Mr Clumsy

The next day we crossed Manchester, firstly alongside the renowned and aptly named Canal Street with its myriad gay bars and nightclubs where we provided  entertainment for the perfectly groomed early risers, and then down the nine lock flight where we picked up a hire boat to share the work. And tough work is was too as the canal was overfull making it extremely difficult to firstly open the top gates and then empty the locks due water rushing over the gates at one hell of a rate. 

The people we were sharing with were two couples of a certain age and clearly first timers. The poor helm (who got to know Ros very well as they waited patiently in the locks alongside each other) was constantly being nagged and shouted at by his wayward crew, none of whom were prepared to try their luck at the helm but were nonetheless more than happy to criticise and offer advice to the poor chap. Never, ever again he sighed dejectedly to Ros as we parted company at the foot of the flight. 

Ros and I radiate positive lock-operation harmony in comparison! 

The bottom of the flight opened into Castle Quay basin which was by far the most attractive section of the canal in Manchester. The basin sits in the shadow of the city's latest and most contentious building the Beetham Tower, whose claim to fame is that its the tallest residential building in the UK (not in Europe as much of the hype falsely claimed - that building is in Malmo I have on good authority). It's also home to a Hilton hotel and footballers' million pound apartments.  Here the canal basin had broad open cobbled terraces overlooked by beautifully restored warehouses and unusually for an urban canal lots of mature trees. With the sun kindly shining we enjoyed a welcome cappuccino in a canal side cafe before heading off on our next conquest, this time the Bridgewater and Rochdale Canal.

 

Once out of the nether reaches of Manchester (Ros was singularly unimpressed with the Manchester United ground at Old Trafford which towered over us as we passed by), the canal was surprisingly interesting. We crossed the Manchester Ship Canal on the impressive Barton Swing Aqueduct but unfortunately no ships were passing to allow us to see it in operation. Curving through the leafy suburbs of Salford we reached the attractive village of Worsley where thanks to the dissolved iron ore in the canal we floated through rather alarmingly bright ochre water.

 

We stopped off at Astley in the hope of seeing the colliery museum but it was closed. We did however meet one of its volunteers who was waiting to meet a man about a marquee. Great excitement for in a few weeks there was to be a narrow boat rally at the site attracting over a hundred boats. I have to say I was rather relieved we missed that one as I know I could not have coped with several hundred enthusiasts comparing notes and exposing my ignorance with their probing questions about Fandango!

Another pump out at the Bridgewater Marina (I know you all love to hear we've had one of those) that required some pretty nifty boat handling on my part reversing us in between two other boats and alongside a third - and all in strong side winds too. A gentle kiss of the hulls as we came to rest and I was awarded with a compliment from the captain - blush....

Deciding to overnight on the towpath opposite the marina as there was a recommended hostelry right there we began the mooring up exercise. With no rings or capstans, spikes were required to be hammered into the ground for the warps (ropes to you lot) and being very democratic we took one each.  I went first and in my enthusiasm to get the job done and relocate to the pub, I tried to speed matters up and threw the hammer to Ros along the bank.  

Now, you would expect a weighty object like a hammer to land with a reassuring kerthunk but no, the wretched thing decided it was made of rubber and bounced gracefully down the grassy bank and into the canal under the exasperated gaze of the captain. A telling glare and some mutterings of words such as clumsy and idiot were clearly audible under her breath and with a sharp command I was dispatched with all due haste to the marina before it shut to purchase a replacement. 

With tail between my legs I followed orders and sheepishly went to said marina that was fortunately still open. What lovely people, "You don't need to buy a new one. Use a magnet to fish out the old one". Gosh, I said, that actually works? "Do it all the time me lad" he said. And magically a large magnet on a rope appeared.  Sneaking back quietly to the boat (captain was below dressing for dinner) I began the task of locating the hammer. Much to my amazement, for I had convinced myself this would never work for me the sceptic, the magic magnet engaged with the hammer and I gently pulled it from the (four foot) depths of the canal.  

Reprieve! Captain was duly impressed, I was relieved, and drinks were on her.