A Case of Canal Rage?

 

Our next "must get there" was Sowerby Bridge where Fandango had a date with a man for an engine service.  Negotiating the three Salterhebble locks took a little longer than expected as we lingered at this attractive spot admiring the lovingly cared for old lock keeper's house with its beautiful garden. I'm rather missing a garden as that's something a narrow boat struggles to offer no matter how many pots you you assemble on your roof.

 

 

This delay meant we were a bit late arriving at the boatyard but we had been advised where to moor so weren't worried. I was at the helm and seeing where we were expected to put the boat I was somewhat alarmed to see the late working manager appear to witness my manoeuvring efforts. It was very windy that evening, the worst conditions for a narrow boat, and I was expected to reverse into our allotted spot alongside a row of rental craft avoiding boats moored on the opposite bank. Oh how I hate reversing.

Suffice to say it wasn't my greatest moment of nautical endeavour and it was only thanks to the said manager taking the stern line and hauling us into place that we finally made it. Philosophical arching of the eyebrows from the captain.

 

Sowerby Bridge is where the Calder and Hebble ends and the Rochdale Canal begins its climb across the Pennines. The basin where we were moored is a classic example of the functional tradition in industrial architecture and has been beautifully restored with its mix of eateries, offices and apartments. We ate in the pub converted from the salt mill and enjoyed the evening sun.

 

Up early so Fandango's overhaul could begin we explored the town. It had an interesting array of shops including an old fashioned clock shop full of restored and unrestored time pieces of every shape and size. I spotted an Edwardian arts and crafts wall clock perfect for our kitchen back home and with an enthusiastic yes from the captain a deal was sealed. How we'll fit into the car going back however is another matter.

Because the Rochdale and the Calder & Hebble canals had different lock lengths (72' and 60' respectively) Sowerby Bridge became a major centre as all goods had to be transshipped  here to continue their journey. Proud of this canal heritage the town boasted an evocative sculpture of a boatman and son duly captured on film being graced by our own trusty boatwoman.

 

 

This is also the location of the deepest lock on the whole British waterways system. To go through it you have to book a passage and it is controlled by two professional  lock keepers.  We were booked for noon so with Fandango given a clean bill of health we joined a lovely older couple on their aptly named One Day at a Time boat for our supervised ascent. Entering the 19' 9" deep lock is quite a sight and it is seriously impressive to see those massive wooden gates close behind you.  

 

 

Our new acquaintances kindly waited for us above the Edward Kilner lock and helped with our passage as due to subsistence this particular lock was too narrow to accommodate us both. It was here we had our first and hopefully only encounter with boorish rude behaviour from another boat. 

 

Waiting to come down the lock, the crazy helm decided to overtake the moored One Day at a Time and approach the entrance to the lock even though I wasn't yet out and past him. Canals are quite narrow you know so trying to squeeze through I was quickly grounded in the shallow water and an impasse ensued.

 

 

Much unnecessary shouting from the idiot including calling our new mate a senile old fool (he may have been 71 but he could leap up on the roof of his boat like a man half his age) didn't help matters. Only after Ros rushed ahead to empty the next lock and get more water down were we able to extract our new friends from the bank where they too were grounded did we mange to get a space big enough for Fandango to pass. Why he couldn't have just waited patiently further back I'll never know. This has to be canal rage don't you think?
 

And so into Hebdon Bridge which was packed with boats. With no moorings in the popular spot alongside the gardens we locked up one more and found a deserted place alongside a converted warehouse where we were greeted with a "welcome to our new neighbours" from two friendly ladies supping wine outside their waterside apartment. Didn't offer us a glass of wine however.

 

We had been told Hebdon Bridge was attractive and it certainly was. The impression was undoubtedly enhanced by the beautiful weather we were having and  whilst there we understood why it has apparently been voted the best place to live in England. Walking the dog, who constantly attracts comment from female admirers who accuse us of giving her highlights by the way , I met some very friendly people one of whom was telling me what a great place it was to live with so much going on and every conceivable interest catered for. I also learnt it was the lesbian capital of the UK.  You learn something every day.

We were to wait here for more visitors so settled down to enjoy the town and all it had to offer.  Wandering along the towpath we ran into the two boats we had met at Droylsden that morning we endured the soaking descent down those awful locks into Manchester. Chatting some more we discovered Michelle and Jez were actually a couple but with their own boats and that they were musicians with a gig that night at a local pub. Entertainment sorted.

We also learnt Michelle was a talented artist specialising in animal portraits. After looking at her work it wont come as a surprise what happened next then. Yes, we agreed we would get a portrait done of Phoebe and the effort to get the perfect photo for her to use began. Oh, I can hear my sons groaning at how spoilt that dog is.

Nestling at the foot of the rolling hills of West Yorkshire there were plenty of walks on offer and Ros took herself off up the crags to do a two valley trek while I discovered a lovely cafe in the park where they had high speed internet. And who should be serving but the extremely attractive young woman who had sung at the pub gig we went to the previous evening. She had provided a bluesy, Alison Moyet like contrast to the other folky artists singing 1940 and 1950's classics with a twist. A very talented lady.

 

The town also had retained its splendid old fashioned cinema so we again went back in time to enjoy the latest Star Trek film. Excellent, and what a great baddie Benedict Cumberbatch makes. My only regret was that we were one week too early to watch a live broadcast from the National Theatre in London of Helen Mirren in The Audience.

We relaxed and awaited our friends, blissfully unaware of what the Rochdale was about to bring.

In Search of Spike

 

In warm sunshine we bid farewell to Leeds and took the lock down onto the river to start our journey on the Aire and Calder Navigation - another waterway conquered, but this time a double  whammy of rivers. First made navigable in 1700 this transport route quickly became a huge success taking coal out of the Yorkshire coalfield and bringing back raw wool, corn and agricultural produce. Continued improvements and expansions saw it link ultimately to the North Sea at Goole and Hull. It is capable of carrying boats of up to 600 tons making it a serious big boy that dwarfs little narrow boats. Keep your eyes peeled for any such beasts.

Within minutes we arrived at its first lock and were amazed at its size especially after the what now seemed terribly short canal locks. No windlass needed here. Lovely smart electric consoles operated the huge gates and what must surely be enormous water sluices.   Again the river was so quiet we had the lock to ourselves and Fandango looked SO tiny in the vast stretch of lock making us feel a little guilty that so much water would be needed to lower our tiny sardine can.  

 

Considering how much water was being discharged it was amazing how quickly we were on our way out into open countryside and then through the four locks before Castleford. We had every lock to ourselves so became very adept at operating those push buttons - lovely.

 

At Castleford we had to turn right avoiding the powerful weir dead ahead and remembering not to go left and onward to Sheffield and Hull - definitely not in the spreadsheet. Here the river has been much straightened leaving abandoned oxbow lakes to either side but again lovely mechanised locks. We arrived at Stanley Ferry Aqueducts for a refreshing beer and a look at these amazing constructions. 

The new concrete one was added in 1981 as the 1839 original was thought to be at risk from the large craft that can navigate here now.  Having atypically not read her Nicholson Guide properly the captain was blissfully unaware we were supposed to use the new aqueduct but with no stop signs and a narrow boat parked at its further end for encouragement we crossed this fine structure without incident. Built on the same principle as the Sydney Harbour Bridge (but pre-dating it by nearly a hundred years!) it is a striking landmark supporting the vast iron water trough and using in excess of 1000 tons of cast iron in its construction. It's build quality was tested early on when a freak flood of the Calder below swamped the bridge with water flowing into and across the trough. Hats off to George Lather the engineer responsible.

 

Along this section of the route we dipped in and out of canal and the river through flood gates all of which were open but were a reminder of how quickly a river can be transformed into a raging torrent as we witnessed on the Severn. Just before Wakefield at the typographically challenged "Fall Ing Lock" we now joined the Calder and Hebble Navigation, another river based waterway built after lengthy controversy in the 1760s. Much anticipated by the captain, this navigation had required the acquisition of a wooden "spike" to operate the gate paddles.

In my desire to catch up I clean forgot to tell the tale of the spike acquisition which actually took place before Leeds at a pretty little town called Rodney. In need of pump out and diesel, we had searched the Nicholson and saw Rodney as a suitable boat yard. Calling ahead the kindly owner agreed to stay open for us (we were running behind spreadsheet schedule) but as we approached we saw no "boatyard" just a row of double and triple parked narrow boats. Unclear what to do Ros leapt off to go ahead and check things out but just as she disappeared from sight I was hailed by a white haired chap who should have been well into retirement who instructed me to gently pull up alongside a small sailing boat and between two other narrow boats in a tiny space he assured me was plenty for our 57 feet. Really?

Now fragile GRP sailing boats and solid steel narrowboats don't exactly mix so I was a trifle terrified of squashing the craft. But gentle manoeuvring and a bit of pushing and shoving from a cheery chap who turned out to be the owners son saw me manage the sensitive berthing. All witnessed by the captain beached on the opposite bank.  Result.

Well the pump out machinery had seen better days and was patched with all sorts of tape and o clips but it just about reached over the parked boats and did its job with some gentle persuasion. The diesel required a move to the opposite bank where it was delivered in ex-army fuel cans in a wheelbarrow. Novel.  

 

We got chatting and on discovering we came from Scotland they enquired about location. Believe it or not they knew it well being regular visitors to Cove and Kilcreggan where they repair engines for local boat owners.  Now clearly our new best friends they responded to Ros' request for information about where to get a "spike" needed for the Calder and Hebble. "Come with me" he said and I joined him in his extraordinary boat yard that bore a striking resemblance to the set of Steptoe and Son but amongst the piles of everything boaty he extracted a three foot piece of wood roughly shaped to do the job. Sorted.

 

Too exhausted to cook after such excitement we lucked in with a take away from a Turkish restaurant that was heaving recently received rave reviews from the Leeds press. Wonderful food and so fresh, I was impressed the captain had persuaded them to do a take away when they were fully booked that night. 

 

So, back to Wakefield.

The regional capital of West Yorkshire, our visit was focused on the Hepworth Gallery and Museum an attractive modern building alongside the weir designed by the same architect who built the Turner gallery in Margate. Full of beautiful Barbara Hepworth sculptures - fascinating story of the evolution of the John Lewis piece on their Oxford Street store - it also had a very weird light and sound installation that basically consisted of an empty room with a few coloured light strips and mindless background noise. 

 

 

Out of Wakefield we made our way to Brighouse through 12 locks. Initially I thought the acquisition of the wooden spike had been in vain as none of the locks required one but then the mechanism began to appear and we encountered the struggle that this primitive form of paddle operation entailed. At times too hard for Ros to make any impression with these quaint museum pieces quickly became a pet hate as I burst my back trying to shift the wretched things. Not helped by meeting a very pleasant chap at one lock who proudly pointed to his five foot purpose designed metal spike "that'll give you some leverage" he boasted. 

 

 

Size clearly did matter in this instance. 

 

 

A Narrow Boaters Ambition is Achieved

Another blog you say and so soon? But I must catch up, so please bear with me and read on.

After some ten miles with no locks and only those wretched swing bridges to contend with (just noticed by the way that the Nicholson Guide refers to them as "prone to intermittent stiffness" - yeah, right) we passed Silsden with its old corn mill dated 1677 and headed towards Keighley. You approach down Airedale, its steep hills wooded with green trees with the distant rows of chimneys, factories and terraced houses across the valley signalling imminent arrival in the town.

I had been looking forward to Keighley as it was from here that we would enjoy an excursion on the Keighley and Worth Valley steam railway. Closed in 1961 the line was saved by enthusiasts who managed to reopen it in 1968 with a regular service of steam trains.  It's terminus is shared with the regular Keighley station but you pass through a time warp as you descend the ramp to its platforms and a perfectly preserved 1950's station complete with original posters, clocks and livery. The volunteers are all dressed in period uniform and costume so you really feel you're entering the set of Brief Encounter.

Being the first train of the day the steam engines weren't yet awake so we took a 1960s generation diesel pulled train up the five miles of valley to Oxenhope. After a quick look round we jumped on a vintage bus to go over the top of the moors to Haworth, home of the Bronte sisters. This gave us a perfect view of the bleakness that can be the moors and so well captured in Wuthering Heights.

Very touristy but still a lovely village, we saw the Bronte family home (the former vicarage) which for some reason was heaving with French students and descended the steep cobbled main street back to the station. Here we peaked in one of the train sheds and met a volunteer cleaner who offered to show us the Pullman carriages they had. What a treat. Immaculate in their magnificence they were 1930s vintage and oozed the luxury that must have been Pullman travel. Only thing missing was Hercule Poirot. 

Our return journey was with a proper steam engine and even Ros got a bit excited as she realised this was the line used in the Railway Children and she stuck her head out of the window (remember when you could do that on trains?) only to get bits of soot in her eyes. Ah, memories. 

To complete our cultural education we paid a visit to the canal-side NT property of East Riddleston Hall, a Tudor House with romantic ruins of  former glory originally developed by the wonderfully named Murgatroyd family - heavens.

Back on the boat I could feel the excitement mounting in the captain. The day before she had booked our passage down the biggest and only 5 lock staircase in the entire waterway system. The Bingley Five-Rise staircase lock is one of those must see/must do experiences for all narrow boat groupies and here were we about to do it.  

I may have educated you before about staircase locks but here's a quick refresher. The locks are all joined together rather than being separated by pounds of neutral water. The top gates of the lowest lock are the bottom gates of the lock above and so on. This means its not possible to empty a lock unless the one below is itself empty. You climb, or in our case descend, an alarming amount in an incredibly short distance.

Being fairly complicated, the locks are manned by a professional who manages the descent. This day he was supported by two volunteers who were real keenies and most put out by me wanting to play my part in opening paddles and gates rather than leave it all to them. They didn't get off to such a good start however for as we were about to leave the first lock the keeper noticed one of them had left a paddle open necessitating an emergency closure and reopening of the top lock to let in more water. I resisted any comment. 

With her badge and certificate in place the captain took us on to a more minor but equally enjoyable three rise staircase where again a full time keeper ensured no mistakes.  

The view from the top of the Bingley Five-Rise and been very impressive looking down through the wooded swath of the canal to Bingley where the giant chimney and impressive brick factory of Damart dominated the landscape. Never one to miss checking out a bargain Ros wanted to visit the factory shop and see if any thermal underwear was on offer. Be reassured dear reader this wasn't a precaution for Fandango nights, merely thinking ahead to a skiing trip.  No such luck though, just endless racks of seriously unattractive ladies wear.

We had let the lock keeper know we would be continuing our journey to Leeds the following day so he had alerted the keeper at the next three-rise (they really go in for these groupie delights on this canal you know). This meant he had held back another boat to join us on our descent through the next three and two-rise staircases and naturally you get chatting. Well, who would believe it but the occupants were Americans from San Francisco which dear reader is where we go a week after completing this adventure to watch Giles in the America's Cup. They were full of advice and guidance and we've ended up with an invitation to visit. They are narrow boat enthusiasts too, this being their fourth holiday. Guess what we'll be talking about when we meet up?

We had been warned about the risks of the final stretch into Leeds but it passed without incident and we arrived at the smart and beautifully restored Granary Wharf and moored outside the Hilton hotel. Yes, a convenient spot for the captain to enjoy a few hours in their gym and spa and ease the stress and strain of nautical responsibility. 

Having not been in Leeds since the 1980s I was pleased to see how much regeneration had gone on and how important the river and canal had become with tastefully restored warehouses and factories and some very interesting new build. With nothing on at the theatre and no concerts to see we opted for a tapas meal surrounded by affluent looking bright young things and served by the most charming moonlighting university lecturer. 

The two sides of the recession?

Catching Up

Oh dear, how time flies when you're having fun!

 I fear I must be going native as the enjoyment level has increased (along with the fine weather to be fair) and I've not had the time to blog.  So here I am rather behind in my travelogue and in need of a quick fire catch up if I am ever to complete the journey with any semblance of proper chronology. 

So be warned, there may be several blogs winging your way.

When I left you we were moving into yet another tunnel, this time the 1640 yard Foulridge tunnel. What a perfect name for it I thought as I (yes me again) navigated its dingy depths - you all know my dislike of the wretched things. But a smooth passage saw us safely through and on our way past picturesque Barnoldswick into the rolling North Yorkshire countryside. We were in no hurry as we needed to slow our progress so that our upcoming visitors would have lovely countryside and some locks to enjoy.

Mooring at a very pretty little village called East Marton with its village green pub, smart stables and exercise rings alongside a quaint coffee shop we decided to take a walk across country to Gargrave.  Relying on the Nicholson Guide map proved a rather vain hope for whilst it may well have all the necessary signposting for a narrow boat, it certainly doesn't give the detail necessary to tramp across open countryside in search of poorly waymarked footpaths. Much debate ensued between us as to which direction we should be going and my bonhomie was sorely stretched when blustery showers passed through. Even a local farmer resplendent on his massive EU subsidised tractor (sorry farmer friends, prejudiced I know!) who Ros halted for consultation had no idea where the supposedly very adjacent Pennines Way was. Only when we spied some rambler types in the distance with their practical footwear and proper OS maps did we locate the footpath and get to our destination.

Fortunately Gargrave had a dog friendly cafe serving good coffee and great soup so refreshed we tramped back along the towpath to our boat. A 6 mile stroll had turned out to be more like a 9 or 10 mile trek but at least the dog was well exercised even if my feet hurt like hell.

We ate supper at the Cross Keys pub in East Marton where Ros met a fellow narrow boater who she joined to pick his brains. He gave her invaluable advice about upcoming hazards and route options which even necessitated changes to the spreadsheet.  Introducing him to me I remarked on his optimism at the weather being bedecked in shorts. "Ah, they go in May and don't come off till October" he said proudly. And they say narrow boaters aren't a little odd?

The WHs (remember them from the early days?) arrived in the morning after a luxurious night at the Hilton excited at the prospect of sharing a weekend with us as we descended into Skipton.  Perfect house guests, Sian and Andrew arrived with cake,  flapjacks, wine and a welcome bottle of fizz to mark my surviving till half point of this great endeavour and to christen their first canal experience.  Lucky them, the weather was glorious and they were meandering through some of the most beautiful countryside we had seen so far as this section of the Leeds and Liverpool canal grips the contours of the Pennines and snakes alarmingly back and forth giving you the impression of meeting yourself coming back!  I fear they got an exaggeratedly rosy picture of narrow boating. With all the oohs and aahs from Sian I wonder if a holiday booking is in the offing?

 

 

Into a packed Skipton, we weren't disappointed with the town which had a real buzz to it thanks in part to its busy market, medieval castle and thriving pie shops! Yes, lots of award winning pie shops here which may help to explain some of the wider girths we encountered down the high street. And yes, I did have one.

 

 

Having said our farewells to the WHs, we decided to stay another night so we could enjoy the much heralded Plaza cinema, one of those independent old fashioned picture houses lovingly restored to its '50's glory. Climbing the steps into the lavish red foyer we bought our tickets from the original pokey ticket office where a machine disgorges your green old Route Master bus type ticket with a reassuring kerplunk. We sat upstairs in the balcony to enjoy the Great Gatsby. Worry not, no review coming here, suffice to say it was OK. Did enjoy the ice cream lady though with her tray of goodies who appeared in the so called "intermission" which was really just a break after all the ads and forthcoming attractions. 

I must be honest here and admit that one of the great advantages of a narrow boat is that you can moor in the centre of a town and within minutes be at the cinema, theatre, restaurant or shops and having completed your excursion be back tucked up in bed (ok, a small bed) after a short, gentle stroll. Such a well located hotel would cost a fortune.

Having delved into the marvellous Aylesbury Canal Society Guide another convenient laundrette leapt off its pages and the captain completed a refreshing wash of our various bits and pieces. Once stored away we continued south down the Leeds and Liverpool. 

This section of the canal was littered with swing bridges. Don't you find that a rather romantic sounding description? Well I did and  had visions of gently pushing old wooden bridges aside to allow the sedate progress of Fandango. How wrong can you be? Many of them were heavy old steel bridges with the toughest locks you can imagine. Without the assistance of the odd helpful passer by some of them may have never been opened. 

 

 

Some though were used by cars and so justified an electric operation. Push a button and hey presto - you've got to love progress!

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. 

Wigan - the Family Way

And so our final stretch of the Bridgewater Canals through a former mining landscape now restored into parkland and wetlands and two attractive locks before Wigan. 

What a northerly ring that name has and how familiar we were with it as one of those roads signs on the M6 that for some reason we have always noted as we trek up and down that motorway. We were looking forward to seeing the famous "Wigan Pier" that incongruously is many miles from the sea, the most usual place for a pier in our experience.

We had arranged to meet our eldest son and daughter in law here for a weekend visit and Wigan was the most suitable place on the spreadsheet itinerary - lucky them! It was also a good place to receive visitors as it had a nice challenging flight of 21 locks to climb and help with locks is now always appreciated. 

Do you detect a slight lessening of enthusiasm for locks dear reader? Certainly that may well be true for my part - especially when there's a whole flight of them AND  its pouring with rain AND every paddle is incredibly hard work AND every gate has an anti-vandal key to unlock AND the gates are achingly heavy to open/close. Stretches my definition of fun to its limits. And you know what, even my narrow-boat-groupie wife sometimes (and I must be accurate here or I'll be in trouble for it is only sometimes) admits locks can be "tiring" and we need to "pace ourselves". 

Now that's bordering on sacrilege for the enthusiast.

We chugged into Wigan early in the morning to await our visitors' arrival and had to moor opposite the local rubbish dump to be near an access point for them. Such a convenient and attractive landmark. Ugh. Whilst waiting we took our chance to explore on foot and discovered the famous Wigan Pier two locks down the canal towards Liverpool and now consisting of a series of restored workshops and warehouses, attractive stone bridges and the inevitable Orwell pub. To be fair, it has been a CAMRA pub of the year and so boasts an excellent range of real ales not that I had a chance to sample them as 10.00 was a little early in the day.

Nick and Jen arrived fresh from their boutique hotel and hearty breakfast in nearby Chorley at 10.45 armed with wet weather gear and a most welcome bottle of Taittinger champagne to celebrate our anniversary. What style I smiled to myself - I wonder who he takes after? 

Oh, and to add to our delights a box a Krispie Kreme doughnuts - no calories there then. 

Giggles over after their tour of the boat and introduction to the flexible dinette sleeping berth where they would cosy up for the night, we began our day in overcast skies hoping the rain would hold off. Vain hope. We had only done about 5 locks when the drizzle started and this soon developed into lovely wet Lancashire rain. But properly attired (loved the pink spotted wellies Jen) we cheerfully attacked the locks and were rewarded with clearing skies by the time we reached to the top. 

Having read about Giles' natural ability at the helm and his silky entrances into the locks, I'm sure that wasn't far from Nick's mind as he took his turn to show the parents that it was obviously genetic and in the blood that a Scott son should navigate perfectly into the locks with not a whisper of a bash or scrape. Satisfied grins all round. 

That evening we took a taxi to a recommended restaurant wonderfully named the "Summit ta Eat" where we all enjoyed steaks cooked on your own personal  hot stone. The stones really were piping hot, so flushed faces all round. And the taxi back was quite an experience too. New to the business, we learned that the driver had previously been a dustman and so claimed an intimate knowledge of the back roads and shortcuts. We were a bit worried when we headed off down a potholed dirt track into the middle of nowhere but he got us back very quickly and it cost half the outward journey! The joys of the naive new boy not yet milking the punter!

After bacon butties for breakfast and a yoga lesson from Jen on the roof of the boat (I could never be that flexible... but it sure loosened her muscles after a night in the dinette) we pootled through pleasant countryside to Adlington where Nick and I attempted to mend Ros' phantom puncture only to discover it hadn't been pumped up properly! Wonder who had managed that? I also discovered that my lovely wife had never mended a puncture before - "I thought you just bought a new inner tube" she said. As a child schooled by his father in the importance of frugality in all things biking, I bit my tongue.

Borrowing my bike to cycle back to his car parked near the landmark rubbish dump in Wigan, Nick soon returned to collect his lovely wife and head back to Edinburgh. Fond farewells and happy memories of a lovely weekend together. 

I'm not sure narrow boating is high on their agenda for future must-do's, but they were very polite to their mum. Wasn't my blog that corrupted them - honest.

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.

 

Descending into the City

Technology. Why is it that I can be such a Luddite? And why am I having to write about the frustrations of computers in two consecutive blogs?

 I had felt the creative juices flow after my 'Welcome Detour' blog and had written 'Northward Bound' the following day. Well that was actually 6 days ago and in the meantime I have been failing to connect my iPad to the wifi I was so proud I had established through the magic of tethering to my smartphone. I have been sitting watching that wretched circle whirl pointlessly every day since in the vain hope it was just a poor signal. Even a visit to a coffee shop with free wifi had met with the same result. Despite trying everything I could think of in the settings of iPad and phone - nothing, rien, nada.

And then a city with an Apple shop and bingo. Embarrassment reigns as the bright young thing said "have you tried shutting the browser and starting  again?". Of course I hadn't - far too advanced it would appear for this technophobe as that simple, and in technicolour hindsight obvious action instantly reconnected me.

Back to the blog.  

Now began the long hard slog into Manchester. People we had spoken to had talked of the rough areas by the canal where yoofs were not averse to lobbing the odd brick or reject supermarket trolley at you or even nipping into your boat and pinching any handy valuable. Not what your average narrow-boater wants to hear,  so the captain planned our journey with military precision with the objective of a safe marina at Droylsden the night before we began the final 18 lock  decent into central (safe) Manchester.

But that was yet to come and before that enticing challenge we enjoyed the beauty of the Marple flight of 16 locks which contributed 214 feet of our long descent into Manchester. These locks have an unrivalled setting in an excellent combination of built-up area, parkland, giant beech and chestnut trees and steep hillsides with some wonderful restored small mills now used for posh offices or canal side apartments. At its foot the canal crosses the River Goyt gorge in a dizzyingly high aqueduct but with an even bigger railway viaduct alongside. 

You have to be in awe of some of the engineering feats our forefathers undertook with none of the computer aided simulation we have today. And they made so much of  it all pretty too!

Even more exciting, we passed through the Hyde Bank tunnel, atop of which sat the former home of MN, Fandango's proud owner and Ros was able to text MN a photo to remind him of the beginnings of his love affair with all things narrow boaty. Aaah.

We made the safe haven of Droylsden marina just before 6pm after a very long day and Ros negotiated an admirable reverse into our designated slot. The marina manager clearly loved to chat and so the captain and he swapped canal stories whilst I did emails. Being in the city again we were suddenly aware of all its noises - sirens, motorbikes, general traffic - but it also had a large Tesco just across the road so it wasn't all bad.

I awoke to a decorated boat interior wishing me a happy anniversary. Horror! In my total narrow-boat-induced somnolence I had forgotten our 31st wedding anniversary. Captain was very forgiving and her disappointed a little sated by my quick and surreptitious trip to Tesco's for their finest bouquet. Phew....

The early start down the dreaded locks saw us squeak ahead of two other boats who like us had heard you needed to be away to miss the potential vandals who were at their best in the afternoons. And what hard work those wretched locks were. It was pouring with rain, the worst Manchester kind, persistent and unrelenting, and every paddle and gate had an anti-vandal lock adding to the time and difficulty of getting through. But hey, no vandals in sight, in fact no-one in sight, hardly surprising given the wintry conditions. 

It took a gruelling five hours to do the 3 miles but as we approached our destination of Piccadilly Basin the rain eased and the sun came out. A bit earlier would have been nice. We found a suitable mooring but soon discovered this part of Manchester was not like Birmingham with its canal side pubs, restaurants and coffee shops. All very clean and nice but sterile. 

Ros was quickly on the phone and before you could say Happy Anniversary, she'd booked herself a hair appointment at her favourite hairdressers, Vidal Sassoon, who "fortunately" had a branch in the city and even more "fortunately" had an appointment in 20 minutes. Guess that made up for the absence of a present. Phoebe and I accompanied her to their smart premises across town and then went exploring taking in the beautiful Victorian merchant houses and banks. Looking so much better with a bit of sunshine it brought back many memories of my regular visits to the city for board meetings as they prepared for the 2002 Commonwealth Games.  

What a transformation that event had made to the city. The whole area around what had been the athletics stadium and now home to Manchester City FC had finally got its tram connection (sore point, not delivered for the Games) and new shops, apartments and additional sports facilities were in place. It looked and felt a real success story.

Unable to find a suitable restaurant within striking distance of the boat we made do with a Marks and Spencer ready meal by way of celebration - deluxe of course and accompanied by some fizz. 

A memorable and happy day. Cheers.