darkness fell my arms were
aching from pushing the chainmill through the wood and, worryingly, a
couple of my fingers had developed a pins and needles sensation.
In the gathering gloom we carried the nickable items of tackle
back to the bogged down van. With it loaded, and as much weight as
possible on the back wheels, we tried to move it. Despite Joe and Tom
pushing we could move no more than a few feet, the wheels making
steadily deeper furrows. Joe uncoupled his trailer, now laden with
firewood logs, and backed his Range Rover towards the van. A tow rope
was soon set up and the vehicle persuaded on to firmer ground. Tom
and I set off in the van, closely followed by Range Rover and
trailer.
At the first road junction our routes diverged as Joe had clearly
decided on the main road route. For my part, I love driving along
tiny bendy roads. At one point on our route we passed a construction
site where a considerable amount of floodlit plant was engaged on
digging a large, square, steel piled hole in the ground. A strange
industrial insertion into the rural scene. We wondered about the
purpose of this.
The bendy roads nearly caught me out in the dark. A long straight
avenue of trees, the best part of a mile long, suddenly ends where
the road tumbles over an escarpment and turns sharp left round a
tightening bend with an adverse camber. I wonder how many would be
rally drivers have landed in the hedge here.
Catastrophe avoided by sharp braking, we arrived at Joe's yard and
parked up, then, lit by head torches walked down the track to the
main farm 3 abreast. Leaving our coats, bags and boots, we entered a
proper farmhouse kitchen, heated by a woodstove. Joe's mum (JM)
appeared, clad in a dressing gown, and got busy preparing the hotpot
that she had promised us, accessing high cupboards by standing on a
stool that she moved around the kitchen. I realised how covered in
sawdust my clothes were and went to dig out some clean clothes from
my rucksack.
With the hotpot declared ready, JM prepared to leave. I asked her
where she was going. "To church" she replied "I'm very
religious, you ask Joe about my religion". I imagined that
religious faith must be a bone of contention between them.
The hotpot was excellent, and very generous. Tom suggested a visit
to a pub. Joe was supportive of the idea so, with the hotpot polished
off, we boarded Joe's Range Rover and headed for the Cross Keys in
Tebay http://www.crosskeystebay.co.uk/
The pub is a pleasantly old fashioned country pub with a selection
of real ales. We sat in an alcove and discussed wood, boats, trees,
the music business and various bits of putting the world to rights.
Tom received a message telling him that he had been played on Radio
2. "I'll get £12 for that in about a year" he said.
Another message told him that his band was among the top 10 most
prolific bands of 2011. He explained that this was through doing
absolutely loads of gigs very cheap and it nearly killed him.
I raised the subject of religion, thinking that this would be a
lively subject for debate, bearing in mind JM's remarks. It turned
out that Joe and his mother were not at all at odds over religion, it
had just been her bit of fun. It seemed that we all shared the view
that organised religion was more trouble than it was worth (though
personally I have a lot of time for disorganised religion).
When Tom and I were happily loaded with beer, Joe having
restrained himself as he had to drive back (I did offer), we climbed
aboard the Range Rover and travelled by dark bendy roads back to the
farmhouse. JM was already back and we sat in the farmhouse kitchen
discussing religion, again, the work we were doing, the wonderful
countryside around us and the extensive renovations that JM had
carried out on the ancient farmhouse. JM showed Tom and I to our
quarters. I got the nursery bedroom where her grandchildren stay,
full of toys and childrens books.
The next day began early, well before dark, as we planned to be in
the woods at first light. Tom and I breakfasted then said goodbye to
the wonderful JM before walking up to Joe's yard and setting out in
the van, Joe following with the Range Rover. We timed it quite well
as it was just after daybreak when we arrived at the woods. Joe lent
me an electric chainsaw sharpener and this, combined with regular
hand sharpening, made the day's work a bit easier.
The routine was for me to start the chainmill and offer it up to
the end of the log. With the guide running on the flat surface
already cut I would push the saw, set at 2" depth, through the
log. Tom would follow up tapping wedges into the sawcut to prevent it
closing up and trapping the bar. After about 10 feet I would stop the
saw and slide to back down the sawcut, with Tom levering the gap open
and moving wedges to allow the machine through. I would then refuel
and resharpen the saw, slide it back into the groove, start it and
carry on. This procedure was repeated until the chainmill emerged out
of the other end of the log. The resulting 2" thick oak board
would then be lifted to one side and the whole procedure started
again. By this means we cut a number of very useful looking oak
boards.
Whilst Tom and I were planking the log, Joe was scaling various
condemned trees and cutting the top branches out. They would fall
intermittently with a great crash, before being cut up into firewood
logs and loaded into the trailer.
It was still light when we finished planking the first log, but
there was not enough day left to make it worthwhile starting on the
other one. Joe's trailer was fully loaded too, so we decided to call
it a day. Tom was interested in seeing Joe's yard, which is
completely off grid and powered by wind, sun and wood, in daylight,
so we decided to meet up there for a brew before heading for home.
On the way I stopped the van at the intriguing hole in the
ground,hoping to find out what it was for. The hardhatted workers had
already gone home, so it will be forever a mystery. The idea of
seeing Joe's yard in the daylight didn't quite work out as it was
pretty much dark when we got there. Nevertheless we enjoyed drinking
tea and chatting about the joys and perils of tree surgery before
once more setting out down the M6 towards Mancunium.
Martin Cox was an excellent boatbuilder and excellent person. It
must have been about 1978 that I first met him. He was working as an
HGV driver and about once a month drove a tankerload of wine to
somewhere near Ellesmere Port where Gill Wright and I were living
aboard Lilith. Martin would park up for the night near the museum and
come to talk about boats and all things boat related. I don’t
recall if Martin actually had a boat at that time, but he had already
done some boatbuilding. For many years he owned the small Ricky motor
Grus, which was also known as Almighty, a name given to it when owned
by the Salvation Army. The number one motor Benevolence was largely
rebuilt by Martin, as was the BCN tug Christopher James. For about
the last 15 years he followed an alternative career as an Alexander
Technique teacher. When the funding for Hazel looked like it might be
on the cards I tracked down Martin via the internet to see if he
might be interested in working on her rebuild. He was very interested
in the whole project, but with a partner and child living in Bristol
wasn’t able to move away to work on it. He asked me to keep him
informed and he might come and give us a hand some time. I put
Martin on the newsletter list to keep him up to date but heard
nothing until this August when I got a ‘phone call from Colin
Bowles who has owned Sweden for many years. He told me that Martin
was in hospital with a terminal illness and had some big boatyard
clamps rusting away in his back garden that he would like to give to
the WCBS. Martin actually passed away just a few weeks later. It
was in November that I got a call from Hattie, his partner, to say
that I could collect the clamps and possibly some other tools. We
eventually arranged this for November 18th. In the same part of
the world I had arranged to collect some crooks. You may imagine that
I would have no problem finding crooks in Greater Manchester, but
these are special ones. They are slabs of oak that has grown to just
the right curve to make knees for Hazel. I was buying them from a
little sawmill called Boatbuilding Timber Supplies near Usk in South
Wales.
Having arranged to have the van for a couple of days, I hired a
car transporter trailer from Fletchers Trailers in Ashton and headed
South on a Thursday afternoon. My first port of call was Ed
Sveikutis’ old farmhouse at Knypersley, Staffordshire. Ed is a
first class blacksmith. When I first met him he had a forge in the
Etruria Industrial Museum beside the Trent & Mersey Canal. Over
the years he’s made a few bits and pieces for our boats. He later
moved to little industrial unit in Biddulph. When I tried to contact
him about making spikes for Hazel I found his ‘phone number dead. A
search on tinternet brought up only reports about him losing his
little forge to a huge new Sainsburys store. Nevertheless, I managed
to find him, retreated to a shed at the back of his hobbitland house,
and he made the spikes for Hazel. Most of these were delivered in
August, but he had a few more for me to collect. Along with the
spikes, Ed gave me a copy of Inland Waterways of Britain by L. A.
Edwards. We discussed the sad decline of craftsmanship, always a
pre-occupation of Eds, and I climbed into the van, carefully
manoeuvred the wide trailer through narrow gateways, then made for
the M6. By the time I reached Bristol it was dark and it was rush
hour. I needed to find somewhere nice to park up for the night, but
had no idea where. It was not really possible to stop and consult a
map without causing traffic mayhem. Seeing a sign pointing to Clifton
I decided to follow it. I surmised that there could be a car park for
visitors wishing to view Brunel’s famous suspension bridge. There
was not, and I soon found myself driving up to the toll booth to
cross that fine structure. With 50p in the slot, the barrier lifted
and I carefully drew the trailer along the narrow wooden road across
the Avon Gorge. On the far side I found a quiet little road heading
downhill towards the river through broadleaved woodland. I parked the
van here and, making sure everything was locked, set off on foot to
look for food. My route took me back over the suspension bridge.
On foot I could appreciate its slender grandeur, soaring high above
the deep gorge, its high towers like something that the Romans might
have been proud of, but its wrought iron chains speaking of the fiery
industry of Victorian times. On the approaches are notices about the
Samaritans, for sadly it’s a favourite spot for suicides. There is
a tale that, when it was first built, ladies in crinolines would
sometimes survive a leap from the bridge as their skirts acted as
parachutes.
I was looking for a
chip shop, but Clifton turned out to be far too upmarket for such an
establishment. There were bistros galore, but my funds would not run
to that. I bought a couple of pork pies from a posh co-op foodstore
and picked my way downhill between grand old terraces, munching my
pies as I went. From the bridge I had seen that it was low tide.
The river was virtually dry, with expanses of mud glinting in the
streetlights. A little way upstream I had seen a lock, entrance to
the floating harbour ( so named not because it floats but because
ships can float in it at any state of the tide) and I thought I would
go and have a look. My meandering route through alleyways and down
steeply sloping back roads brought me to a busy traffic island at
Hotwells. Once upon a time this was the terminus of a railway that
ran through the Gorge alongside the river from the Avonmouth
direction. Long ago its route was converted into the A4 road, but
still some blocked up single track tunnels through rocky outcrops can
be seen. I crossed the bridge over the harbour entrance. I was
looking for a place where I could park for the night as I liked the
idea of being near water. I crossed another small bridge to get to
the lock, and even thought about parking on the lockside. I then
thought about what a nuisance it would be to be woken by a bored
policeman in the early hours and discounted the idea. I wondered if
it might be possible to park facing the sea in nearby Portishead, and
decided to return to the van to drive over there and have a
look. Portishead was a disappointment. As I entered the town I
came to a roundabout. To the left was the town centre, to the right
the industrial park, and straight ahead “The Haven”. Straight
ahead seemed most promising, so I headed for “The Haven”, only to
discover that it was the name for a posh housing estate with red
brick roads. With some difficulty, and to the consternation of other
road users, I turned round my little rig in one of the side turnings
and headed back towards Bristol, parking up a little further down the
little road next to a viewing point and interpretation board. I spent
an hour or two enjoying planning an itinerary for Hazel, using the
book that Ed had given me as a guide. The front seat of the van is
remarkably comfortable, so I slept well and awoke to a bright morning
in a jumble of coats and sleeping bags. The flask that I had made
before leaving home was still hot enough to drink, then I got up and
enjoyed my breakfast standing by the interpretation board looking
across the gorge. I had told Hattie that I would arrive between 9
and 10 AM, so I set out about 8.30 with only a vague idea of the
location of her house. My route took me alongside the Floating
Harbour, with a fine view of the Great Britain across the water. This
time I found myself in the milling traffic of the morning peak and
had to keep my wits about me to haul the wide trailer along the
maddeningly crowded urban tarmac without incident. I found myself in
St Pauls, of which I knew only its reputation for riots connected
with local dissent over the siting of a new supermarket. There were
indeed very prominent No Tesco Here signs plastered on buildings, but
rather than a dangerous concrete jungle, it appeared to be a very
friendly place. Much more welcoming than the conspicuous affluence of
Clifton, it had a post revolutionary utopian air, rather like
Clifford Harper’s early drawings. Navigating with the aid of
friendly pedestrians I entered an area of tall terraced houses
separated by narrow streets of parked cars. I became very aware of
the fact that the trailer was somewhat wider than the van. In places
The gaps were so narrow that I had to inch through with an anxious
eye on each mirror. I began to wonder if I would find myself stuck at
an impossible gap at the end of a long road with nowhere to turn.
I found myself on
Hattie’s street almost by chance, then accidentally turned off it,
only to realise that I was actually passing her back garden. A car
was coming the other way and there was absolutely nowhere to pass. A
rare parking space became apparent and I drove the van into it,
stopping centimetres from the bumper of the next car with the trailer
still blocking the road. As I started to fumble with the trailer lock
the car began to hoot. Before I had fully released the trailer from
the van, its smartly dressed lady driver came over to politely inform
me that I was blocking the road. It did occur to me that she was also
blocking the road (and could have pulled over with far less
difficulty), but instead I explained the manoevre that I was
attempting to clear her way. I released the trailer, swung it round
and backed it in by hand to sit behind the van and clear the way for
the polite lady. There was just enough room for the trailer, but it
was blocking some lines painted on the road with a notice saying
“Keep Clear”. It was bang on 9 AM, so I rang Hattie to explain
where I was. I was a little apprehensive about meeting Hattie. I had
known Martin for over 30 years and had a high regard for him, both as
a boatbuilder and as a person, but we had only met a handful of
times. This often happens with friendships on the cut. I had totally
lost touch for a long time and knew nothing of Hattie, or Rueben,
their son. I am very aware of the phenomenon of circling vultures
after the death of someone with items of value, and had no wish to be
seen in this light. Hattie emerged from the rickety back garden
gate and greeted me with a smile, which put me at ease. She knew the
man who had painted “Keep Clear” on the road to make space for
his electric wheelchair and knocked on his door. There was no reply
so, with no alternative parking places, we decided to simply keep an
eye on the situation. She led me up some steps into the little back
garden. A huge beech tree had recently been felled, letting light
into what must previously have been a rather shady patch. She showed
me the huge old clamps, seized with rust, lying in a corner of the
lawn, and asked if I would also be interested in the various bags of
nails and spikes that were with them. Having just spent thousands on
spikes for Hazel and still not sure if we had enough of some
categories, I answered in the affirmative. She went to make coffee as
I started to carry the clamps and bags of spikes out to the van. Over
coffee we talked boats. Hattie asked if I knew anything of the wooden
boats that she used to live aboard. Irritatingly, as I recount this,
I can’t remember the name of one of them. It was a wooden butty
which, unusually, had been shortened by taking a section out of the
middle and fitting the two ends back together. No mean feat! The
other was the small ricky motor Isis, also known as Jimmy. I remember
this boat being on the Bridgewater briefly in the 1990s but have
heard nothing since. Another past owner contacted us about it a few
years ago but we could find no trace, so the chances are that she has
become firewood. Hattie led me up two stories to a spare bedroom
that was piled high with old fashioned toolboxes. She started opening
them one by one and asking about which tools would be most useful. We
selected a range of useful items, but it was obviously a little
difficult for Hattie as she juggled between wanting to send the tools
to a place where they would be useful and wanting to keep things that
connected her to Martin. After a while she went downstairs to make
more coffee and left me sorting through a box of augers. It felt very
odd to be rooting through Martins tools. I remembered that I
hadn't checked the van for a while. I went down to have a look and
found the old man who had marked the road standing in his doorway
looking confused. “I can't get out” he kept repeating in a high
hoarse whisper that was barely audible. Luckily another parking space
was now available and I manhandled the trailer out into the road and
back a carslength to slot it into this new vacancy before another
vehicle filled it. After another cup of coffee, Hattie and I
carried the boxes of tools that we had selected down to the van. I
hooked up the trailer again and carefully negotiated the narrow
streets of Montpelier. I decided to head out of Bristol down he
old A4 through the Avon gorge rather than by the motorway. As I drove
along I noted the remains of the old Hotwells branch, then followed
the still active commuter line out to Avonmouth and Severn Beach.
Feeling hungry, I turned off the main road at the beckoning of a sign
that said “Fish & Chips 80 yards”. The distance quoted was
inaccurate, and, after at least 200 yards I parked up and paid £1.50
for the worst bag of chips I have ever tasted. Vowing never to go
there again ( I probably wouldn't anyway) I returned to the main
road. Passing Avonmouth Docks I remembered a conversation with John
Gould. He told me that, as part of his campaign to keep the Kennet
and Avon open he once loaded a pair of boats (presumably Colin &
Iris) with grain at Avonmouth and had the unnerving experience of
waves coming over the butty's stern and flooding the cabin as he
headed upriver towards Bristol. Following the meandering road
across low lying ground, part agricultural, part industrial, I
eventually came to Severn Beach, then reached the roundabout that
marked the way on to the Severn Bridge. After driving across a vast
expanse of tarmac I reached the toll booth, paid my dues, and set off
across the great bridge. Big sister of Brunels pioneering structure
that I had crossed the previous day, it spans not only the Severn
Estuary but also the mouth of the Wye. On the Welsh side of the river
I left the motorway and, after skirting Chepstow, set off along a B
road through arcadian countryside. This brought me to the town of
Usk, but I had a problem. I remembered that Boatbuilding Timber
Supplies was on a road out of the other side of Usk, but I wasn’t
sure which road. I plumped for another B road which meanders towards
Abergavenny. I was pretty sure to begin with that I was on the
right road, but after a couple of miles my confidence dwindled. I
decided to turn round, but had to find a suitable place. Eventually I
diverged up a tiny lane, then turned round by backing into a
farmyard. When I had nearly got back to Usk I pulled into a gateway
and rang Gavin who runs the sawmill. He said he had seen me drive
past, just before I went up the side road. I had been so busy looking
for somewhere to turn round that I missed the sawmill. I turned again
and soon I was carefully backing the trailer between stacks of timber
towards Gavin’s crane. The log that I was interested in was sawn
into 4” thick slabs. One by one Gavin lifted them with his crane, a
hiab mounted on a bare lorry chassis, so that I could examine them
and select the ones that I wanted. The three that I wanted were then
swung forward, with the crane at its full reach, and placed carefully
on the trailer. With the load tightened down with ratchet straps and
a wad of cash handed over, I carefully drew the heavy trailer out of
the yard. Gavin took photos for his website as I left
http://www.btswales.co.uk/
but they don't seem to have appeared yet. I thought I would head
home the pretty way, and check out another sawmill on the way. I had
been told of a sawmill at Whitney on Wye, so I turned left on to the
road towards Abergavenny, then carried on into Brecknock, driving
between high dark mountains, then into the gentle Wye Valley which
goes in a great loop via Hereford before it reaches Chepstow. Going
via the book town of Hay on Wye I carried on along a winding road,
then crossed the river on a timber decked toll bridge, the piers of
the old railway bridge standing parallel to my left. I had been
racing the lowering sun as it was now past 4 PM, and soon it would be
finishing time at the sawmill. Whitney on Wye seemed to be off to the
left somewhere according to the map, so I looked for left turns. I
didn’t have to look far, as a tarmacced lane running uphill
announced itself as the entrance to Whitney sawmills. I parked up
and walked towards a forklift truck that was loading some sticked
timber into a drying shed. The driver got out and greeted me. We
discussed different kinds of timber, prices, availability etc and
gave me permission to go and look at the logs that they had in stock.
It was certainly an impressive place, though the prices are slightly
higher than sawmills that I’ve dealt with before. Curiosity
satisfied, I set out again into the fading light, driving North
across country. Leominster, Ludlow, Craven Arms and Church Stretton,
then on to the Shrewsbury ring road and sheared off to cross the
Shroppie at Market Drayton. Via Newcastle under Lyne and Congleton
then a little bit of the M60 I got back to Ashton and, after checking
the boats at Portland Basin, arrived home, where Emuna had a meal
ready for me. Next day I took the trailerload of wood to Knowl St
where Ryan , Stuart and I unloaded and stacked it before I returned
the trailer to its owners.
Over the last couple of weeks Stuart has been busy cutting and
planing planks whilst I've been working on the sternpost. The
stempost is now up and I could get the sternpost fitted today, but
I've noticed that Janet, our neighbour, has just hung a line full of
washing out in the sun. As I will have to heat some chalico on the
stove to fit the post and the wind is blowing in her direction I
think I'll put it off until tomorrow.
We've a new volunteer, a retired sheet metal worker called John.
He's been grinding the knobbles off the knees, which are now back
from being shotblasted.
For several weeks "Hazel" has been looking very bare.
Her new bottom is in place and the moulds are up to give a skeletal
trace of her shape, but she has no sides and only the apparition of a
cabin propped up on sticks to remind us of the boat that she was, and
shall be again.
Soon we'll be putting the knees back in place, then steaming the
bottom strakes or garboards to shape, and so a new boat will rise
from the crumbly rottenness of the old, new wood, but the same shape
and the same spirit.
Talking of wood, we don't have quite enough of it. To make up for
the shortfall I've found some oak trees that are to be felled in
Cumbria. I will be able to plank them with the chainmill, but
transporting them is proving to be a problem. They never completed
the famous Taunton & Carlisle Canal. In fact, the nearest the
canal system ever got to Appleby where the trees are was Kendal. Now
that waterway is truncated by the M6 at Tewitfield, and anyway, our
boats are all 10' too long to access it. There'es really no choice
but to use lorries, and they're expensive. So, if you happen to have
a lorry long enough to carry 30' lengths of timber, give me a ring on
07931 952 037.
It was still dark when I arrived at Knowl St at 5 past 7. I opened
up the container, switched on the lights and started to gather fire
lighting materials and get them arranged in a crude fireplace. At
7.30 I put a match to the pile of paper, cardboard, shavings and
sticks. When I could hear crackling noises, indicating that the wood
was starting to catch, I started piling on bigger pieces of
wood. When Stuart arrived at about 8 AM the flames were climbing
up and licking around the old oil drum that serves as a crude boiler.
I climbed on top of the pile of scrap wood and started throwing
pieces down to Stuart who piled them on to barrows for transporting
to the fire. I learned my lesson about not keeping the firewood near
the fire many years ago at Ellesmere Port where the fuel pile once
caught fire when I was steaming a plank for Lilith. I had asked
volunteers to try to get there for 9, and people started to show up
from 8.30 onwards. Wisps of steam began to rise from the steambox at
5 minutes to 9, so the time for bending the first plank was set at 5
to 11. A plank has to spend an hour in the steambox for every inch
thickness. Soon a goodly crowd was assembled, though with little
to do except stoke the fire, fetch more wood and drink tea. Steaming
planks requires a good crowd for just 10 minutes per plank, when it’s
actually being fitted. The rest of the time there’s not much to do
except be sociable. Stuart had the excellent idea of doing a dummy
run, using one of the planks for the fore end. We manhandled the
plank through the boat and then carried it back from the steambox
then forward into the hoodings, the people at the other end of the
plank having to walk on a temporary platform sticking out over the
water. Stuart clamped the plank into the hoodings and everyone pushed
the other end towards the boat to bend it. I was just expressing
concern about the amount of pressure being put on an unsteamed plank,
when a bang from the sternpost end confirmed my worst fears. A bit of
short grain near the end had failed and about a foot had broken away.
I looked at the broken plank in horror, but Stuart was smiling. “It’s
OK” he said “The plank starts behind the broken bit, I haven’t
cut the end yet”. We put the plank away near the bow where it
belongs and got on with getting clamps etc ready. As the water boiled
away in the oil drum boiler and the fire grew steadily more intense
so the steam rising from the steambox grew thicker and hotter. Rather
than using the electric kettle we brewed up by placing an old kettle
on top of the brick furnace next to the boiler where tongues of flame
were constantly playing. Time ticked by, and at 10.50 everyone
assembled around the plank. When time was called,Stuart undid the
tarpaulin shroud that was stopping too much steam from escaping at
the steambox entrance. We pulled the plank out and dropped it on to a
row of trestles while Stuart screwed a block near the end to hold the
clamp. We then picked up the plank, pushed it into the hoodings and,
once Stuart had it clamped up, bent the plank so that it touched the
knees. Getting the bend is not as tricky as getting the twist. Ryan
manoeuvred the heavy planktwister into place and screwed it against
the lower part of the plank to bend it into the V shape between the
moulds and the bottom. The plank then had to be forced downwards by
bonking it with a big rubber mallet. This didn’t quite do the
trick, so we tried forcing the plank down with a hydraulic jack
pushing on a piece of wood screwed to the knees for this purpose. It
was to no avail, the plank stayed with a stubborn gap under it, which
will have to be removed by planing away some of the lower edge of the
plank where it does touch the bottoms. Other than this, the plank
fitted really well. With the first plank in place we began to
prepare for the second one. Ryan unscrewed the small bung from the
oil drum, producing a jet of steam. This soon settled down and, once
some priming problems with the pump were resolved, it was refilled
with cut water, the bung screwed back in and more wood put on the
fire. We then had to carefully move the steambox to the other side of
the boat, insert , the plank and steampipe, then close up the
steambox entrance and wait for the water to come to the boil. With
a good fire already in the hearth and everything hot we had steam up
in half an hour, and the time for bending the second plank was fixed
at 5 past two. Time for everyone to have lunch and enjoy more
beverages. As Steve the Viking had arrived there was proper coffee
for those who wanted it.
The second plank was
more straightforward than the first and, with the day’s tasks
accomplished by 2,30, people started to drift away. A few of us
stayed and enjoyed potatoes and sausages cooked in the embers, before
packing away the tools and dousing the fire.
After the hectic activity yesterday it was quite a quiet day on
"Hazel", just me Reg and Ryan. Reg left at dinner time to
go and visit his daughter in Leeds. To be honest, there's not much of
"Hazel" left now. The new bottom forms a base to build the
boat up on, but we've now removed most of the sideplanking after
carefully spiling it and recording the plank edge bevels. Highlights
of the day have been offering up the new stempost, it looks like it
will fit, and removing the old sternpost to make a copy. As usual
there was a bit of forensic archaeology involved, working out which
bits of the boat have ben replaced in her 97 year history, and which
bits (not many) are original. As I removed the bottom strake at the
stern end I was surprised to find that it was made of oak and about
60mm thick.I was expecting 2" pitch pine. I decided that it had
been replaced at the same time as the bottoms as there was only one
set of ironwork in the wood, indicating that it had never had
replacement bottoms fitted to it. The question is, when was this
done? It looks likely that the sternpost was renewed at the same
time. Was it 1951 at Rathbones dry dock in Stretfored or 1970s at Ken
Keays in Walsall.
I was surprised to see, when I logged in, that it has been 25 days
since I last wrote anything. How remiss of me! The fact is that I
don't seem to have had the time to sit down and write. I did have a
bit of time off. Emuna and I went to Llandudno for a couple of days
for her birthday. Stuart has been away too. He had a weeks work in
Belgium.
When I returned from Llandudno on 13th October I found that Stuart
and Ryan had spread the oak boards out on the ground as a sort of
flat pack boat. Stuart started laying out the spiling boards and
selecting the timber for the new planks. It turned out that the logs
that I had bought were rather too straight and this restricted the
amount of planks that we could get out of them. "Hazel"s
planks are curvier than I thought.
Meanwhile, the sides of the boat were steadily being removed until
there was virtually nothing left of them. Just the new bottom with
the 1951 conversion propped up on sticks. We decided to get the knees
shotblasted, so they went off to a shotblasters, then to another as
the first one nearly tripled the quoted price after they had done one
knee. The idiots also removed the identifying marker that Stuart had
put on the knee, despite being firmly told not to. It's a good job
they only did the one, or we would have been totally unable to work
out which knee went where.
Stuart thinks we need timber for 5 more planks. I heard of some
trees being felled in Cumbria and so had a day out looking at them.
They're mostly too thin, but there are a couple of useful ones. I
just have to arrange transport now.
With the stempost in place I started work on the sternpost. Now
that is nearly ready.
We have a few new volunteers. Jake is travelling regularly from
Lincoln to help. Bernard has started taking care of the tools. Nick
is coming for a day each week and Rita joins us when she has a day
off from social working. At the moment Reg is up from Rugby,
carefully planing bevels on the edges of the bottom strakes. What we
need now are some fundraising volunteers to magic up the rest of the
money that we need. Any offers?
I had a few jobs to do in Ashton before starting work on "Hazel"
today, and had a pumping crisis to deal with at Portland Basin as
"Elton" was trying to play submarines as a result of a
faulty pump. When I eventually arrived Stuart was already busy
strengthening up the moulds for shaping the fore end planks. I had a
look at the job of fitting the stempost, which I had removed a few
days earlier to do a bit more work on the hoodings where the top
strake fits in.
I trimmed a bit of old planking away to make it possible to slide
it right up to the end of the new keelson, then thought about
bringing it over and offering it up. I wouldn't be able to carry it
on my own and Stuart was still busy with the moulds, so I decided to
go and work on the sternpost.
After a little while alternately cutting with the power saw and
hacking bits out with the adze to rough out the hoodings on this
post.
Ryan arrived, apologising for his lateness. He and Stuart had been
to a charity pie tasting at the buffet bar the previous night. http://www.beerhouses.co.uk/pub/stalybridge-buffet-bar/ He
got stuck in to sorting out the electrics on the 3 phase table saw
that we recently collected from Ashton Canal Carriers.
http://www.brocross.com/canal/joel.htm
It is run from a 3 phase converter, enabling it to run from a
single phase supply, but had been running backwards. Ryan tried
swapping wires around until eventually it ran smoothly in the right
direction, then blew a trip to cut power from the whole boatyard.
Giving up on this, there was some discussion about other jobs that
Ryan could do, but none of them were quite ready to be started. I had
reached the stage of preparing to cut another slice off the sternpost
with the chainmill, but decided to leave this and get Ryan to help
offer up the stempost. In fact all three of us worked on this and
soon had the stempost in place and fitting quite nicely. When Stuart
checked it though it was way off centre at the top. This seemed to be
because the right hand (starboard ) side of the bow had moved and was
pushing the stempost out of line. Ryan and I started cutting away the
other side so that we could get a prop in place to adjust the side of
the boat. Part way through this job Ryan's mother arrived and we
stopped for tea and a chat. When we had finished, Jessica, Adeline
and Elouise, Stuarts wife and two daughters arrived and we were
surprised to see that it was nearly time to go home.
All day the grey sky had been crying a constant fine drizzle over
us. It was the sort of rain that gets you really wet without you
really noticing until it's too late.
Consciousness came to me slowly in the morning. I lay watching the
daylight slowly gain mastery over the darkness with a feeling of
being strapped down to my knobbly earth bed. I was aware that my legs
were aching after days of constantly pushing pedals, and parts of my
body were sore from lying on lumps in the ground. My mind was quite
keen on the idea of moving, but my body kept giving it erroneous
information about the difficulty of breaking free from the invisible
bonds that held it down.
Eventually, with the sun now high in the sky and dogwalkers once
more uncomfortably active, I persuaded my upper limbs and torso into
enough movement to supply my mouth with the usual first cup of coffee
and bowl of muesli. The combined effect of caffeinne and nutrition
was enough to persuade the rest of my physical being of the
possibility of movement. Unusually, I raided my flask for a second
cup of coffee and, taking great care because my body was still
groggy, climbed down to sit directly above the tunnel mouth.
Revived by the coffee, I climbed back up and went to unlock my
bike and wheel it over to the stile ready for loading. As I did so I
noticed a man walking towards me down the slope of the field. A short
but solidly built man in his late sixties, he was wearing a cloth cap
and light brown smock. He reminded me of Mr Seden, a farmer from the
village where I grew up
Ladbroke could refer to:
,_Warwickshire
who had an uncanny ability for knowing when me and my friends had
entered the bounds of his land.
"I was just coming to move that bike" said the farmer
"one of my cows could have broken its leg on it and that would
have cost me a lot of money". It occurred to me that this
fantasy was slightly more unlikely than one of the said beasts being
struck by lightning. In any cow/bike interaction I suspect that the
bike would come off worst. He didn't seem angry but appeared to be
one of those people who enjoys lengthy but resigned grumbling. I did
my best to re-assure him that I meant his cattle no harm, was about
to depart and would leave no litter. He continued in an unstoppable
monotone, complaining about the trouble that was caused by people who
didn't understand the countryside, then wished me a good day and
departed back up the grassy slope.
Soon I was following him, wheeling my laden bike past the herd of
precious cattle up to the stile and on to the road. I pedalled slowly
uphill to the roundabout, then turned left to continue my Southbound
route.
The next village was Astley, where, behind the church, I spotted
the ruins of a castle. I decided to investigate, and found the
fascinating remains of Astley Castle. This moated sandstone fortress
used to belong to the father of Lady Jane Grey. Her brief tenure on
the English throne led inexorably to her own and her father's demise.
In more recent times the place was an hotel, but it burned down in
1978. The way in was now barred as it was being restored by the
Landmark trust.
Astley Castle is a ruinous moated fortified 16th century manor house in North Warwickshire. It has been listed as a Grade II* listed building since 1952[1] and as a Scheduled Ancient Monument since 1994. It was derelict and neglected since it was severely damaged by fire in 1978 whilst in use as a hotel and was officially a Building at Risk. The building reopened as a holiday let in 2012 after extensive and novel renovations that combine modern elements with the medieval remains.
I dislike being excluded from anywhere so I stalked around the dry
moat, seeking a weak point in the defences. I found a place where the
wall had crumbled to a climbable slope, which I breached, without
damage to myself or the venerable structure. I then spent a good 15
minutes exploring the fascinating ruin and taking pictures. I
discovered an easier route out which brought me into the churchyard.
Remounting my bike, I pedalled onwards.
I was now cycling through the lands of my ancestors. A while ago I
went to a gathering of descendants of the Griffiths boating family at
the nearby village of Keresley.
My parents grew up in Coventry, just
a few miles away, and went walking in the countryside round here in
the 1930s. For a while, as I rode along narrow lanes, it seemed like
nothing much had changed since my parents walked this way 80 years
ago, then a neatly radiused curve brought me to a concrete bridge
over the roaring traffic of the M6. To my left lay the sprawl of
Corley services.
Soon the madness was behind me and I was back on to country lanes
again. I came upon a road junction great trees towering over it.
Behind the first row of trees was a great sandstone outcrop. My map
showed an ancient hill fort at the top of it, and what an excellent
place for a fort, looking out over the valley with a precipitous
slope for any invaders to have to fight their way up. The hill is
called Burrow Hill. At Daventry, where I went to secondary school,
there is a hill fort at the top of Borough Hill.
http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=5057
climbed some of the lower rocks and sat down for a munch of food
and a drink of apple juice. With my nutritional needs satisfied I
climbed to the top to see what was there. The hill top was a flat
ploughed field, nothing remarkable, though I imagine Time Team would
enjoy digging trenches through it. I descended again to my bike and
started slowly pedalling up the hill through a rocky defile towards
the village of Corley http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/71506
Over the top of the hill I reached Corley village, where I joined
a bigger road. It was now downhill, so I didn't mind so much. I left
the main route to go down the delightful Hollyfast Lane. This tiny
road was at first a winding tunnel of holly trees, then opening out a
little with frequent oaks
http://www.geograph.org.uk/search.php?i=19468834
still travelling steadily downhill. A sharp left turn at the end
brought me into the beginnings of posh suburbia, with big houses in
their own grounds set back from the road, leading me into the
junction with another main road at Brownshill Green.
I became a little confused along the main road. What was shown on
my ancient map did not accord with what I found on the ground. There
should have been a winding lane going off to the right, instead there
was a roundabout and a new straight road. I followed this as it was
going in the right direction, then noticed that the original lane
still existed, but was chopped into truncated sections. I diverged on
to the old lane where I met frisky horses carrying their teenage
owners.
The hill against me steepened and I dragged my way slowly into the
suburban fringes of Allesley. I made my way through the old village
and then found a concrete footbridge over a dual carriageway into
proper suburbia of semi detatched houses. At the other side of this
estate was the main A45 dual carriageway. I followed this roaring
road through grim grey urban dreariness for about a mile.
Anticipating a substantial train fare I was pleased to see a bank. I
stopped to extract folding money from its hole in the wall facility,
then carried on to turn away from my Southbound trajectory to head
for Tile Hill station.
I had always imagined that Tile Hill was rather upmarket. The
reason for this stemmed from my childhood. My big sister, 11 years my
senior, had an Adam Faith lookalike boyfriend who came from Tile
Hill. The romance came to an abrupt end when his parents intervened
to prevent him from getting too involved with a mere typist. The
upshot of this was days of big sister lying in her boudoir crying her
eyes out. Every now and then I would burst in singing "Big girls
Don't cry" in a high voice and she would shout "Mum, get
him out of here".
As a result of this outbreak of mid 20th century snobbery I had
imagined that Tile Hill would be a sort of minor Hollywood, with the
mansions of the wealthy set in rolling acres behind high walls with
electric gates. Instead I pedalled along a mile or so of dreary
industrial units. I was glad to reach the station, but surprised that
the booking clerk, though clearly in his office, had a closed sign
up. I went on to the platform and enjoyed watching trains rush by
http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Tile%20Hill%20Voyager%207%2010.jpg.html
The ticket office reopened before my train arrived so, with my
wallet lightened, I climbed aboard a crowded local train to
Birmingham. With a change at New St station I was able to complete
the return journey in just a couple of hours. My holiday was at an
end. Another time I will continue my southward trek.
