Ashton Boatman

No, I'm not just harvesting likes. About a month ago we found that a feral cat had given birth aboard "Lilith". We couldn't take them with us on the recycling trip so I moved the kittens on to "Elton". Mother cat then moved them into "Queen", well hidden. Several people have been feeding the mother, who was rather skinny. She's now looking a lot better.

Today I saw the kittens out gamboling in "Queen"s fore end. They're lovely. We already have homes offered for some of them but I think some help is needed in catching them. We need to catch the mother too and get her speyed, otherwise a boatload of kittens will become a regular thing.

Rural Riding

As I plodded along the A444 on my overburdened little bike I soon began to regret taking this particular course. I could have followed country lanes a short way to the West. The main road was slightly closer to my straight guiding line, and ran through pleasant undulating countryside, but my enjoyment was interrupted all too often by a miniature tornado as another great juggernaut passed me with inches to spare. Coupled with these frequent interruptions was the awareness that a lapse of concentration by the driver of just one of these tarmac hungry leviathans could permanently terminate my journey.

The road seemed endless, though the map shows me that it was only a few miles. Eventually I reached the roundabout junction with the M42. I was pleased at this, as I knew that I was now near to my turn off, back on to the little roads. I stopped on the grass verge opposite a service station for a drink of water. I thought I'd better record my strange velocipede for posterity, so here's a picture of it http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20laden%20bike%207%2010.jpg.html

I left the mad main road at the delightfully named Appleby Parva and followed a little lane uphill towards a prominent radio mast. Over the summit, I coasted downhill into the village of Austrey. From here, strictly speaking, I should have headed for Orton on the Hill, but the on the hill bit didn't appeal to me, so I veered westwards a little along Warton Lane. This was arable country, with dry dusty fields of wheat and barley on each side of me,basking in the afternoon sun.

I stopped in the middle of nowhere and dug out my food bag. I climbed over a gate and struggled through the parched weeds of the headlands to reach a willow beside a dried out pond. Perching myself in the arms of this friendly tree, I hungrily demolished the remains of my loaf, whilst reflecting on what a comfortable campsite the dry pond looked, as long as it didn't rain.

It would have been pleasant to stay there all afternoon, such a comfortable spot I had found,but, with my belly filled, I remounted my cycle and carried on towards the brick houses of Warton village. From here my route took me back, South Easterly, towards my straight line. The road fell steadily into the Anker Valley and the harvesting activity seemed to grow more intense with huge shiny tractors rushing about http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20tractor%20grain%20harvest%207%2010.jpg.html and the moaning hum of combine harvesters trailing dust behind the hedgerows.

Not far away was the large mining village of Polesworth. Our boat "Forget me Not" was built here in 1927, but, sadly, nothing remains of Lees & Atkins boatyard. My route would take me through the nearby town of Atherstone instead.

I've often passed through Atherstone. Mostly along the dual carriageway bypass which is part of the A5. At other times I have flashed through in a speeding train on the Trent Valley main line. A few times I have travelled through by boat on the Coventry Canal, the main focus being the flight of 12 locks. On my first holiday on my first boat I stayed the night on the margins of the town, camping by the towpath as at that time my boat had no cabin. Despite all these fleeting encounters with the place I still knew little of it and was pleasantly surprised by what I found.

I had in mind the need for provisions, ready for my evening meal. My route into the town, along Sheepy Road, brought me straight to an old fashioned open market, lively with stalls and shoppers. I stopped to buy vegetables, then remounted and carried on under an archway that led into North St. I found Long St, the route of the pre-bypass A5, busy with shops and shoppers, unlike so many old high streets that have succumbed to the out of town superstores. Here I bought more food then, with my bags bulging, peddalled uphill to the top lock.

I had purchased some cake on Long St and intended to sit by the top lock to eat it. I was disapointed to see that Rothen's coal wharf was now empty and up for grabs. The business has relocated elsewhere but is no longer shifting coal by boat. It is little places like this that make our canals interesting. I expect it will be replaced by yet more upmarket housing. Nevertheless, it is a pleasant urban spot and I enjoyed watching a long steel boat work up the lock and set out towards Coventry.

Coleshill Road is a long slow drag out of town. This country has been quarried and mined extensively in the past, but now, with the extractive industries gone, it is interestingly hilly and wooded. I turned left and rode along a little lane with the huge Monks Park Wood to my right. I came to the village of Ridge Lane and turned left, until soon I came upon the embankment of a disused railway. Checking my old O.S. map I realised that this was the old Stockingford goods branch. The part that I had come across was actually a headshunt at it's terminus, the Ansley Hall Colliery being accessed by a trailing connection.  I though about following the route to find a place to stay for the night, but it was still a bit early and I had an idea about staying beside an active railway.

Riding on I passed the site of the old pit, now an industrial estate. A right turn on to the B4114 brought me past Ansley Hall and onwards through green and pleasant land to Church End. Here I turned left at the beginning of the village towards Ansley. This turned out to be a rather unremarkable brick village, made up largely of 1930s semis. I passed a pub with jolly looking people standing outside smoking.

At the far end of the village is a roundabout. Here I turned left and cycled along looking for the start of a footpath. I found a stile and lifted the bike over, then set off, pushing my bike across a grassy field. As I breasted the brow of a low hill I looked across the panorama and registered a brief disapointment. I had my eye on some woodland shown on the map surrounding the Easterly portal of Stockingford Tunnel on the railway from Nuneaton to Birmingham. My disappointment was in seeing that this wonderful wood seemed to be completely surrounded by the kind of security fence that Network rail now use to protect the railway from mischievous children, and vice versa.

I carried on down the hill and was delighted to find that the Northern edge of the woodland, with a public footpath bordering it, was only protected by the olders style fence of concrete posts and steel wires. This made the expense of the newer, inpenetrable, border rather pointless, as one can just walk round and enter here.

I locked my bike to the security fence and unloaded it, climbed a stile and pushed my bags between the wires into the woodland. I climbed over to follow them and began to construct my shelter.
With the shelter constructed I turned my attention to cooking my tea. There was a hollow in the ground in the corner of the wood. I used some bricks that were lying around to build a fireplace into the bank of this hollow. I collected dead and dry wood and, using a few scraps of paper that I had saved, lit a fire. http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20camp%20Arley%207%2010.jpg.html Soon my pan was bubbling nicely on the heat. I sat and looked down into the cutting and watched trains passing. The smoke from my fire began to drift into the cutting and hang there in a blue grey haze, resolutely refusing to disperse. I began to worry that a train driver could bring the authorities down on me by reporting that the woods were on fire.

Soon my meal was ready and I found a comfortable perch, high over the tunnel mouth, where I sat and ate while watching trains. I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of freight traffic, mostly container trains headed by Canadian built class 66 locomotives. http://class66.railfan.nl/ The passenger trains were all diesel multiple units, travelling between Birmingham and East Anglia.

Nicely full, I was feeling tired after all my travelling. I had an idea that I might be able to go for a latihan http://www.subud.org.uk/latihan-inner-awakening.html in Birmingham. However, the idea of traipsing into Nuneaton to get a train, then finding my way from New St Station to wherever the Subud house was, then finding my way back late at night, was becoming rapidly less appealing. I decided to lie down for a bit in my shelter. The footpath, which was next to my shelter, was unpleasantly busy with dogwakers. I decided to ignore them, and they mostly studiously ignored me, walking past quickly with eyes averted. A black and white cat slinked up the footpath and, seeing me, crouched down in fear before darting back whence it came. I wondered where it had come from as the map showed no houses nearby.I lay enjoying the birdsong and the sound of passing trains. Gradually I drifted off to sleep.

2010-01-05 @ 13:52:18 by ashtonboatman

A Cold Christmas for Captain Kit Crewbucket.

Captain Kit Crewbucket is a lucky black tomcat. In February 2003 he appeared under a tarpaulin in the hold of "Forget me Not". He was lost, terrified and wouldn't come near anyone. We estimated his age as about 6 months. Gradually as we put food out he learned to trust us. When I brought his food at dusk I would look under the tarpaulin and just see his two eyes shining in the dark. I thought it looked a bit ghostly, so I named him Kit Crewbucket after a spirit that is said to haunt Harecastle canal tunnel. One of the museum staff took a particular interest in our new arrival, but he called the cat Captain. As all readers of T.S. Eliot will know, a cat has three names, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXkLgtusza4 so he became Captain Kit Crewbucket.

Soon Captain Kit realised that he was on to a good thing on the boats with plenty of admirers to give him titbits and make fuss of him. He has become something of a celebrity at Portland Basin, with a regular column in the WCBS newsletter and occasional appearances in the local paper. Fans would visit from foreign places (like Yorkshire) in the hope of a glimpse of our celebrity pussycat.

It must be said that Captain Kit has always enjoyed the summer more than the winter. Basking in the sun has always been more his style than sheltering from the dreich drizzle and, his particular bette noir, snow.

When it began to snow, just before the Solstice, the Captain began to show a marked reluctance to come outside. When he did he would carefully hop between my footprints to avoid his paws sinking into the white stuff. After New Year the temperature dropped more and everywhere became covered in an 8 inch freezing white duvet. Kit had made himself a nest aboard "Hazel" and refused to leave it even for his favourite cat treats. It seemed like the time had come for the Captain to be given a holiday from the boats.

My partner, Emuna, loves cats. She used to have a wonderful black and white cat called Oedipuss who lived to be a grand old lady of 20. After Oedi died, Emuna decided not to have another cat. For several years, As Oedipuss got older, she had been reluctant to go away because she would not trust anyone else with the precious puss. She felt that having a cat was too much of a tie.

Emuna enthusiastically offered to look after Captain Kit for a while at her little house in Ashton, so we drove through the deep snow to park the van as near the basin as we dared, then trudged down to collect him. Cats generally don't like leaving their territories, and Kit was no exception. He struggled and yowled as I carried him through the deep snow to the van (which by then looked like a mobile ice cream).

Soon we were at Emuna's house and, after spending about an hour hiding under the bed, Captain Kit realised that lying on top of the bed was much more comfortable, and he's hardly moved from there since. He seems to be taking quite nicely to being a house cat. Now my concern is whether I'll be able to prise Emuna and Captain Kit apart when the time comes for him to resume command of the boats.

Is this the Flying Pig Flu

I seem to have had some sort of orrible virus for weeks. It's been a blasted nuisance as I've had no choice but to keep showing up at the boats to at least keep the bilge pumps working through the ice and keep Captain Kit fed.

I had a Solstice celebration planned. Originally I was going to take "Southam" for a trip down the canal to a place in Audenshaw where we could build a fire. Come the Solstice the cut was frozen. It was breakable, but "Southam" is 73 years old and feeling her age. I decided to build a fire near Portland Basin on a site where some scallies had been camping and so there was already a scorched patch.

Luckily a new volunteer called Gary offered to help build the fire. we had to drag all the incendiary materials, including parts of "Hazel"s interior, over 2 bridges and a field in snow and slippery ice. I was flagging as the lurgi had gone on to my chest and any exertion left me puffing like a steam train. Largely thanks to Emuna's imaginative input, and, of course Steve the Viking and his wassail bowl, the whole thing was a lot of fun.

We had a really nice latihan http://www.web.net/latihan/
in Manchester on Christmas Eve, and a really pleasant Christmas day, me and Emuna shut out the rest of the world for a couple of days. She gave me a digibole camelode which i am learning to use. I was still feeling rotten though, and on Boxing Day Emuna started to feel ill. We had to cancel a trip to Rugby to see my brother on 27th.

I've begun to feel better at last, and I'm becoming BOOOWAD!

I've started catching up with things. Near Portland Basin there's an area of woodland that I look after. It was a sludge lagoon for dredgings from the Ashton Canal between Portland Basin and Eli Whalleys. The council let us plant oak trees on it and they're doing nicely. In one part I planted a Yew surrounded by a ring of oaks from acorns of a tree that grows near my son's grave. It is a kind of memorial to him. Every now and then it's necessary to go and cut back the invasive sycamores etc. Today I decided to relieve the boowadome by doing that for a couple of hours. Sadly the main use that the public seem to have for the woodland is to shoot up drogs or drink cheap alcohol. The area is littered with the detritus of these activities. I wish I had more time to keep it clean.

It's amazing how big the pile of wood is that you create when cutting down a few sycamores. We have an excellent woodcutting volunteer who has joined recently. I'll have to get him involved in turning this lot into firewood. When I've worked out how to download pictures from my digibole camelode I'll show you a picture of the Yew tree.