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.
At the moment we're a bit restricted where we can go. The Marple flight is closed because of water shortage. Two of the reservoirs that feed the summit are in need of repair and so the only water supplying the upper Peak Forest has to be pumped up from the river at Whaley Bridge.
The Huddersfield Narrow canal is, at the time of writing, still open, but this waterway also suffers from water supply issues. A particular problem for us is the long pound between Ashton and Stalybridge, from lock 3 to lock 4. Because lock 3 leaks so badly (and has done for years) this is constantly low. There are also several places on this stretch where rubbish gets dumped into the water, further reducing the depth. We have offered to remove the rubbish but are not allowed to because we might disturb the wildlife (!!!!???). There have been several occasions when we've spent hours working through this pound, dragging the boats laboriously over old bikes, shopping trolleys etc.
We had a booking for a well being trip for a couple who I had met by chance at the museum. The plan was to go up to Marple and, after winding below the locks, spend a night near the aqueduct, then return to Ashton.
It all went fairly smoothly. Our crew consisted of Aaron Booth, Geraldine Buckley and John Lupton. The winding hole at Marple was, for once, fairly clear of CRT boats. There was quite a concentration of boats moored in the area and we couldn't get in at our usual spot between the aqueduct and Rose Hill tunnel, so, after winding, we had to go back through the former tunnel and tie at the end of the line of moored craft.
On the towpath side here there is a steep wooded cliff dropping down to the trickling River Goyt.
On the outside is a field, virtually grazed out by the raucus Canada Geese that now dominate the canal.
I had always wanted to explore the Goyt valley here but never got round to it. In the morning, after a little pottering in the engine 'ole, I walked along the towpath the short distance to Hyde Bank tunnel then, rather than climbing the steep horse path over the top, I plunged into the untrodden ways of the thick, steep woodland. Back in 2020 I prepared a ghost story for a halloween event that never took place because of the pandemic and this marginal land is the home for one of the characters, Old Mags the witch. Perhaps next year!
This woodland is one of the rare places where nature is allowed to take her course. It is too steep and pathless for an easy stroll. Huge trees dominate, but where there is a gap for light to get through there is a dense understorey of nettles, brambles bushes etc. Although the 2022 heat wave had only just got started the woods were already bone dry. I came upon a carpet of wild garlic, all wilted by the drought. Because humans rarely penetrate, dead wood is not removed. The steep slopes are hard to navigate and several times I grabbed hold of a branch to steady myself, only to have it break off in my hand.
I descended via a dried up side valley to the trickling river, following it upstream. There were paths here but they would suddenly disappear into bushes, presumably they were made by foxes rather than humans. The inevitable Himalayan Balsam enjoyed a waterside foothold.
I climbed up again to rejoin the towpath near a huge oak that had fallen but was caught by its sister trees, continuing to grow vertical shoots from the horizontal trunk.
Beside the canal I met an elderly lady briskly walking. She was slim and brightly dressed. By her accent I took her to be German. We praised together the beauty of nature and the amazing efforts of the canal builders before each continuing in our opposite ways.
Aaron arrived on his bike and Geraldine and John made their way down the towpath from the station. We had a pleasant and uneventful trip back to Ashton in the growing heat.
Our guests thoroughly enjoyed the trip. When we got back to Portland Basin we got "Hazel" cleaned and her batteries charged ready for the next outing. This was a two night booking for Jeff, his daughter Sarah and partner Jackie, all enthusiastic punk rockers. We had promised them a trip up the Huddersfield Narrow, but, I checked the water levels and decided that it was unwise.
We had to make another foray out to Marple instead.
Aaron was unable to join us for this trip as he was on dogsitting duties. Geraldine and John steered the butty while new recruit Steve Shipley made a good job of steering the motor while I sat on the deck supervising.
The rising heat was baking us as we went along. The canal was in many places matt green with a surface scum of algae brought out by the relentless sun. The winding hole at Marple was completely free of CRT boats as the last one, the 'josher' motor "Gailey", had moved to Dukinfield where the team were tracing leaks in the embankment. This time we were able to tie in our preferred spot near to the aqueduct.
Our guests all have mobility issues and were a bit disappointed that there were no pubs or restaurants within easy walking distance. By the time I learned that it was too late to move as our crew were all heading off for the station. I suggested we make a short trip to Romiley the following day, where there are hospitality venues a plenty.
Crewing was a problem as none of the first day's crew were available. I spent the evening on the 'phone and the laptop trying to round up a crew. Luckily Patricia Ekaete was able to join us from Ashton and Mike Heap from Marple. Neither had crewed for some time so it was nice to see them. I was showing Patricia the aqueduct when Mike arrived. He was involved it the efforts to save the structure, and the canal, back in the 1960s.
We had a pleasant journey through the tunnel and past the lovely gardens and woodland of Chadkirk to tie near the main road bridge at Romiley. Having arrived by train Patricia elected to walk home along the towpath.
Our guests went out for a meal at 'Platform One' next to Romiley station. They don't recommend it. I spent most of another evening rounding up the next day's crew. This consisted of Kim Tranter and Dave Evans. Navigating the tortuous bends through Gee Cross in the sweltering heat we were glad of the shade from the mature woodland. We arrived back at the basin mid afternoon, bade farewell to our guests and crew, then put the boats away for the night, ready for another trip, as far as Gee Cross, the next day.
We're gradually getting back to the routine of working at the Heritage Boatyard. There's lots to do as post pandemic it's an overgrown mess. This is not helped by the fact that just pre pandemic someone volunteered to get all our stores re-organised. He spread stuff all over the yard then disappeared.
A few days ago I was at Hyde Reclamation's yard buying wood for renewing "Forget me Not"s deck boards when I spotted a stack of 1" mahogany. The price was not extreme (and unlikely to get any less) so I bought it. Today we stacked it and covered it to keep the weather off it.
Dave and Kim worked on improving part of "Forget me Not"s gear change mechanism. I'm hoping that persons within the normal range of arm strength will now be able to get her out of reverse gear! Kim assembled a couple of new deck boards. Gradually we're getting back on our feet!
One of the ways that we've been able to subsidise well being trips on "Hazel" has been by offering her as accommodation via Airbnb. Now the Canal & River Trust say we can't do this, but that's another story. We've been offering her in various locations, one of the most lucrative being Central Manchester. This comes with a £200 surcharge for taking the boat there and bringing her back, but is still a good deal for up to 8 people compared to hotel prices.
As noted in the previous post, we recently had a group of young festival goers staying in Manchester. I stayed aboard "Forget me Not" to keep the boats safe.
When the time came to return to Ashton I arranged for a group of volunteers to work the pair up the 18 locks of the Ashton canal. They all arrived on time and I went to start the engine. Although it had been working fine when we arrived, this time only one cylinder would fire. A little investigation showed that the problem lay in the injector pump. I'd been planning to take this off for overhaul in the Autumn as it is the only remaining part of the Albin AD2 engine that has not been renovated since it was installed about 10 years ago. It had decided not to give me the luxury of having it seen to while things are quiet.
On a diesel engine the injector pump is the most sophisticated and complex part of the machinery. It pressurises the fuel and delivers precise amounts of it at the correct time to the injectors, which spray it into the cylinders for combustion. Repairing it involves specialist knowledge, a scrupulously clean environment and special tools. It's not the sort of thing that your average engine bodger can fix.
Luckily one member of our crew was the amazing Aaron Booth. Aaron claims to be an alien visiting Earth from a far away planet with a greatly advanced civilisation. Rumour has it that he is nuclear powered, for no physical challenge seems to tire him.
With Aaron as motive power, "Hazel" set off up the locks while I started stripping away all the pipes and other encumbrances that surround the injector pump. When it came to the actual removal of the pump I needed a special 2 legged gear puller. Albin Engines in Sweden will sell you one for lots of kroner, but, luckily, our friends at Dixon & Smith (Motor Engineers) have just such a tool. I mounted my trusty bike and cycled to Dukinfield to borrow it.
Pat and John were working on their latest project, a 1950s Ford Prefect.
They willingly rooted out the necessary item and, with that in my coat pocket, I headed for Manchester again. At Clayton I left the Ashton New Road for the towpath and I met "Hazel" with her cheerful crew at lock 8 beside Alan Turing Way. They had 10 locks to go.
I hurried on, racing against time to get the pump to the diesel specialists that day. I lost that race for it was gone five by the time I had the pump off. I loaded it into multiple 'bags for life' which I hung on my handlebar and set off again up the Ashton towpath.
When I caught her up "Hazel" was at lock 15 in Openshaw, 3 locks left. Aaron was still going strong so I settled into drawing paddles, opening gates etc. A hire boat full of young university graduates was breathing down our neck and jockeying to pass, an unfriendly act on a flight of locks but these people were new to the ways of the cut and had an unrealistic ambition to reach Marple that night. At the summit, Fairfield Junction, our crew dispersed and Aaron tied up. As a gesture of goodwill I helped the hirers to work through the top lock, and gave them some advice about controlling their boat below a lock that is being emptied.
Before heading for home I asked around Droylsden Marina in the hope that I could secure a tow for "Hazel"s next trip in a couple of days as it seemed unlikely that "Forget me Not" would be operational by then. I was unsuccessful and unfortunately the trip had to be postponed.
I woke early and breakfasted, then slung my bags containing the pump over my handlebars and enjoyed a pleasant ride, mostly using car free routes, to their little industrial unit. As expected, the man looked at the oil stained item with much sucking of teeth and muttering about being very busy, difficult to get parts for such an old unit etc. Nevertheless, he took it in, saying it would be a few days before he could look at it.
My next concern was keeping "Forget me Not" safe. Staying on board at Dale St had shown me that all manner of people would hang out there of an evening. There are security guards that patrol the area and I had an assurance that they would keep an eye on the boat, but I really didn't want to risk it for an extended period. My main concern was that one of Manchester's many homeless people might break into her for shelter.
While I regard it as a disgrace that there are so many without homes in such a wealthy country, and I have great sympathy for those who find themselves in that situation (there but for the grace of God) experience has shown that having homeless people on board unsupervised is asking for trouble.
A young homeless man with a severe alcohol problem once broke into "Forget me Not" at Portland Basin. He tried to light a fire in the range but used the oven rather than the firebox. He broke the oil lamp and poured paraffin everywhere. It's lucky he didn't set fire to the boat.
I stayed on "Forget me Not" that night and in the morning started looking for a safer spot. There are some stagings at the start of the Ashton canal that used to be accessible with a BW key. They're now overgrown and there is no access save balancing along the outside copings, which are sometimes under water, under the Ducie St bridge. While that spot looked relatively safe I didn't like the idea of balancing along there carrying expensive engine parts and, anyway, the only other people who might be driven to try it were precisely the scallies that I wished to keep out.
Opposite to 'Paradise Wharf' on the Ashton is a modern block of fancy flats with a big "Private, No Mooring" notice. I wondered if I might be able to plead my case. The electric gate at the entrance was open so I walked in. I noticed a french window facing the canal was slightly open, so I knocked on it. My knock was answered by an elderly gentleman of Chinese heritage. He told me in limited English that he had no objection to me mooring there. This was nice, but not good enough. I needed to speak to the management, but he didn't have their contact information. I rejected the site anyway as the only thing to tie to were some flower boxes and I didn't think that driving in pins would be appreciated.
Store St is crossed by an old stone aqueduct. On the other side are more upmarket residences known as Picadilly Village. They have private moorings. I found the road entrance but it is guarded by an electric gate for which I didn't have the code. The 'phone number of the caretaker was displayed so I rang it. I got a recorded message to say that he had retired and it gave me another number to ring for the management team. I rang this one, but the number was non existent.
As I stood wondering what to do the gate opened to allow a cyclist to exit. I took my opportunity and dodged in.
I examined the moorings and found that there were rings to tie to. A notice stated that visiting boats could stay for 24 hours only and no-one was allowed to give visiting boaters the access code.
I started ringing the doorbells of adjacent houses. At the third one I got an answer from a friendly, helpful man. He wrote down the number of the management team for me. I rang this one and got through to a woman. I had expected my plea to be rejected out of hand, fobbed off, buck passed etc, but no! I explained my case, that it was a historic charity boat broken down that needed a temporary safe haven etc. She said it was OK as long as CRT didn't object. I didn't see why they would.
Relieved, I returned to the boat and shafted her through the complicated twists and turns that connect the Ashton and Rochdale canals, former trans Pennine competitors. As I was tying up the same helpful man came out to warn me that some residents were in the habit of complaining if anyone overstayed the prescribed 24 hours. As a precaution I wrote a summary of the situation ,and the fact that we had permission from the management office, on a series of leaflets, then posted them through nearby letterboxes.
I gathered up my belongings and prepared to set off on my bike. Another person, who shall remain unidentified, had been very interested in the boat. I handed over a leaflet and, in return, was given the access code for the various gates.
I was anticipating about a week before I would hear from Wilkinsons again but, having dropped it off on Tuesday morning, it was only Wednesday afternoon that they rang up to say that it was ready. Thursday was to be taken up by preparing for some weekend guests, so it had to be Friday morning that I took another pleasant ride across Fairfield golf course and through Reddish to collect the pump and hand over lots of notes. The injector repairing man, perhaps 40 years old, was surprised that this 69 year old man was going to cycle the 5 miles to Ashton with a heavy injector pump slung from the handlebars. So many people seem to believe that life is impossible without a car.
Saturday morning my bike had a puncture so I boarded a tram to New Islington (Ancoats in old money) then walked down the towpath and across the ornate bridge, keying in my surreptitiously obtained access code, into the secure community.
Fitting an injector pump is not easy. To do it properly you need a special tool that we don't have. It involves getting various marks on different rotating components to all line up with each other at precisely the stage in the pump's cycle that it is firing a burst of fuel towards the no1 cylinder which must be at the top of its stroke at the same time. That's a lot of bits of engine to co-ordinate.
A few years ago I had the injector pump off, I don't remember why now. I set the timing basically by trial and error. At the fourth attempt I got it right and the engine fired up.
This time I thought I'd done better. At my second attempt I got the engine to start. Access to the injector pump drive gear involves dismantling part of the cooling system so I couldn't give the engine an extended run until I'd put this all back together again. With this done I started the engine again. It ticked over nicely, though with a bit of a knock. When I put it into forward gear it faded and died, Back to the drawing board!
Sunday was spent in fruitless trial and error attempts to get everything timed correctly. After each attempt I had to use the gear puller to remove the drive gear. Getting tired and frustrated I used this clumsily and did minor damage to the threads on the end of the shaft. When I tried to put the nut back on I managed to drop it. I spent the next hour or so cleaning out the drip tray and thrusting a magnet into every oily nook and cranny in the vain hope of recovering it. I took the tram home, thoroughly dispirited.
Monday morning's first task was to call at Roy Turnbull Fasteners in Dukinfield. https://www.royturnbullfasteners.com/ These helpful people soon found me a 1/2" UNF nut to replace the one that I'd lost. I had to spend a few hours at the heritage boatyard as Monday is volunteer day there, then I caught the train, with my bike, from Stalybridge to Picadilly. In my pocket was a needle file for cleaning up the damaged thread.
I soon had the nut on and carried on with my fruitless attempts to time the pump. I was beginning to worry about overstaying my welcome. Did the person who said it was OK have the authority to do so? As I was packing up for the day this concern was re-inforced. Another elderly Chinese man approached along the canal side. This one was short and wide with a strange slow mechanical gait. I smiled and said hello but he ignored me, raised his right arm, extended a finger and said in an admonitory voice, "24 hours only". I tried to explain the situation but he carried on past me like an automaton, intermittently raising his arm and repeating his mantra until he turned and descended the steps at the end of the houses.
On Tuesday I had a full day available to work on the problem. I was getting concerned about how much power might be left in the batteries with so many starting attempts having been made. I decided to get more scientific in my attempts. I stopped the pump at the point where it was squirting fuel from the correct orifice. I removed the drive gear and carefully lined up all the timing marks on the rest of the engine before putting it all together again. First time it didn't work, but examination showed that I'd got the gears a couple of teeth out from the correct position. I put that right, pressed the button and the engine burst into life.
It was now 4pm. By the time I'd re-assembled the cooling system and tidied my tools it was 5. I rang some possible voluntary assistants but they were all busy. Wednesday was spoken for as far as my time was concerned so if I delayed I wouldn't be able to move the boat until Thursday. There was nothing for it but to set out and boat late into the night.
As headed for lock 1 I was pleased to see that a boat was just tying up after descending the locks. This meant that many of them would be ready for me and I wouldn't have to empty them before entering. The first three locks however were not quite like that. A small head of water had already built up against the bottom gates, presumably because of leaking top gates or paddles.
My technique was to place the bows against the bottom gates then put the boat into forward gear to push them open (warning anyone on the lockside to keep clear of the swinging balance beams). If the gates wouldn't open because of water pressure behind them I would leave the boat in forward gear while I drew the bottom paddles. I returned to the boat and when a level was achieved, pushed the gates open and entered the lock. With the bows placed against the top sill (just kiss the sill as I often say to trainees) I engage forward gear and climb the lock ladder with my windlass and anti vandal key. Bottom paddles are dropped and locked, bottom gates closed then top paddles unlocked and drawn.
One problem that we increasingly find now that gates are not so carefully balanced is that the bottom gates will not stay closed. The way to deal with this is to draw about a third of a top paddle. Enough to start a flow but not enough to flush the boat backwards. You then go to the bottom gates and close them. The little bit of extra water in the lock will keep them shut and the top paddles can be fully opened.
When top level is reached the boat helps to push the top gate open and slowly moves forward as the top paddles are closed and locked. I jump on to the boat and stop her clear of the gate to hop off with a line (so that she can't drift out of reach) to close the top gate.
There have been problems recently with the long pound between locks 3 and 4 being low. This time it was just on weir, but, nevertheless, we bounced over miscellaneous debris in this notoriously shallow stretch.
it was a very pleasant sunny evening as I worked lock after lock. Towpath walkers, many with dogs, runners and cyclists were out in force and I exchanged friendly greetings with those who would acknowledge me. Those who wouldn't mostly had music plugged directly into their ears. Though I like to listen to music I've never understood why so many people choose to blot out their human and environmental surroundings with intravenous pop.
I must say that the Canal & River Trust have improved this flight over the last few years. Not so long ago I would have had to contend with empty pounds, but replacing leaky gates has improved the situation no end. There was just enough water all the way up. It was flowing over the weirs but as each lock filled the water was diverted into lock filling and the level would drop to an inch or two below weir. Enough water but very little running to waste. Well done CRT!
I had no food left on board and I was getting peckish. At lock 9 in industrial Clayton,
halfway up the flight,I examined the cupboards for nutrition, but found only a third of a litre of mango juice. I enjoyed that and carried on, stomach rumbling. Most of the locks were for me but occasionally I would come across one that had filled up since the last boat passed. This included the deepest one, number ten. Surely a candidate for regating soon.
Above lock 11 is the junction with the former Stockport branch. As I closed the top gates I could see a bunch of teenagers hanging out around lock 12 and was a little apprehensive. Though things have improved over time there can still be a problem of boaters being harassed and robbed around here and being singlehanded I was vulnerable. A few years ago we had a very expensive bike stolen from the boat here.
As I left lock 11 I was pleased to see the group move away from number 12. As I passed they were heading under the junction bridge and up the filled in branch. The air was heavy with the tang of cannabis.
I looked down the flight, locks lined up in the evening light as the summer sun set over the distant city. All was going well and I was confident of getting to the summit before dark.
Leaving lock 14 the propeller made crunching noises as it dealt with solid floating debris. Various pieces of wood flew out from under the counter, followed by a plastic road cone. As I carefully approached number 15, where gate leaks showed me that the lock was full, the engine started to labour. I engaged stern gear in order to throw off whatever she had picked up on the blade, but the engine stalled. With no means of stopping, the bow impacted the bottom gates with a great bang. I used the cabin shaft to feel under the counter. The little bit of insulation that I pulled off confirmed my fear that it was a duvet.
I tied the boat forward to prevent her being carried away by the flush of water, then emptied the lock and hauled the disabled boat in. With the boat at top level I was able to work on the duvet. It took me the best part of an hour to remove the offending item, by which time it was dark.
I carried on. At lock 17 a gongoozler told me that he'd never seen anyone work through the lock so quickly. Finally I reached the summit lock, 18. It was full. A passing cyclist stopped and warned me to take care as working locks at night was dangerous. He's right, it is.
At last I was leaving the top lock. I checked the time, it was just after 11. it had taken 6 hours to work the 18 locks. That's 3 locks an hour or 20 minutes a lock. Not a record, but then, it did include that hour of removing the duvet.
It was about midnight by the time I was tied up. The Land Rover was parked nearby so I drove home and flopped into bed.
Throughout my life I've had a continual struggle with a tendency to depression. Most of the time it's not severe, it just gives me a gloomy and pessimistic slant on reality. Sometimes it gets really bad and I spend some time living in a horrible version of reality where everyone is bad, everybody hates me and nothing good is ever going to happen. That's why I do my best to help others who struggle with depression, particularly by running "Hazel" the well being boat.
It's nearly 30 years since I was last drawn down into the maelstrom of a really bad depression. Partly that's because I can usually spot the signs now, I've learned to, and challenge the pessimistic and self destructive thoughts. Partly it's because I take a couple of St John's Wort tablets each day.
The post below was I think influenced by the fact that I had gone away for over a week and didn't take a supply of St John's Wort with me. I couldn't go home because my wife had caught Covid. I could have bought some more, but I thought I was OK. It sort of creeps up on you.
The post does reflect some of my genuine thoughts and feelings. I never feel at home in cities, I dislike the way that planners see canals as mere features rather than as water highways and I often feel like I'm on a different planet from most people. However, I'd normally express these things more positivel
I never feel at home in the centre of Manchester. "Forget me Not" and "Hazel" are tied opposite the old Dale St Basin, now a car park. The area is now renamed Piccadilly Basin. For some reason those in power like to rename things, like New Islington replacing good old Ancoats. We're tied next to the big black Dakota Hotel. A Darth Vader owned franchise I suspect.
Nothing here is cosy. It's all big and bold and impressive, and the people who constantly drift by also do their best to impress with their stylish clothes, tanned skins and estuary English accents. I feel very little connection with them.
I suppose that it's partly that they're mostly a lot younger than me. As the decades pass by you get less and less impressed by the superficial things like clothes or coolness. It's also that I'm a natural born Hobbit. I like cosy. A simple unpretentious life. I like natural things, woods, fields, water. Here everything is sharp edged. The only concession to nature here is one of those silly floating gardens that CaRT are so fond of.
Of course, in the olden days that I'm so fond of there would be little of nature. The basin would have been packed with flats loading and unloading supplies for the city. The air would have been rich with the sting of coal smoke. Horses would clatter to and fro hauling delivery carts or straining to get a heavy flat moving out of the lock. At least, though, the vessels and carts were made of wood, the buildings largely of stone and the people would have been down to Earth working people.
Our guests are young middle class people from the South. That's fine and they're nice, but I don't have any real point of contact with them, our environments are so different. One carfull was driven here from Brighton by somebody's dad. They're here for a festival.
The only people I feel a connection with are the guy who works in the hotel who came for a chat in his break, the two lads who were thinking about fishing asked asked me to take their picture, and the security man who is paid to patrol the area to discourage trouble.
It seems to me that the role of the canal here is nothing really to do with navigation. It's a sort of handy steampunk feature in the cityscape. We're temporarily enhancing it by bringing a pair of genuine historic boats into the scene for a few days.
Is it just me?
OK, so there's a few trees poking through the concrete. See what I mean about the Darth Vader franchise?
The would be anglers who wanted their photos taken.
It's been a while since I posted anything. We've been having a busy time and I haven't been taking many photos. About a fortnight ago we took the boats down to Ducie St, Manchester (or Paradise Wharf as it's been renamed) for some airbnbers.
On the return trip we managed to pick up lots of textiles on the blade.
Halfway up the flight the bracket that holds "Forget me Not"s gear change linkage broke. I removed the broken item and cycled with it to Dukinfield where our friends Dixon & Smith (Motor Engineers) welded it back together and added extra metal to make it stronger.
We had to stay where we were overnight
before carrying on up to Ashton in time to get "Hazel" ready for some wellbeing guests who just wanted to stay on board rather than go for a trip.
Last weekend we had two Marple trips. On the Saturday we took some of Liz's Guiding friends for a trip to Marple and back.
That turned out to take longer than expected, partly because of the water level being low so we stemmed up a couple of times and collected some impressive bladefuls.
As well as that the winding hole at Marple was clogged up with CRT work boats and it was impossible to wind without moving some. Even then, we could only wind the boats singly rather than as a breasted pair. "Community Spirit 2", which is about 50' long also did a Marple trip and had difficulty winding.
We had to move a couple of the boats. If they'd been tied a little more thoughtfully this wouldn't have been necessary.
On Sunday we took a care worker and her family to Marple, winded, then tied for the night at Chadkirk. That evening I had a meeting with Liz in the Friendship pub in Romiley. Unfortunately it has changed landlord since last time i visited and it's now a noisy sports pub.
Monday afternoon me and Aaron had a lovely uneventful trip returning our guests to Portland Basin.
I had Tuesday to get jobs done on the boats, then it was a trip down the locks to Manchester where we're tied at Dale St, or Piccadilly Wharf as they've renamed it. There are some Airbnb guests on board now, attending a festival at Trafford Park. I'm staying on "Forget me Not" to keep things safe before we return the boats to Ashton on Monday. I haven't been able to go home as Emuna contracted covid whilst I was away.
Today I had a day off as Em wanted to visit the land of her birth, Salford. We left late morning, intending to get brunch at a Kosher cafe that she knew. They shut early on a Friday for the sabbath and we saw that there was a long queue outside, so we travelled on to eat in a double decker bus serving Dutch style burgers and chips. I thought this would be run by Dutch people, but the staff clearly had ancestry from the Indian subcontinent and were playing Indian music.
We both had fishburgers, which were excellent, as were the chips, served with mayonnaise in the European manner. Em was dismayed that so much of the Salford that she knew had been knocked down and replaced with the ugliest of modern buildings. The Victorian chimney of Strangeways prison still stands proud and erect. In the distance the city centre of Manchester has grown upwards like a patch of steel framed mushrooms.
Hunger satisfied, we visited the place where Em spent her childhood in a brick maisonette, since demolished. The site is now occupied by boring modern housing, which also covers the sandhills where she used to play. The prison governors house is still there, apparently now a homeless shelter, but the prison doctors house next door has gone, it's garden derelict and overgrown.
Salford is surprisingly green at this time of year, but much of the greenery is accidental. Self seeded trees and shrubs on long disused land.
The next destination was Short St, where her mother lived as a child. The route that we planned to take was unavailable because of a one way street so we had to take a long detour. This took us close to the Black Friar pub where her dad liked to drink. She said it was a bit of a dive, which was what he liked. We briefly considered visiting, but likely problems parking discouraged us. It seems it's gone upmarket now https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/whats-on/food-drink-news/inside-historic-salford-pub-black-21116643
Our route took us along a busy multi ethnic shopping street which had something of the atmosphere of Diagon Alley. At last we got to Short St, a tiny loop in an area dominated by grey and dismal light industrial units. Amazingly, the Albert pub still stands, though derelict.
Em's mother spent her childhood next door to the pub and an evenings entertainment was watching the fights in the street. They made their own fun in them days.
Em had fond memories of visiting 'The Cliff' beside the river Irwell. I had a vague memory of going there years ago and there being a pub there. We were unable to find it, which is a pity as the pub looks excellent https://www.staronthecliff.co.uk/ We found ourselves in an orthodox Jewish area of cobbled streets where lots of kids were getting ready for the sabbath and found our intrusion an object of interest.
Em was now getting tired so we headed for home to enjoy tea and cake in bed.
I just got back from running a 2 day trip for care worker Laura. She has worked through the pandemic looking after elderly people with challenging behaviours. She deserves a break, and, thanks to the National Lottery Awards for All fund, we were able to give her one. Laura brought along her fiance, Philip, and their friend, Steve.
It's sometimes hard to find enough crew on weekdays and unfortunately one crew member dropped out at the last minute because of a headache. This left just me and Aaron to run the trip, though Nessie helped by raising the lift bridge as we set out.
There were no other boats moving, save for "Community Spirit 2" which followed us as far as Hyde.
The weather was intermittently raining as we travelled up the Peak Forest canal. We had to stop once to remove plastic from the propeller. The law of Sod kicked in as we approached Hyde Bank Tunnel. Having met no boats all the way from Ashton, one had just entered the tunnel coming the other way. We had to stop the pair in the shallow water and hold them there until it emerged.
At Marple the winding hole (canal speak for a place where you can turn round) was full of CRT maintenance boats, some of which we had to move in order to wind. Winding completed, we headed back over the aqueduct and tied just before Rose Hill 'tunnel'.
Aaron could have stayed in "Hazel"s back cabin, but he elected to return home by train instead. I retired to "Forget me Not"s cabin to do some much needed cleaning and tidying.
I woke early to lovely spring sunshine. Steve had been up all night fishing.
Hyde Bank tunnel was opened out over 100 years ago but is still known as a tunnel.
Aaron arrived on his bike and we set out for the return trip at the agreed time of 10AM. Steve had expressed an interest in joining us as a volunteer, so Aaron showed him how to steer "Hazel", a task that he took to like a duck to water. Once I was satisfied with Steve's abilities I was able to hand the motor boat over to Aaron and hop off on to the towpath to take some photos,
Back at Portland Basin we stopped on the aqueduct to unload our guests before battling a vicious wind to put the boats back in their place abreast of "Lilith".
Here's what Laura wrote in the visitors book;-
"Have had an amazing time on our trip on Hazel. Can't believe how much fun it is being towed by another boat, but what an experience!!! Chris and all the staff involved with this experience deserve a medal, and they are so attentive, friendly and go out of their way to make sure you enjoy your trip. Definitely would recommend the Well Being Boat. Top class."
I can't speak for anyone else but I'm not keen on medals. It's enough for me to see people enjoying all the different aspects of what we do, whether it's using "Hazel", working at the boatyard, running the shop, going on recycling trips (if and when we re-start them) or just enjoying watching the boats go by. These boats are special. They, and the activities around them, help people to live better lives. What we need now is more help from the wider waterway community to keep this whole project running.
Yesterday was a lovely day. It started cold so I lit the stove on "Hazel". Our first guests arrived at 11AM for a trip to Lumb Lane and back, about 2 hours. Two of them couldn't manage the steps so we used the lift to bring them on board. A straightforward trip, no problems. Aaron Booth and Mick Owen were the crew.
It was the first canal trip for some of them and they loved it.
As we came round the turn from Walk Bridge and breasted up I saw that a boat had taken our mooring. This wouldn't be a problem normally as we had another trip to do. However, if we're using the wheelchair lift we need to have "Hazel"s bow at a specific place on the wharf.
As we approached I gave a series of long blasts on the hooter but nobody emerged from the open doors of the boat until our bows were actually lying against it. The man came out and explained indignantly that they were taking water. Portland Basin wharf is not an official water point but there's a tap with a long hose that reaches to any part of the wharf.
When I explained about the need to unload disabled guests they became co-operative and moved off. We tied up and the other boat came in behind us to continue watering.
Mick had to leave so it was just me and Aaron for the afternoon trip. We just had time for a brew before they arrived. This time we were headed up the Peak Forest canal, so we had to negotiate the lift bridge. Normally we would send somebody ahead to do this but there was no-one available. As we approached I brought the butty up close and stopped with the bows in the narrows. I tied to the handy bollard and lifted the bridge. Returning to the boat I drove the pair through the bridge and stopped them with "Hazel"s stern just clear of the bridge. Aaron tied it then lowered the bridge. We set off again.
Between Dukinfield and Hyde the canal runs past a series of industrial estates, and yet they hardly intrude beyond the sylvan ribbon that borders the waterway. When I first came this way in 1977 we navigated past a huge and smelly landfill site with bulldozers heaping up the rubbish. That same place is now magical woodland.
We passed through Hyde and out into countryside bordering Haughton Vale, swinging the boats confidently round the tortuous bends as the canal follows the contours of the valley side.
The winding hole near the derelict Gee Cross mill was unusable until last year. It had become too silted with lack of use since "Maria" stopped doing horse drawn trips. CRT dredged in 2021 and we are now able to wind there again.
An angler sat staring at his float right opposite the hole. I explained that we had no choice but to disturb his fishing. He calmly dismantled his rod and sat watching us as we thrashed about in the muddy water, gradually turning the boats.
Aaron and me swapped boats when we set off and I enjoyed an hour or so of butty steering. I love steering the butty. It's a gentle tranquil experience but I don't often get the opportunity. The only incident on the trip was some difficulty getting past a moored boat that had come adrift.
At the M67 bridge in Hyde I jumped on to the towpath to run forward and get on to the motor. Aaron chose to get back to steering the butty by crawling along its roof rather than using the towpath. Each to their own! The boats couldn't go far out of line during this procedure as the canal here is a narrow concrete trough.
After working the lift bridge again we arrived at Portland Basin, stopping on the aqueduct to unload our guests, who were delighted with the experience. I went to move "Lilith" back on to the wharf as she had spent the day lying alongside the flats, then we moved the pair forward, breasted up and swung them round to tie alongside "Lilith".
The end of a wonderful days boating.
The following day I met one of the guests from the morning trip in the charity shop. She was once more full of praise for the experience and explained some of the hardships that some of them had been through.
Thank you Christine Dinsdale for the best of the photos.
It's that time of year when we're tarring the sides of the boats. The Trusty Aaron Booth has recently done "Lilith". "Hazel" will be next. She's developed some annoying cabin leaks. Nessie has recently removed the solar panels from one side to lay an extra layer of waterproofing.
When we first publicised our project for care and NHS workers last Autumn we got an enquiry from a couple in South Wales who wanted to book the boat for several nights holiday. This was slightly beyond the scope of what was on offer, but we agreed a reduced price rather than a totally free trip and booked them in for Easter.
The repaired gearbox for "Forget me Not" arrived a couple of days before the trip and I fitted it on Thursday. The Albin gearbox shares its oil with the engine. The problem had been that the oil feed from the engine had got blocked, causing excessive wear to various components. Our friends pulled out all the stops to get it repaired and back to us as soon as possible. The main delay was getting the parts from Sweden.
I tried turning the gearbox by hand and it worked fine. Once fitted I started the engine. It ran happily in forward gear but when I put it into reverse the engine started to labour. I thought it just needed adjusting, so I took the lid off and screwed the clutch adjustment back a bit, re-tightened the locking bolt and started the engine with the gearbox lid off.
Once again, it ran fine in forward but as soon as I changed to reverse the clutch adjuster started to turn, in spite of the locking bolt being in. This tightened the clutch, causing it to try to run in forward and reverse at the same time, thus stalling the engine. Drat!!!
I'm not blaming our friendly gearbox menders, who did a fine job. Like I said, if turned by hand the problem didn't show up.
After studying the difficulty I came up with a possible solution to fix it temporarily. On Good Friday morning I got up early to work on it. After several hours of effort I realised that my bodge wasn't going to work. There was nothing for it but to jam it into forward gear and do the trip with no neutral or reverse. I wasn't going to disappoint our guests. it would just mean that I would have to steer the motor boat all the way and not do any training.
Getting volunteer crew at Easter is difficult. I can usually rely on the amazing Aaron Booth but he had a positive covid test. He claimed that this was a false positive caused by drinking milk shakes (!?!!) and would have been happy to come along. There's no way I was going to allow this. Luckily I'd just met a couple of new volunteers, Jason and his partner Claire. Jason was working Friday and Saturday but Claire was free so she agreed to come along for a crash course in butty steering. The faithful Nessie came as butty steering coach and Daniel Stocks joined us to work the lift bridge and generally help out.
The original plan had been for a trip to Bugsworth and back but this was stymied by the closure of Marple locks on Easter Saturday. Instead I had suggested a return trip to Marple followed by a foray up the Huddersfield Narrow Canal. Our guests were happy with this.
I was filthy, covered in oil, with just a couple of hours to go before our guests arrived. I headed home for a shower and to change into my boatman garb. Nessie fetched "Hazel" back from her battery charging point and got her ready.
With guests on board and crew assembled we set out. The lack of manoeuvring ability meant that we had to shaft "Forget me Not" on to the Tame Aqueduct then bring "Hazel" round behind her and connect the towline before starting the engine. Almost immediately she picked up something on the blade. With no reverse I could not perform a 'chuck back', a brief engagement of stern gear to reverse the propeller and throw the rubbish off it.
We stopped to clean some rope and plastic bags off the blade whilst Daniel waited at the lift bridge wondering what had become of us. In the narrows of the lift bridge we picked up another load of crap and had to stop once again. Black smoke and slow progress became a theme of the trip.
Claire turned out to be a natural at butty steering. At Manchester Road bridge in Hyde we stopped for yet another blade cleaning operation. "Forget me Not"s cabin shaft wasn't in its proper place. I expressed my concern that I may have left it on the towpath at the last blade cleaning location. Nessie offered to go and look and unthinkingly I said OK. If I'd thought about it I would have said no as I knew he was suffering with blistered feet. He'd not been gone long when I realised that I'd put the shaft inside the cabin. I rang him and listened to his 'phone chirruping in his coat in the cabin.
With the blade clean we set off again, concerned about how far Nessie might have to walk to catch us up. It seemed an age before he did so.
At the old Joseph Adamson works in Hyde there used to be a man called Bryn who lived on the canal side in a caravan. He had a menagerie of animals and birds in cages on the bank. Bryn used to live on a boat but when he had it craned out for repairs it broke in half. On recent trips I'd noticed that the menagerie was diminishing but saw a flicker of TV from the caravan. Clearly age was creeping up on him. This time the caravan was all shut up, half the cages had gone and a younger bearded man, with a look of DH Lawrence, was working there, apparently clearing the site. I said hello then, when it was too late, kicked myself for not asking about Bryn. Presumably he's either gone into a home or died.
After Captain Clarkes bridge the canal follows a lovely wooded winding course along the edge of Haughton Dale. Bladefuls of rubbish became less frequent but I began to worry about excessive noise from under the cabin floor. I got Daniel to steer while I investigated.
About 10 years ago we replaced the thrust bearing that supports the prop shaft and transfers the push from the propeller to the structure of the boat. I was surprised that all that secured it to the shaft was two tiny grub screws. Nevertheless, it had given no trouble, until now. For some reason the grub screws had loosened, allowing the shaft to move forward until one of the couplings started rubbing on a floor bearer. Reluctant to get my clothes dirty I decided to carry on regardless.
Daniel had to leave us but Jason, Claire's partner, turned up on his bike, having finished his work shift.
By the time we reached Romiley the abrasion between shaft coupling and floor bearer was producing smoke and sparks. I had cooled it a few times with a handbowl full of water, but it was obvious that I would have to stop and crawl into the oily black void under the counter, clean clothes notwithstanding. Soon I had hammered the shaft back to its proper position and re-tightened the grub screws. Nessie headed for home and we carried on our way, with the engine labouring a lot less.
We tied for the night at Chadkirk, one of my favourite spots, in the concrete trough that was installed about 30 years ago when the canal started to slip down the hillside. Opposite are very nice gardens and on the towpath side the ground drops away into a wooded valley. A short walk away is a holy well, a mediaeval chapel and lovely gardens. In the other direction are the shops, pubs and restaurants of Romiley.
Claire and Jason got on their bikes to ride home. Our guests went food shopping and, after tidying "Forget me Not"s cabin I rode my bike into Romiley and purchased a veggie burger as I was tired and didn't feel like cooking.
The plan for Saturday was that Claire would join the boats at 10AM and we would go up to Marple to wind, then head back towards Ashton. Nessie would check the boats at Portland Basin then make his way up the towpath to meet us. I was dubious about this in view of Nessie's poorly feet, but he insisted that it would be OK.
Claire arrived by bike bang on time and we set off.
Under the railway viaduct at Marple we breasted the boats up and I used the long shaft to wind them before setting off back towards Ashton. Entering the narrows of the aqueduct I badly cross winded the motor, shouting an explanation to Claire that I was showing her how not to do it!
The return trip was mostly straightforward. At Romiley railway bridge I eased down to give a day hire boat time to clear the narrows then, entering the bridge, I gave a long blast on the horn to warn an approaching steel boat. The steerer did the usual beginners trick of slamming it into full reverse, causing the boat to slew sideways across the cut. Luckily he'd jumped on to the towpath and got it under control with a line by the time "Forget me Not"s stem iron got close.
We were still picking things up on the blade every now and then but I found that if I stopped the engine then quickly ran along the gunwale to the engine 'ole, leaned in and pressed the starter button then it would usually clear it.
Passing the Warble moorings between Hyde and Dukinfield we picked up something serious on the blade which stopped the engine. We breasted up to keep control of the boats and shafted them to one side to allow "Community Spirit" to pass with a load of passengers. A little work with the cabin shaft removed a mutilated dog bed from the propeller.
Claire did an excellent job of steering the butty. She's clearly a natural at it. As we got closer to Ashton I got increasingly concerned about Nessie. Attempts to 'phone him just accessed his answering service. Later we learned that he had left his 'phone behind and set out up the towpath but been forced to retire with painful feet and get a taxi back to Ashton.
The difficulty that I faced was that with only the two of us and no neutral or reverse gears, working through Dukinfield lift bridge was going to be tricky. With only a few hundred yards to go Jason appeared on the towpath, having been summoned by Claire at the end of his shift. I threw him a windlass and anti vandal key and he went ahead to prepare the bridge for us.
Dukinfield lift bridge is an out of the way spot and so a favourite place for fly tipping. The canal was dredged a couple of years ago, which greatly improved things, but now it is filling up with rubbish again. On this trip I noticed that the adjacent car park had been recently blocked with two lorry sized mounds of soil and rubble. These don't affect the canal, but do demonstrate the scale of the problem.
As we went through the bridge the motor boat rode over some rubbish, then the engine started to struggle as she had picked up more on the blade. I decided to call it a day so we breasted up and tied at the end of the landing bollards. It's a nice spot for our guests to stay the night anyway. Sometimes, when Portland Basin has become a night time haunt for drinkers I bring "Hazel" up here for overnight guests.
I went home for the night and spent the evening 'phoning potential volunteers. One of the frustrations of working with volunteers is that some people regard showing up as optional. For this reason you have to invite more people than you actually need to make sure that you have enough. Sometimes this results in an embarrassingly large number for the job in hand, but that's better than too few.
Sunday's planned trip was up the 3 locks to Stalybridge, then back down them again. Easy! Well, it should be, but this length of waterway has many obstacles. I wanted to be mob handed.
I was pleased as the crew started to assemble. Aaron Booth was first there as his covid tests were now showing negative. Daniel came to join us, and both Jason and Claire were there as neither were working that day. Nessie joined us, in spite of his foot problem, as did Joan Wainwright. Geraldine Buckley 'phoned to say that she'd meet us at lock 1.
The first difficulty was the turn at Portland Basin. This would be very difficult with no reverse so I stopped the boats on the aqueduct just before the junction. I shafted the motor round the turn Aaron and Nessie followed with the butty with Joan steering. Nessie threw me the towing line, I dropped its eye over the dolly, started the engine and we were off. All very neat.
The next problem was entering the lock with no stern gear. Normally I will shorten the line as I approach the lock with brief bursts of astern to enable the butty to catch up. When the motor is mostly in the lock and the butty right behind a burst of astern can be used to stop the butty just short of the bottom gates. The mast line is then thrown up from the butty to someone on the lockside and the gates quickly shut as soon as the motor is in the lock. The top paddles are drawn and, as soon as there is some water against the bottom gates, the butty can be hauled forward so that its fender is pressed against the gate. The line is made fast to hold the butty in place when the lock is emptied again when the motor has moved on. It is then an easy matter to haul the butty into the emptied lock.
On this occasion I cut the engine just as the motor's bows entered the tail of the lock and it all went surprisingly smoothly, despite a little confusion about which line to throw up from the butty. Geraldine had the lock workers well organised and a couple of people walked ahead to prepare lock 2 unbidden.
We set off into the narrow shallow Whitelands tunnel, opened out over 100 years ago. The motor always struggles through here so, as it's not possible to steer in the narrows, I stepped on to the towpath and helped her along by hauling on the back end line.
The next lock was not quite so smooth, but not bad for a largely inexperienced crew.
Locks 2 and 3 are close together so we bowhaul the butty between them.
I took the motor ahead, but my heart sank when I saw the water level on the notorious long pound between locks 3 and 4. It was about a foot down and I knew that we would have a hard time getting through it to the winding hole at Staley Wharf. It was, of course, inevitable that we took 2 lockfulls off before starting along the pound.
The first few yards above lock 3 are some of the most difficult. On the towpath side the bottom is strewn with rocks, probably left by contractors when they rebuilt the towpath wall. On the outside there is lots of submerged industrial machinery. The gap in the middle between these obstacles isn't very wide or very deep.
Inevitably we ground to a halt in mid channel. Luckily we had some strong lads with us who were surprisingly easy to co-ordinate. Sometimes when a boat is stuck different people have competing ideas about how to unstick it, which makes things very difficult.
Gradually we moved forward, stemming up time after time and having to be hauled free by the strong men on the towpath. The exhaust threw out black smoke as the propeller dredged up plastic bags from the canal bed.
At the cast iron aqueduct over the river Tame we found ourselves stemming a tremendous flow of water as the boats inched forward.
I later discovered that this was because another boat was following us up and was drawing off a further lockful. On the plus side, Geraldine and Nessie had gone ahead to try to find water to run down from pounds higher up to help us through.
Just beyond the aqueduct the narrows of a former bridge is another notorious fly tipping spot. Cheryl Dinsdale met us here to take photos as we laboured to get through this obstacle. Eventually we moved on and, after struggling through Bayley St bridge
we entered the relatively deep stretch leading up to Staley wharf. Here we breasted up and let the following boat, which had now caught us up, pass us to enter lock 4.
We paused for a while at Staley Wharf. I left it to Aaron to wind the pair, using the shaft, while I pulled strings of twisted polythene off the blade. Some people went off in search of food and drink and our guests provided coffee for anyone who wanted it. Geraldine returned from her water hunt but attempts to communicate with Nessie were once more met by his 'phone ringing on the boat.
Eventually we set off for the return trip. This was a little easier as the water level had risen. The biggest problem was that a vicious wind had sprung up, making it difficult to keep the boats in the channel. At one point we were stopped for quite a long time with both boats pinned on to the towpath by the gusty cross wind. As soon as you got a boat free another gust would put it back on the towpath.
At last we reached lock 3 and started to descend towards Ashton.
Earlier in the trip Carl, one of our guests, mentioned that a cousin of his had a boatyard in the area. This turned out to be Robert Holmes of the Ashton Packet Boat Co. I said I'd take him there, so this became our final destination. We worked down lock 1 and set off towards the Asda tunnel. As we passed Portland Basin it suddenly occurred to me that I couldn't see Claire anywhere. Jason was steering the butty and a shouted conversation with him established that we'd left her behind at the lock.
It was pleasant to be navigating relatively deep and clear water. The ocassional plastic bag was removed by stopping and restarting the engine. Soon we reached the Ashton Packet Boat Co and tied to the rings opposite which have happily survived the tarmaccing of the towpath. Claire arrived, flushed from running to catch us up. She had been detained at the lock by a talkative person.
Carl went over Hanover St Bridge to meet his cousin and get a guided tour of the boatyard and its rail network. I cycled home.
In the morning our guests left for the drive back to Swansea. Aaron and I returned the boats to Portland Basin. I worked out a way of making the gearbox function correctly again.
Many thanks to Jason Wilson and Cheryl Louise Dinsdale for the excellent photos. The less excellent ones are mine.
