Every year there used to be the Tameside Canals Festival on the second weekend in July. I decided to leave my hair and beard uncut until then and get sheared at the festival for sponsorship. As the months passed by I started to look like an old testament prophet.
Plans for the festival weekend became complicated when one of my nephews arranged to get married in Somerset on the Saturday of the festival weekend.
I was living aboard Hazel at the time. She was becoming increasingly difficult to keep afloat. Three days before the Canals Festival she sank. This was both distressing and embarrassing. We really didn't want a sunken boat while the festival was on.
When I was at Ellesmere Port many years ago we had a friendly arrangement with the Fire Brigade. They would turn up with pumps, raise the boat and put it down as training.
Nevertheless, I gathered together what pumps I could and hoped for the best.
On the Friday we set up our stall ready. Early in the morning I clad myself in the poshest clothes I could find and set off in the van. I got there in good time to see Robert and Marie wed, but had to be very careful about alcohol consumption at the reception afterwards.
The cab in that old Transit had comfortable seats to sleep on and the sun was quite bright by the time I woke. I drove home, over the high moorland way, and changed into my scruffs.
When I reached Portland Basin I was pleased to see that there was a fire engine on the wharf. They usually put in an appearance at the festival to promote their charity work.
Even better, I knew one of the firemen. I asked if they'd help us to raise the boat. They couldn't wait to get started. Immediately portable pumps were set up and hoses rolled out from the appliance.
Ashton Packet Boat Co lent us their Coventry Godiva pump but it was reluctant to work at first,
We were nearly there when a problem cropped up. It was the end of the firemen's shift. They had to return to the station and hand over to another group of firefighters. Most of the water was out but she was still not sitting high enough to stop some serious leaks. The fire brigade were the only ones with equipment that would pump down to the last few inches. If they left immediately there was a real danger that she would go down again, I persuaded them to hang on for another ten minutes. By then we were able to handle the remaining water with a 12 volt submersible pump.
The fire brigade left. I stood on the wharf, soggy and dripping, wondering about my next move.
I was secured to a chair in front of our stall. Spider's wife ( sorry, her name was recorded in a cluster of brain cells that are now deceased) had volunteered for the mammoth task of shearing me.
The sharp eyed may have noticed a boat in the background called Squeers. Why anyone would name their boat after the unscrupulous proprietor of Dotheboys Hall School escapes me. Anyway the owner of that boat watched our boat raising. He also observed some inebriated spectators drinking strong lager from cans and, for some reason, thought they were part of our crew. That evening he went on to a waterways forum and railed against the Wooden Canal Boat Society, saying that we were a load of drunken layabouts and if we ever got that boat restored he'd show his whatsit on the town hall steps.
(photo by John Tickner)
We're still waiting, and will wait in vain as I've been told that the gentleman concerned has since given an account of his wrongdoings to St Peter. It demonstrates the folly of jumping to conclusions, then going online and sharing them. Of course, it may have done our charity some reputational damage. I know it did when somebody spread a rumour that we were funding the boats by drug dealing. However silly the rumour, some people will believe it and pass it on.