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.
For as long as I can remember there's been a lovely cherry tree at Portland Basin. One day I arrived to do some work and found tree surgeons busy cutting it down. Apparently it's roots were interfering with the nearby new flats. Well, the tree was there first!
There was nothing we could do to save it. Nessie had already blagged the branches for firewood (not that we're short). I was more interested in the trunk. I'm well aware of how cherry is sought after by furniture makers etc. The tree surgeons agreed to give us the trunk as well as the branches and we moved Forget me Not forward so that we could load it all on to her deck.
It's sat there for a couple of months, but now it's in the way. We couldn't move it whole so I got out the chainmill to plank it.
Unfortunately the chainsaw suddenly packed up part way through the job (probably expensive) but we cut enough for now. Today me and Nessie took the planked pieces up to Stalybridge to be stacked and seasoned. We've kept the branches too as these will be of interest to woodturners. In a couple of years we'll advertise it all in the hope of selling it to woodworkers.
Southam came out of the water on 28th December. As I write this we have 1 more day before she returns to her natural element. This phase of work is virtually done now. Next we have to install the engine and rebuild the cabin.
The main job so far has been to strengthen up her stern end so that it will last, perhaps another 10 years, before we have to bite the bullet and rebuild it. Southam is a heavy boat and tends to sag over the blocks when taken out of the water. Last time she was out, in 2019, we replaced 4 straight sideplanks, but, as she emerged, there was a crack and the side bulged out at the point where the forward bulkhead of the back cabin used to be.
This part was weakened when the boat was converted back in 1965. The top bend of the stern was cut off, along with the back cabin, and an engine room built in its place. Now that the old planks were getting tired it gave way with the strain of being hauled out of the water.
The plan now was to clad the exterior with overlapping sheets of steel, bolted through to make a sandwich and all sealed with chalico. Chalico is a heady brew of pitch, tar and horse manure, all boiled up and mixed together to make a sticky waterproof sealant. At the point of weakness, heavier steel plate was to be bolted on, also sealed with chalico. The sagging sides were to be pulled in and a structure is being made to hold them in. Pulling the sides in proved to be more difficult than anticipated, largely because of the way the boat was supported. After jacking part of it up things got easier. As I write this a chain block is still in place, holding her in to 6'6". rather than the 7'9" that she attained when unrestrained. Perhaps the intended structure should be called a corset.
It's surprising how strong an old wooden boat re-enforced in this way can be, but we mustn't forget that after about 10 years it will need a proper rebuild, hopefully re-instating the top bends and back cabin at the same time. I'll be 81 by then so somebody else will have to do it.
We had a couple of problems slipping Southam , A lot of ballast had to be removed to get her on to the trolleys then, as she came up the slip, the stern end trolley started to slip from under the boat. It was OK though, she didn't fall off.
We've had an excellent team. Nessie, Kim, and Aaron. Now Tony Ellams and Helen Kanes have joined us. Dave Buxton has returned from his midwinter sojourn and has started work on making the 'corset'.
One of the Ashton Packet Boats crew enquired as to why we are asking for £5,000 to get Southam into service again. After all, he pointed out, we get our metal sheets for free (true) and our wood for free (partly true, we use as much reclaimed wood as practicable, some of which is free). I explained that installing the engine and building the cabin would cost a lot. The last time we got a coupling repaired on Forget me Not's transmission it cost £300! Whilst some of the cabin building materials are free, if we want them to last every joint will need to be sealed and every surface painted. You soon get through £100 buying paints and sealants. Then, of course, there's time. We could just rely on volunteers to do the work, but that could drag on for years. In order to get it done in a reasonable timescale then we will need to employ someone to work on the project alongside volunteers.
With slipway fees included we've probably already spent getting on for £1000 already, so, please chip in to the fundraiser.
Southam is a 'Big Ricky', built as a butty in 1936 for the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company. In 1965 she was converted and motorised in 1965. We bought her, sunk at Hillmorton, in 1992. By co-incidence, she's named after the town where I went to school when I was a kid.
Since then she's been a very useful boat, but with periods out of use awaiting repair. Her latest period of disrepair has been about 10 years. We started work on her refurbishment in 2019, but completion was stymied by the covid pandemic and its aftermath.
For some time she has been in the arm at Portland basin, with fellow ricky Elton sunk alongside her. I thought she was trapped by the sunken boat so it seemed urgent to raise it. Again we failed. Again it was because one of the pumps wouldn't work. Lilith had to spend a couple of nights breasted up to the CRT work boat whilst we tried to raise Elton.
Nessie reckoned he could get Southam out. This he succeeded in doing. Southam is now free and waiting to go to Guide Bridge for slipping just after Christmas.
She looks a mess. She is a mess, but work is starting on her again. We just need more people to come and work towards her renaissance so that she can become a really useful boat again, towing, providing accommodation for volunteers, visiting waterway events and possibly becoming a mobile craft outlet.
It's usually October when we cut the hedges at Knowl St. This year it really needed doing, but, the complications of life got it put back to the very end of October.
Brian, Tom, Hayley and me set to work with all kinds of implements of destruction. As well as doing the front we removed the ivy etc that was spilling over on to the woodshelter. This revealed how dilapidated the woodshelter has become. It wasn't intended to last this long really, but we lost a few years with all the difficulties of 2016 to 2022. Never mind. Things are looking up again now. The woodshelter will get covered with a big tarpaulin for the time being.We could really do with a regular volunteer to pop in weekly to look after the garden and keep it looking nice though. Any offers?
I recently had a bit of time to wait for a train at Manchester Victoria, so I spent my time taking some arty farty photos of trains and people. So here they are.
"Forget me Not" needs a mid life overhaul, but she's needed for towing, and, anyway, we just don't have the resources just now to do it. However, the cabin has been in a disreputable state for far too long. Happily, Tony Ellams keeps showing up and quietly getting on with work on it. Here's a few pictures of what He's been doing lately. Could do with someone handy with a paintbrush to do the painting and signwriting next!
The waterways have a foliage problem. Inevitably, every autumn trees and shrubs spread their seeds, and some of them land and germinate at the edges of the waterway. Once upon a time there were lock keepers and lengthsmen who would tend their allotted bit of waterway, cutting off or pulling up interlopers before they could get established. The age of the accountant put an end to such labour intensive practises and regular tending of a loved length of waterway was replaced with occasional visits by teams of weed whackers and sprayers. Modern management don't like to employ people if they can possibly help it, so employees have been replaced with contractors, and, with the waterway grant support fast diminishing, their visits have become less and less frequent.
The problem affects both rivers and canals. It would be impossible to use the towpath for its intended purpose on most rivers nowadays as there is a veritable forest between path and water. Horse haulage or bowhauling is getting increasingly difficult on the canals because of the size of the bushes on the towpath edge. On the outside sizeable trees are forcing boats to go so close to the towpath that they stem up. Low branches sweep loose articles off boat roofs. One of our volunteers had what could have been a serious accident when a branch caught in his lifejacket and nearly flung him off the stern of the motor into the path of the butty.
At the moment we have no functioning motor boat, so, we have to bowhaul. The towpath edge trees are a big problem.
With a bowhauled Hazel trip coming up, we decided to tackle the foliage between Asda and the winding hole at Eli Whalley's that had been a problem on the last such trip. While I was using Facebook etc to organise a team, Nessie decided to just go and do it himself. When the team assembled the job was already done, so we decided to go and tackle the bushes beyond Walk Bridge, on the way towards Guide Bridge.
As we crossed the junction bridge, who should show up but the contractors with their big industrial strimmers. They went ahead of us whizzing off the tops of the plants and leaving the devastated brash in the water or on the towpath. If a bush extended too far out into the waterway they just left most of it.
Such treatment causes long term problems for the infrastructure, and short term problems for any hauled boats. If you're bowhauling or horse hauling a boat, bushes are bad, but truncated bushes are worse.
A medium sized bush will bend beneath a rope as the boat is hauled along and eventually release it. A truncated stem of such a bush will snag a line and bring the boat completely to a stop.
If trees are allowed to grow, then cut back, they will throw out new shoots and grow again next year. with each year's growth the uncut portions, and the roots grow bigger. The strength of them is so great that they will force masonry apart, the eventual repair of which will be very expensive. A stitch it time saves nine.
Our team followed after the contractors, cutting back the trees right to the roots and making nice habitat piles in the hedge from the offcuts. It was very slow and hard work though. We only got about 50 yards.
Once upon a time we did regular working parties for CRT. This stopped because of a combination of things. One was their excessive bureaucracy and their ban on us pulling rubbish out (no-one seems to know about this now, but it happened. You can't pull shopping trolleys out because it might disturb the wildlife). Then came covid, and we've generally struggled for volunteers since. It would be good to get back into it, particularly dealing with foliage and sunken rubbish. It would also be nice if someone other than me did the organising!
Works4U is a school for young people with Autism in Stalybridge. They bought a small steel narrowboat called Murphy from Preston Brook. It's engine wasn't working so they had to arrange a tow. This got it to Castlefields. We arranged to bowhaul Murphy up the 27 locks from Manchester to Ashton.
Key to doing this was the remarkable Aaron Booth, who did most of the bowhauling, but the cast also included
Geraldine Buckley,
Glyn Ford,
Tony Ellams,
Brian Bloom,
Rhona Mapperley,
Helen Kanes
and Nessie.
Photos taken from the boat by Helen Kanes, from the land by me.
Canal St Lock
Between Canal St and Chorlton St Lock the boat had to be shafted because the towpath is now the fashionable Canal St.
After Chorlton St the canal disappears into concrete caverns under modern office blocks.
We emerge from the gloom into Dale St Lock. The adjacent basin was once packed with trading boats, but is now a car park.
Geraldine and her miniscule dog were waiting on the lockside
Aaron was working the lock. Rhona had been steering.
Aaron had to shaft across the basin to the little rathole that is the entrance to the Ashton canal.
The interior of Murphy will need a bit of work.
We'd been concerned about getting through Lock 3 of the Ashton as contractors were supposed to be starting work that day and closing the canal. It's all part of a scheme to put a new bridge across the tail of the lock so that the heavy foot traffic from the tram stop won't be disrupted by people working the lock. It all looks rather over engineered to me. Bear in mind that making a ton of concrete releases 1.8 tons of CO2.
Several locks further up we got to the new Co-op Live concert venue, famous for it's opening fiasco.
On the other side of the canal is the Etihad, where more building work is in progress.
We carried on working upwards.
Rhona had to leave us as she had work in the afternoon.
The view down the flight can be quite dramatic.
We reached the summit at lock 18 shortly before dusk, Aaron forged ahead, hauling us at a fair lick, arriving at Portland Basin well after dark. A long day, but very enjoyable. We were lucky with the sunny winter weather.
In order to keep the Canal & River Trust happy that we are fitting in with our licence conditions, all Hazel guests have to have a trip. While Forget me Not is out of action this has to be human powered. We bowhaul a short way then throw the line onboard and the boat is shafted past the towpath blockage. This is where, 22 years ago, the retaining wall became unsafe so they tipped in truckloads of stone to support it. Since then, as I understand it, the waterway authority and the local authority have been unable to agree about who is responsible for repairing it.
Anyway, at the end of this the boat reaches the Asda tunnel. The shafter lays down their implement and lies on their back to stretch up and walk upside down along the roof (not easy, especially when the water is low). We use an old chair on its back to help support the legger. Beyond the tunnel a bit more shafting is required as the towpath has been closed off to make a nature area. Then it's back to bowhauling under the railway bridge and past the Sea Cadet moorings to the winding hole at Eli Whalley's. We wind there and repeat the process in reverse.
Bang on 06.30 I carried my rucksack to my allotted breakfast table, hung my hi vis jacket over the back of the chair and got busy on stocking up on breakfast. Outside it was dark and windy with just a spittering of rain. I consumed cereal, croissants, sausage, bacon, brownies, beans and some of the strange Scottish meaty mush that I've never come across before.
It was still dark when I unlocked my bike and set off from the Castletown Hotel, lights flashing to make sure all drivers noticed me. The wind was mostly to my side and gave me little trouble.
The booking office wasn't yet open at Thurso station so entry was round the side through the car park. Though I was early there was already quite a crowd huddled under the overall roof. I struck up a conversation with a couple who are teachers on the Orkneys and had just travelled in from Stromness. Originally they came from Dumfries. Clearly keen travellers by surface transport, we discussed many journeys that we have each undertaken. The spittering turned to a mizzle. The indicator display told us the progress of the train from Wick. As train time approached more and more people arrived, making the covered area quite crowded.
The train trundled in. I headed for the cycle space and loaded myself in.
As the train ground to a halt at Georgemas Junction I noticed that a man in orange overalls was working in the high security compound. One on the gates was partly open. He appeared to be cutting grass. I changed seat so as to be facing forwards again as the train changes direction here.
On my journey North I was surprised that there was no mention of the station at Altnabreac. I was aware of this because my friend ,and WCBS patron Ian Marchant, got off there, had an adventure, and wrote about it in his book Parallel Lines https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/1968075.Parallel_Lines . I though it odd that the option to stop there had not been mentioned on the PA system as the train rattled though at full speed. Had it closed I wondered. No, it hasn't, but the service has been suspended because of a dispute with a landowner.
It seems that a Christian couple from Manchester way have bought the old station house and some land. They also claim to own the platform, the level crossing and the approach road and that Network Rail and Scotrail have no right of access. They've even chained themselves to the crossing gates to stop vehicles coming in. Scotrail say that, as they cannot do essential safety work on the platform they have to suspend services until the dispute is resolved. The couple claim that Scotrail are bullying them and have published various rather silly videos on You Tube. Meanwhile, the 280 passengers a year who used to use the station, mostly to go walking in the flow country, can't go. I must say, my sympathies lie with the public body who are trying to allow public access rather than anyone's property rights, real or imagined.
We rattled through Alnabreacagain without it being mentioned on the tannoy. I enjoyed watching the landscape slip by, remembering to look out for things I'd noted on the way up.
It's a long journey, but I didn't stop enjoying it. I could sit on trains and watch the world go by all day. As a matter of fact, that's what I did.
Eventually we reached Dingwall where I had to change. I heaved my bike and luggage over the footbridge to get to the other platform. I had over an hour to wait on this delightful but mostly deserted station. I tucked into my butties. I thought it amusing that someone had gone to the trouble of making a brass plate to record the number of servicemen served with tea during the Great War.
My train was a 2 car unit. I was the only passenger boarding at Dingwall.
It curved away westwards towards the delightful Victorian Spa town of Strathpeffer. The route was originally intended to pass through there but, because of the objections of a local dignitary, it takes an abrupt turn to skirt round the town. Later, a branch line was built to carry the once considerable tourist traffic. It had its own delightful dedicated tank engine. Happily, the terminal station survives as a museum and there's a scheme to re-open the railway.
The train started to labour up the steep gradient into the hills. This must have been quite a hard climb in the days of steam trains. It's clear from looking at the contour lines on the OS map that, but for that 19th century NIMBY, the railway would have taken a much easier route.
I noticed that many of the passengers were fairly elderly couples, many of them American.
The scenery was an endless reel of natural beauty. Mountains, rivers, loughs, forests all slipped by.
I particularly enjoyed slipping along the edge of Loch Luichart, looking out over the water to mountains still slightly touched by wisps of mist.
The line eventually descended to sea level and took a tortuous course along the edge of the water, first the semi enclosed Loch Carron, then the open sea, before cutting through hard rock to end facing the sea at Kyle of Lochalsh.
The railway was built under the title of the Dingwall and Skye railway. I don't know if there was ever an idea to build a railway bridge to Skye. Probably not, as the traffic wouldn't justify the huge expense, but the tracks couldn't really go much further. It looks like the railway came along, running up to take a long jump over the water, then dug its heels in at the last moment. I imagine that, before the road bridge was built, ferries would have set off almost from the platform end. Most of the older couples walked off the station and straight on to a road coach. Clearly a trip on the railway was part of the itinerary of a coach tour.
I had a look at the big modern fishing boats assembled in the harbour, then went looking for the Skye Bridge Hotel. I soon found it, a white angular building with something of a downmarket Bauhaus about it.
I was welcomed into reception by a tall blond South African woman of about 50. She showed me where to stash my bike, gave me the room key, directions to the room and instructions on how to get in after hours. I went up to my room. It was modern, angular and delightfully asymmetrical.
Once I was installed in my room I went out to explore the town and found that there really wasn't much of a town and what there was was mostly closed. After a bit of walking around I came upon a Chinese takeaway. With a hot aluminium tray of food I went looking for somewhere to eat it. I had passed a sign pointing to the signalbox, which now seemed to be a museum. The points and signals are now controlled remotely. I descended the steps, thinking I'd eat there, but it looked like someone lived in it, so, feeling like I was trespassing, I came out and headed for the station.
I got there just in time to see the Inverness train leaving.
I ate my beef chow mein on the station platform, then headed back to the hotel. Up in my room I dealt with some emails. I was thinking of visiting the hotel bar but, remembering my £8 pint in Perth, I decided to read instead.
I woke to see that nearby roofs glistened with rain, Not a good omen when I was about to embark on a 23mile bike ride. I nipped out to the minimarket across the street to buy bread, made my butties for the day, then went downstairs. The hotel does not do breakfasts so I decided to return to my usual practise of fasting on several mornings each week.
As i handed in my keys I happened to mention my plan to cycle to Armadale. The South African lady looked concerned. "Oh" she said, "you know the roads aren't very good over there". She added " the road from Broadford to Armadale is OK but from here to Broadford is a bit, you know". She made a hand wiggling gesture. I didn't know, and I've ridden on some pretty rough roads in my time.
It had stopped raining and the sun was shining, but the mountains across the water on Skye were ominously shrouded in cloud.
I rode out on the Skye road.
A fishing boat was setting out from the port.
As I rode up the slope of the hump backed Skye bridge I could see a complete rainbow hanging over the sea. The clouds rolled back to the tops of the mountains.
My route took me, initially in a roughly South Easterly direction, along the North coast of the island. Just before Broadford I had to turn sharp left to head South, over a low ridge then down a long finger of the island to the ferry port.
The road was fine. Modern, well surfaced and quite busy with cars and lorries. On my left was pine forest, on my right, mostly grazing ground then the sea, with the little island of Pabay visible in the distance. The sun was shining through a light drizzle.
I stopped. Silhouetted against the sky were two hawks perched on the gateposts on opposite sides of a field gate.
I wondered if they were real. It seemed a strange way to decorate such a humble gateway, but, they were very still. I walked up and down a bit, then I thought I saw one's head move. I'm still not sure. After all, I've met scousers who swear they've seen the Liver Birds flap their wings.
I don't know why the South African woman was dubious about this road. It was just a normal road. Nothing wiggly handed about it at all.
Eventually I came to my turning, sharp left on to the road to Armadale. Immediately I started going uphill, though not very steep. The countryside was that typically Scottish gently sloping brown moorland. Emuna wanted pictures of Skye, so I made this little video.
The road was wide, modern and fairly busy. An earlier narrow road ran parallel and I wondered about riding on that instead, but stuck to the main road.
A lough and mountains hove into view on the right. The mist and mizzle cleared and the sun began to shine.
Eventually I reached the summit and started descending towards the sea with pine forests on my left.
The courtesy from drivers continued. It seems to be a Scottish thing, and very welcome after the aggressiveness of many English drivers.
I stopped at a layby overlooking a bay to take a photograph and drink from my water bottle. I shared the layby with a camper van inhabited by a Scots couple. They asked me if I needed more water. We had a chat about the weather etc. They had come over on the ferry and were heading to the North of the island in the hope of seeing the northern lights.
I carried on along the coast, the road dotted with loose settlements and the odd distillery. Between each bay the road rose up into the rocky wooded landscape, then down again to the next bay.
In the distance I saw a ferry setting out across the water towards the mainland, so I knew I was close to Armadale. My battery was showing one flashing light, It was nearly out of power.
At the ferry terminal I booked my ticket for a refreshingly low price, £3.50 if I remember correctly. I had the best part of an hour to wait, so I went to the end of the pier to sit, eat my butties and admire the amazing view of mountains across the calm water.
A man wearing a camouflage kilt joined me on the pier. It seemed a strange conjunction of sartorial cultures. He pointed out a group of kayaks paddling close to the rocky shore and explained that they were a group of American girls on an adventure holiday. He hurried away to meet them at the end of their trip.
I watched the ferry making its journey over from Mallaig and, as it swung round to reverse on to the ramp, I made my way to join the queue of pedestrians. My fellow foot passengers seemed to be mostly from the United States. One was much taken with my appearance and asked if he could photograph me. I granted permission, amused that he probably thought I was some kind of native Highland character, rather than just another tourist. We walked down the ramp and I secured my bike before climbing to the higher decks to get out of the way of the oncoming motor vehicles.
A typical tourist, I spent most of the crossing trying to get good photos of the surrounding mountains.
We passed a little ferry bound for one of the smaller islands.
After docking, we waited for the cars to clear, then, us pedestrians walked up the ramp, I mounted my bike and rode the short way into the town centre. I had booked a night in the Mallaig Mission Bunkhouse.
I soon found it, on the main street opposite the station. On the ground floor there's a cafe and a secondhand bookshop which, unfortunately, displayed a handwritten sign to say it was was closed. I rang the bell on the bunkhouse door, then realised that it was before the earliest checking in time. My bike was locked to the railings outside, so I went for a walk to have a look at the main street and the harbour. The latter seems to be divided into 3 parts, the ferry terminal, the fishing boats area and a little marina with floating pontoons. I was surprised to see a little repair yard belonging to Harland and Wolff, closed like it's big brother in Belfast.
Back at the bunkhouse I rang the bell, then I rang it again. The warden opened the door. He was a sporty looking East European chap in his thirties. Made me think of a PE teacher from long ago (always hated PE). He invited me to follow him up the stairs, then showed me round. My room was basic, bunk beds, a high window, all grey. It made me think of a prison cell. The tour continued, shared toilets, shower cubicles, Outside on to a verandah then into a communal kitchen, peoples names written on cornflake packets etc. Next to the kitchen was a lounge with old sofas, a small dining table and a TV.
There were lots of tourist brochures lying around. All was clean but rather institutional. It was the cheapest place to stay at £50 a night. Most hotels here are over £100 for a single room.
Once I'd unpacked my rucksack I decided it was time for a brew. No eating or drinking allowed in rooms, so I went to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and sat in the lounge. The warden appeared with a young, short, slim, bearded Indian man who was receiving the grand tour. The warden left and the young man sat down on another sofa. I tried to start a conversation but it was hard going. I ascertained that he came from Southall and had just completed his MBA at Coventry University. I told him about how my parents came from Coventry and lived through the blitz. I sort of anticipated that he would respond with something about Coventry, but nothing came. There was no reciprocation. It was a one sided conversation. Perhaps he was shy, but I gave up, drank my coffee and returned to my room.
After reading for a bit. I realised that I was hungry and I'd better do something about it. I walked down the main street (there are few others) and decided to try The Tea Garden. On an extensive menu, including much seafood, I spotted the dish of Sherried Herring, so I ordered that. I sat outside on the terrace in the evening sun. https://hiddenscotland.com/listings/the-tea-garden-cafe
Once upon a time Herring was widely eaten in Britain. In 1913 12 million tons were landed. Fishery workers used to follow the shoals of herring southwards each year, including fishergirls who were experts at gutting and filleting the fish. It's my theory that the rugby song "Four and twenty virgins", which I couldn't get out of my head as I rode the Inverness bound train, derived from this migration. It's a very healthy food, being full of fish oil. For some reason it's gone out of fashion in Britain, in fact it's often difficult to find. Much of the British Herring catch is exported, whereas much of the fish that we eat is imported, some even coming from China!
The Sherried Herring was wonderful. Here's the recipe-
Later in the evening I felt the need for some beer. I had noticed a pub called the Steam Inn when I was looking for somewhere to eat, so I went to it. only to discover that it had closed down. The only option seemed to be the Marine Bar, which looked like a bit of a lager and football pub, not really my scene.
I was right about the pub, but, nevertheless, enjoyed watching the other customers. Sitting by the bar were 3 middle aged men with a maritime air about them, engaging in lively conversation and banter. I guessed they worked on fishing boats. One had a dog with a husky look about it. The middle one of the three was one of those Scots whose face has a fixed smile even when he's not happy. Andy Stewart of "Donald Where's your Troosers" fame had such a face. In fact, this probable fisherman was pretty much his double.
He was doing most of the talking and joking, holding court over his friends.
The barmaid was a tall elegant young woman who joined in the chatter, but at the same time remained a little aloof. She was going on a journey to a city shortly and much of the conversation centred around that.
Near the door sat a young man who was constantly having conversations on his 'phone, which he had plugged in to charge. He seemed to be involved in some sort of telephonic crisis management, fueled by regular top ups of lager.
I suddenly realised that I had a crisis of my own. Access to the bunkhouse was through a keycoded door. I had saved the code on my 'phone, but it's battery was on the brink of running out of puff. Using virtually it's last breath I had a look in the hope that my memory would hold the code long enough for me to get back to my room.
Luckily my memory didn't let me down and I regained my room to enjoy a pleasant nights sleep on the top bunk.
The warden had put my bike in the laundry room, which was locked. With my gear packed and butties made I pressed the buzzer for the warden to unlock it at 09.30. He was a bit miffed that I'd buzzed him so early. I'd told him that my train was at 10.10, but I like to be in good time.
There was quite a crowd of intending passengers at the station and it wasn't long before the train arrived at the terminus. It was made up of two units, so it had two bike areas. I headed for the one roughly in the middle of the train, but the guard told me to use the other one, at the very rear. I don't know why.
The line from Mallaig to Fort William is another catalogue of amazing scenery. A constant moving collage of sea views, mountains, Lochs and woods. This route is a little more craggy than my earlier jouneys. Apparently it's been voted the world's most scenic railway.
At Arisaig I was pleased, and surprised, that we crossed the Jacobite steam train. The last I heard the service had been suspended because of a ruling by the Office Rail Regulation that it must be fitted with central locking on its doors, a near impossible demand for historic coaches. (but we must make the world idiot proof at all costs).
One of the highlights of the line is the tightly curved Glenfinnan viaduct, famous for the train carrying Harry Potter to Hogwarts school being frozen by dementers as it crossed. It's other claim to fame is that it was the first railway viaduct to be built of concrete, this line, not opened until 1901, being quite a late one.
Approaching Fort William the railway crosses the Western end of the Caledonian Canal, over a swing bridge at the foot of the Neptune's Staircase locks.
The train reverses at Fort William, putting me and my bike at the very front. This was to be significant later on
Fort William is quite an industrial are, having both a paper mill and an Aluminium smelter in its environs. Sadly the paper mill no longer has rail traffic, but, I understand, freight trains still serve the British Aluminium site, which our train passed on its way out.
After the spectacularity of the Mallaig line, our route now became fairly tame, running through the Leanachan Forest. The first station was Spean Bridge. From here there used to be a branch to Fort Augustus at the western end of Loch Ness. There was little prospect of such a railway ever being a commercial success, but it was hoped to extend the line alongside Loch Ness and onward to Inverness to challenge the Highland Railway's monopoly of that town. The Highland managed to block these proposals and the branch lingered on, losing its passenger service in 1933.
From Spean Bridge the railway follows the dramatic valley of the River Spean. At one point the train traverses a spectacular gorge. I was too slow with my camera to photograph this, but I did get a picture of the waterfall at its head.
After passing Loch Treig and it's hydropower station
the line climbs on to the vast expanse of heather and moss that is Rannoch Moor.
I was surprised at the number of passengers who boarded at the isolated stations of Corrour and Rannoch.
The station for Tyndrum has the suffix of Upper. There is a Tyndrum Lower on the Oban line. The two routes join at the next station, Crianlarich. Once upon a time the Oban and Fort William lines had separate routes out of the Highlands, though there was a spur for freight traffic where they crossed at Crianlarich. In 1963 Dr Beeching came up with his infamous report on the railways. In it he proposed that the Oban line was to be closed completely and the Fort William line was to be terminated at the tiny village of Crianlarich. The great and good doctor believed that all the traffic for the West Highlands would thus be concentrated on this single track, from the end of which passengers would simply get off and walk. This is the way in which an economist's mind works!
Wiser counsels prevailed. The connecting spur was upgraded and the Oban line East of Crianlarich only was closed.
Gradually the train winds its way down from the heights. It runs high above Loch Lomond, then cuts through a gap in the hills to run high above Loch Long. Suddenly it cuts through another gap and passes mysterious sidings for a military depot at the head of Glen Douglas. Possibly this is connected with the Faslane nuclear submarine base, which we passed a short while later.
At each station on the way, considerably more passengers had joined the train than had disembarked. I was scheduled to change trains at Dalmuir, so that I would reach Glasgow Central, for my train to England, rather than Queen St. As mentioned above, the location of my bike at the front of the train would be significant.
As we drew near to Dalmuir I readied myself for unloading by carrying my rucksack etc through the crowded carriage and moved my bike so that I was poised to go. The train was rattling along on old jointed track, so I was unable to catch much of the guards announcement, which was long and said something about doors. I asked another passenger, but she hadn't been able to understand either.
The train stopped. I waited and waited but the light on the door opening button stayed stubbornly unlit. The driver came out of his cab and asked "Did yer no hear, he's only opening one door". I explained that the announcement was drowned out by the noise of the train and anyway, how was I supposed to get my bike past all those passengers? He got on to the guard via the intercom and the button suddenly lighted up.
I've no idea why the guard was only opening one door, but now I had another problem. It was a 5 minute change, but there were 4 platforms and absolutely no information about which train stopped where. I asked a waiting passenger if the next train went to Central. She said she thought it did. It actually said Larkhall on the front, but I got on and was reassured by the internal display panel that it was Larkhall via Glasgow Central.
The electric train sprinted between frequent stations. A young couple apparently ended their relationship publicly in the carriage. He was skinny, scruffy and monosyllabic, she much tidier, healthy looking and able to express coherently condemnatory sentences. He was clearly pissed and wilting under her verbal assault, before she strode off to the other end of the train.
I saw a short stretch of the Forth & Clyde canal. I kept looking out for more, but, from consulting the map later, learned that we had actually passed under it.
The station of Anniesland fascinated me. I wondered who Annie was and what she grew on her land. A quick internet search turned up the answer- "it is derived from the Gaelic 'annis' meaning destitute or from 'anfhann' meaning 'weak and feeble', thus Anniesland was a place for the old and infirm who could no longer earn their keep".
The train dived below the city centre and drew to a halt at Glasgow Central Low Level. Popping up into the main line station above, I went looking for information on my train. The concourse was crowded with people anxiously scanning departure boards mounted above the platform ends. The long distance trains were clearly in chaos. I had about an hour to wait anyway so my train wasn't displayed yet.
When the information on my train eventually appeared it was suffixed with the dread word "cancelled"
I went to the booking office to enquire about my next move. The booking clerk was clearly feeling harrassed by constant enquiries from desperate travellers. He told me it was nothing to do with him and I should go to the Avanti office round the back.
I remember in the 1970s British Rail were (mostly in vain) desperately trying to promote business travel, at the expense of everyone else. In copies of Modern Railways I saw pictures of plush modern facilities, unattainable by me. The Avanti office was just such a place. An elegantly dressed lady behind a mahogany reception counter received me and looked up a replacement train. Unfortunately I couldn't get the next one because there were no bike spaces available on it. I would have two hour wait, but I was welcome to wile away the hours in the first class lounge.
She issued me with a revised bike ticket and explained that the service had been disrupted because a lorry had struck a low bridge and the line had to be closed for a while to carry out a safety assessment.
The best thing about the first class lounge was the unlimited supply of coffee and posh biscuits. I was a bit miffed when someone came to replace all the biscuits, taking away the ones I really liked. I hope the ones she took away don't go in the bin, I abhor the waste of food.
At last, time came for my train. It was a Pendolino unit at platform one. As a result of one of Emuna's delightful malapropisms, henceforth I will refer to these high speed tilting trains as Peccadilloes.
Bikes are loaded into a locker in the guards area to which passengers have no access. I suppose this precludes the possibility of thieves unloading your bike at the wrong station, but I dislike not being able to get to my bike.
It had now been dark for several hours so I missed the dramatic landscapes of the run South over Beattock and Shap summits. I enjoyed watching the lights of the world slip by, trying to guess where we were, and feeling the train lean into curves like a motorbike.
My next change was at Preston. I collected my bike from the peccadillo and made my way to platform 4 to catch a late running Northern service. Happily, Northern don't seem too bothered about bike reservations.
I had booked only as far as Bolton, just inside the Greater Manchester boundary. From there my old codger's Greater Manchester bus pass would carry me the rest of the way. Never let me be accused of extravagance! I reached Bolton at 22.00, just over 2 hours late.
At Manchester Victoria I changed on to a local train, now electrically powered, first stop Ashton. From the station it is but a short uphill ride to our house, where the wonderful Emuna had a meal ready for me.
