The Weed Hatch Revisited

The observant of you may have noticed that I managed to upload a couple of photos in the last blog. Many of you had requested pics but its taken me this long to work out the absolute basics of inserting a pic. Why is it so hard? Anyway, enjoy.

 The first stop the next day was Chorley for one of Ros' launderette finds from the Aylesbury Canal Society guide (another of those oh-so-useful pre-trip purchases researched and sourced from the web by the captain) and what fun she had in there. Dressed in her Hilda Ogden gingham apron the manageress happily dispatched me with detailed directions to the market in her broad Lancashire accent and then got Ros all excited about day trips to Blackpool so easily accessed from the local railway station. 

Was a quick days ballroom dancing on the cards? Ros had surreptitiously packed our dancing shoes after all. But what to do with the dog? Logistics and logic intervened and the dream was dashed. Only a promise from me of a future return to the Tower Ballroom consoled a distraught captain. 

Full of ladies who admitted they preferred to use the launderette than their own machines because it was "so social" I do wonder what they all made of Ros and me. 

One of Chorley's famous children was Sir Henry Tate, founder of the Tate Gallery and an ex employee of a local grocery store before making his fortune in sugar. It's other notable heritage was its ancient market (founded 1498) but it wasn't very impressive so as soon as the laundry was done we headed further up the canal to Withnell Fold, a small estate village built to house workers at the now demolished canalside paper mill. Grouped around three sides of a spacious square, the symmetrical stone terraced cottages present an intimately united front looking out on the fourth side of the square with its set of old wooden stocks. Now gentrified, they are desirable homes for commuters to Blackburn. 

It's rather splendid "Reading Room" provided by the patriarchal mill owner for the workers improvement, contained an upstairs entertainment hall where the late Kathleen Ferrier had performed, we assume because she was doing a favour for her future husband who came from the village. 

We then had a couple of very long days as wanted to get through some of the uninteresting landscape around Blackburn and Burnley. Which brings me to one of my least favourite aspects of narrow boating and one I have resisted saying too much about, but the disgusting state of the canal waters especially around Burnley leave me no option. 

Yes, the dreaded weed hatch. 

I have skirted over this daily ritual as I didn't want to appear a grump, but it is one of those chores that just has to be done and as I have previously informed you all can only be done by me as Ros' arms are too short to reach the propellors and prop shaft. Removing the four screws that hold the metal cover in place, you use a specially shaped blade to pull what resembles a small  but heavy square weight lifting bar on the platform at the stern (rear to you lot) to reveal the murky waters below. You then lie on your stomach and reach as far down as you can to check that nothing has tangled itself around the propellors. 

Called a weed hatch, that really is a complete misnomer as I can honestly say that in the many weeks we have now been boating I have only once removed something resembling a piece of flora, let alone been green. And so to the glories of Burnley and its use of the canal as the local rubbish tip.  

You realise all is not well when the rudder starts shaking or you begin to lose way. With its very tight curves and right angled bends the Burnley section is not easy to navigate without grounding at the sides so you can imagine my humour when five, yes five times we had to stop and I had to go through the whole faff of removing the weed hatch to fumble about in the dirty opaque water only to discover an assortment of unpleasantries. Mostly every conceivable type of soiled plastic but also king size underwear (dispel quickly from your thoughts, it was gross), shredded boots, fishing nets, miscellaneous clothing and bedding. 

Why doesn't my wife have longer arms I fumed to myself. A real groupie has to experience this joy of narrow boating surely?

You can imagine my delight at escaping from these troubled waters and back into open countryside. But even there not all was to go smoothly for at the Barrowfield flight of 7 locks we passed a wide beam barge who had carelessly left a paddle open and unbeknownst to us had succeeded in draining the pond between the second and third from top locks. Grounded, Ros was on lock duty and so rushed ahead to see what could be done. Fortunately, she met some Canal Trust workers just about to depart for the day who quickly sorted the situation and drained a whole lot of water from the top through the intervening locks.  It took nearly half an hour before we floated again so you have some idea of the amount of water needed to rebalance the system. 

 

With relief we reached the summit of the canal and moored for the night in glorious sunshine. Behind us the trail of industrial towns, ahead the distant mountains of Yorkshire. We unloaded our bikes and cycled to the mouth of the Foulridge Tunnel, controlled by traffic lights our turn would come tomorrow after a much needed rest.

With a welcome glass of wine in hand, isn't it amazing how quickly a bit of sun and a great view dispels the horrors of journeys past.