Sunday, 27 February 2011
Turning Seasons
Getting up at an unearthly hour to count the geese every month can sometimes be a bit of a trial, but there are some things that make it worthwhile - the song of a skylark, giving it laldy somewhere overhead in the darkness before dawn; groups of roe deer grazing along the field margins, coming within twenty yards before catching sight or smell of the car, and bolting away into the sunrise, or leaping over the fences with astonishing grace; a flight of whooper swans skimming low over the wood and straight over the car, 'whoong-ing' to each other as they pass overhead. And of course, the geese, in their thousands, rising from the loch and the Low Ground where they have been roosting and feeding to head out into the dawn in search of more food, building strength for the new breeding season.
And the sunrise... each early morning this year, the sun rises a little bit further north. In mid-January, it rose in a scarlet and fuchsia glory behind the Rookery Wood. This morning, it was a full hands-width further round, beyond the airfield; pink filigree lighting the clouds before the gold-on-blue brilliance made using my binoculars a distinctly unsafe business. It marks the changing seasons as much as the snowdrops that flourish in the damp woodlands, or the sudden appearance of lambs, which pop up as if hatching from the turnips their mothers are feeding on. (Or are they helping them to hatch? My passing aliens might suspect so.) Spring is finally showing signs of returning.
And one day I'll figure out how to stick a video into a blog post without have to do it separately!
And the sunrise... each early morning this year, the sun rises a little bit further north. In mid-January, it rose in a scarlet and fuchsia glory behind the Rookery Wood. This morning, it was a full hands-width further round, beyond the airfield; pink filigree lighting the clouds before the gold-on-blue brilliance made using my binoculars a distinctly unsafe business. It marks the changing seasons as much as the snowdrops that flourish in the damp woodlands, or the sudden appearance of lambs, which pop up as if hatching from the turnips their mothers are feeding on. (Or are they helping them to hatch? My passing aliens might suspect so.) Spring is finally showing signs of returning.
And one day I'll figure out how to stick a video into a blog post without have to do it separately!
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Random Thoughts from the Festive Season...
Afflicted with cabin fever over Xmas and New Year, I have spent an inordinate time in the companyof the haunted goldfish tank, aka the TV. And the inevitable hoardes of adverts.
Which set me to thinking...what would any passing alien make of Earth, if this was what they picked up (and given the tedious repetition of much of it, it's probably more likely that they'd pick up the uncomfortable mix of Can-can and Heavy metal that was Why Mums Go to Iceland than something more intellectual).
In the run up to Xmas, the TV was populated by an inordinate number of sulky girls and moody men, wearing pouts that left them a hair's breadth short of becoming goldfish, glowering at each other, getting it on in lifts (and did the one who broke her Diamond necklace on behalf of Armani have to wait in line until the Beckhams finished?) or spilling flammable liquid across the floor and rolling about in it.
Obviously all this heavy breathing wore them out, one way or another, as the post Xmas schedules centred around replacing beds and sofas. Our passing aliens might wonder why these primitive Earthlings spent so much money in December, when the prices of nearly everything were immediately cut afterwards; why, they might ask, do they not do the Xmas thing at the end of January, when the sales have happened?
Wandering aimlessly through the supermarket (oh, how we spend our days!) another thing caught my eye. Seasonally-scented air fresheners/candles/electronic gizmos. Apart from wondering idly why anyone would want these things in the first place (they make me sneeze, for a start. Open a window, for goodnesss sake!) the sheer variety of 'scents' was astonishing. And in such combinations! Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cranberry and holly. Cotton and mulberry. Soft cashmere and vanilla... hang on a minute. Cashmere? Doesn't cashmere come from goats?
Can anyone explain why I would want my festivities seasoned with goat scented ice-cream?
Which set me to thinking...what would any passing alien make of Earth, if this was what they picked up (and given the tedious repetition of much of it, it's probably more likely that they'd pick up the uncomfortable mix of Can-can and Heavy metal that was Why Mums Go to Iceland than something more intellectual).
In the run up to Xmas, the TV was populated by an inordinate number of sulky girls and moody men, wearing pouts that left them a hair's breadth short of becoming goldfish, glowering at each other, getting it on in lifts (and did the one who broke her Diamond necklace on behalf of Armani have to wait in line until the Beckhams finished?) or spilling flammable liquid across the floor and rolling about in it.
Obviously all this heavy breathing wore them out, one way or another, as the post Xmas schedules centred around replacing beds and sofas. Our passing aliens might wonder why these primitive Earthlings spent so much money in December, when the prices of nearly everything were immediately cut afterwards; why, they might ask, do they not do the Xmas thing at the end of January, when the sales have happened?
Wandering aimlessly through the supermarket (oh, how we spend our days!) another thing caught my eye. Seasonally-scented air fresheners/candles/electronic gizmos. Apart from wondering idly why anyone would want these things in the first place (they make me sneeze, for a start. Open a window, for goodnesss sake!) the sheer variety of 'scents' was astonishing. And in such combinations! Cinnamon and nutmeg. Cranberry and holly. Cotton and mulberry. Soft cashmere and vanilla... hang on a minute. Cashmere? Doesn't cashmere come from goats?
Can anyone explain why I would want my festivities seasoned with goat scented ice-cream?
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Snow Laughing Matter....
As usual, we are surprised by the British weather. This time, it's really caught us out, and there's not a thing we can do about it. However much grit we stocked up with, however much we polished up the snowploughs, traffic havoc was going to be the result when that much snow drops in that short a time. What bites now is how long it is taking to restore some semblance of order.
But it's pretty. It's like M*x F*ctor super-smooth foundation for the landscape - that fresh-as-a-daisy 24 hour slap advertised by some vapid bimbo. 'Get the Scotland Look'...
But I do want it to go away before Xmas.
But it's pretty. It's like M*x F*ctor super-smooth foundation for the landscape - that fresh-as-a-daisy 24 hour slap advertised by some vapid bimbo. 'Get the Scotland Look'...
But I do want it to go away before Xmas.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Notes from the Lochside
The far side drifts in and out, grey veils of misty rain swirling across the still water. The robin darts onto the deck, grabs a piece of something from the birdfood scattered on the railings and vanishes again, only to return in a flurry of wings to send an inquisitive chaffinch packing. Falling leaves look like small birds flying to the ground; as the rain grows heavier, the drops hit the remaining foliage, drawing the eye – was that another bird?
No, just a bouncing leaf.
A bedraggled great tit, feathers askew, lands on the bird table and tucks into the birdcake, caution and hunger in equal measure as the bird looks over its shoulder for predators then returns to its feast. More arrive, great tits, blue tits and the occasional coal tit. For a while it looks like a game of feathery billiards, each bird that lands on a feeder sending the previous incumbent bouncing off in another direction, to the table, or the hanging coconut shell, or the debris scattered below on the decking, none willing to share their position. Gradually they settle down and seem to become more tolerant, and even the robin slacks off his sentry duty.
A flash of yellow catches my eye and makes me look twice at the bird that's just arrived. Smaller than the chaffiches, with a deeper notch in the tail - female siskin. Another joins her, and finally a male arrives, smart in black, green and yellow.
The loch slowly reappears, punctuated by a small group of cormorants, their flight low and purposeful, heading southwest. Mallards squabble at the water's edge. The far side emerges as the rain eases off, a tapestry of green and brown and russet. The trees are beginning to turn colour; as if someone is tweaking the hue and intensity settings.
For a brief half-hour, the skies clear, and the birds, strange to relate, vanish.
Then the drizzle returns, and the far side starts to disappear once more.
No, just a bouncing leaf.
A bedraggled great tit, feathers askew, lands on the bird table and tucks into the birdcake, caution and hunger in equal measure as the bird looks over its shoulder for predators then returns to its feast. More arrive, great tits, blue tits and the occasional coal tit. For a while it looks like a game of feathery billiards, each bird that lands on a feeder sending the previous incumbent bouncing off in another direction, to the table, or the hanging coconut shell, or the debris scattered below on the decking, none willing to share their position. Gradually they settle down and seem to become more tolerant, and even the robin slacks off his sentry duty.
A flash of yellow catches my eye and makes me look twice at the bird that's just arrived. Smaller than the chaffiches, with a deeper notch in the tail - female siskin. Another joins her, and finally a male arrives, smart in black, green and yellow.
The loch slowly reappears, punctuated by a small group of cormorants, their flight low and purposeful, heading southwest. Mallards squabble at the water's edge. The far side emerges as the rain eases off, a tapestry of green and brown and russet. The trees are beginning to turn colour; as if someone is tweaking the hue and intensity settings.
For a brief half-hour, the skies clear, and the birds, strange to relate, vanish.
Then the drizzle returns, and the far side starts to disappear once more.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Eye to the Telescope
Where did summer go? The last few swallows - late fledgelings of the last broods - are gathering themselves together, eating as much as they can before the long haul south. The geese have been arriving, dropping in in large numbers, whiffling down from the north to land in their old familiar fields. The rain continues to encourage the snails in my garden...
At this rate it'll be next year before I can blog this year.... so I've decided to do things out of order.
It's fifty years since someone had the bright idea of counting the geese, to see how many pass through and overwinter, and to find out how well they are breeding. 0545 on Sunday morning found Mum and me lurking on the edge of our usual field, waiting for the sun to come up, and the flocks to head out to feed. Naturally, things didn't go according to plan. It was about an hour before we could see more than the vague outline of the landscape, and the geese decided to have a Sunday morning lie-in, which left us feeling rather envious. By about 1000, only about seven thousand had left, and the rest were hanging about on the fields.
Which means taking a different approach to counting.
Back to the Visitor Centre, and set up with a telescope trained on the dense mass of grey-feathered bodies packed in 'tight as ticks on a hedgehog' on the Low Ground marsh, and in the grazing fields beyond. Counting is in clumps of five, rather than strings of twenty, and can only be a 'best guess' - how do you account for the rise and fall of the land, or the awkward geese that hide behind the gorse bushes?
I entertain thoughts of air traffic control - 'All geese in field 59 please proceed to the runway, take off and circle before landing again.' They are so much easier to count in the air!
My eyes ache by the time I'm done, and the traditional goose-count egg-and-bacon sandwich is very welcome as we tally up the count.
It's looking like a funny year. Although there were a lot of geese to begin with, most seem to have gone further south, with only 16-17,000 remaining at what is usually the peak time. Signs and portents? Or just geese being awkward?
Ah well. See what next month brings!
At this rate it'll be next year before I can blog this year.... so I've decided to do things out of order.
It's fifty years since someone had the bright idea of counting the geese, to see how many pass through and overwinter, and to find out how well they are breeding. 0545 on Sunday morning found Mum and me lurking on the edge of our usual field, waiting for the sun to come up, and the flocks to head out to feed. Naturally, things didn't go according to plan. It was about an hour before we could see more than the vague outline of the landscape, and the geese decided to have a Sunday morning lie-in, which left us feeling rather envious. By about 1000, only about seven thousand had left, and the rest were hanging about on the fields.
Which means taking a different approach to counting.
Back to the Visitor Centre, and set up with a telescope trained on the dense mass of grey-feathered bodies packed in 'tight as ticks on a hedgehog' on the Low Ground marsh, and in the grazing fields beyond. Counting is in clumps of five, rather than strings of twenty, and can only be a 'best guess' - how do you account for the rise and fall of the land, or the awkward geese that hide behind the gorse bushes?
I entertain thoughts of air traffic control - 'All geese in field 59 please proceed to the runway, take off and circle before landing again.' They are so much easier to count in the air!
My eyes ache by the time I'm done, and the traditional goose-count egg-and-bacon sandwich is very welcome as we tally up the count.
It's looking like a funny year. Although there were a lot of geese to begin with, most seem to have gone further south, with only 16-17,000 remaining at what is usually the peak time. Signs and portents? Or just geese being awkward?
Ah well. See what next month brings!
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Slow Boat in the City - Part 2
15 July. Sometime today, we will have to turn round, but we’d like to see how far we can get! We’re heading deeper into the urban zone, beginning with Sale, and suburbia starts to blur into one long stretch of canal and back garden, with boats in various states of repair. At Stretford, we come to Waters Meeting – not far from Old Trafford – and a piece of modern sculpture almost hidden from view. Really urban now – towering piles of containers, and wharfsides, the old Pomona Lock, derelict sites and modern apartment blocks.
We make it all the way to Castlefield Junction and Quay, pretty much in the heart of Manchester, under a network of bridges which I find utterly fascinating.
Even here, nature is existing side by side with man – a young heron stalks fish from the canal bank, unconcerned by our passage.
We can’t go any further – from here it’s the Rochdale Canal, which requires negotiation with British Waterways – sounds fascinating though! So we turn round, and head back south, and the inevitable end of the journey. We make it as far as Moorefield Bridge, just beyond the lights of Daresbury
16 July. Another tunnel morning, and fine-timing! After successfully sliding through with few hold-ups, we stop at Anderton again, to take advantage of the shower block, and visit the Lift shop, before heading for Middlewich once more, by way of the Canal Craft shop at broken Cross, where Drew buys a traditionally painted stool.
As we go through Big Lock, we’re helped with the locking by a chap we met over a week ago, who just happens to live nearby. There is a moment of faintly hysterical hilarity as we rise up through the Middlewich Locks to come face to face with what I can only describe as a daisy-chain of dogs…
Back on the Middlewich Branch and the deep Wardle lock proves to be awkward, throwing us against the forward gate despite my best efforts to hold the boat in the middle of the lock; I am reassured by the lady in the lock cottage that this always happens, and just to let the bow sit against the gate. We moor up a short way after, below Bridge 30, and have fish and chips for supper.
17 July. Our last full day of cruising, and we plan to be almost back at the boatyard tonight. Back across the Cheshire plain, with the deep locks, and we find ourselves wishing that we’d found somewhere to do a second pump-out. There is the expected queue at Cholmondeston Lock, and a short visit to the Venetian Marina shop; no chance for the pump out here, we’ll have to make it to the morning! The weather seems to have settled into a routine – clear and sunny mornings, clouding over by mid-day and throwing it down in the afternoon, and today is no exception; it’s coming down in stair rods by the time we moor up for the night back on the Shropshire Union proper at Calveley, and do our packing.
18 July. All that remains is the last couple of miles and the Bunbury Staircase; we moor up at the yard by 9.00 am as required, and then it’s just emptying our gear from boat to car, and final handover stuff in the office (and complementary coffee, which was nice!) End of the journey, all 202 miles, 64 locks, (182 lock gates) and 329 feet and 5 inches up and down again, time to download all the photos, and figure out our next trip!
a couple of collections from the trip....
boat names
boat dogs
and for the interested, a Googlemap of the entire trip is here
We make it all the way to Castlefield Junction and Quay, pretty much in the heart of Manchester, under a network of bridges which I find utterly fascinating.
Even here, nature is existing side by side with man – a young heron stalks fish from the canal bank, unconcerned by our passage.
We can’t go any further – from here it’s the Rochdale Canal, which requires negotiation with British Waterways – sounds fascinating though! So we turn round, and head back south, and the inevitable end of the journey. We make it as far as Moorefield Bridge, just beyond the lights of Daresbury
16 July. Another tunnel morning, and fine-timing! After successfully sliding through with few hold-ups, we stop at Anderton again, to take advantage of the shower block, and visit the Lift shop, before heading for Middlewich once more, by way of the Canal Craft shop at broken Cross, where Drew buys a traditionally painted stool.
As we go through Big Lock, we’re helped with the locking by a chap we met over a week ago, who just happens to live nearby. There is a moment of faintly hysterical hilarity as we rise up through the Middlewich Locks to come face to face with what I can only describe as a daisy-chain of dogs…
Back on the Middlewich Branch and the deep Wardle lock proves to be awkward, throwing us against the forward gate despite my best efforts to hold the boat in the middle of the lock; I am reassured by the lady in the lock cottage that this always happens, and just to let the bow sit against the gate. We moor up a short way after, below Bridge 30, and have fish and chips for supper.
17 July. Our last full day of cruising, and we plan to be almost back at the boatyard tonight. Back across the Cheshire plain, with the deep locks, and we find ourselves wishing that we’d found somewhere to do a second pump-out. There is the expected queue at Cholmondeston Lock, and a short visit to the Venetian Marina shop; no chance for the pump out here, we’ll have to make it to the morning! The weather seems to have settled into a routine – clear and sunny mornings, clouding over by mid-day and throwing it down in the afternoon, and today is no exception; it’s coming down in stair rods by the time we moor up for the night back on the Shropshire Union proper at Calveley, and do our packing.
18 July. All that remains is the last couple of miles and the Bunbury Staircase; we moor up at the yard by 9.00 am as required, and then it’s just emptying our gear from boat to car, and final handover stuff in the office (and complementary coffee, which was nice!) End of the journey, all 202 miles, 64 locks, (182 lock gates) and 329 feet and 5 inches up and down again, time to download all the photos, and figure out our next trip!
a couple of collections from the trip....
boat names
boat dogs
and for the interested, a Googlemap of the entire trip is here
Slow Boat in the City - Part 1
12 July. North! At least as far as Barbridge Junction, where we swing onto the Middlewich arm of the Shropshire Union Canal, (a low bridge marks the turn, and it’s a blind corner –lovely!) The locks along here are extremely deep, and can apparently get very busy – they take ages to fill, so the boats back up waiting. There are a couple of big marinas as well, so it gets pretty hectic at weekends. We make our way to Middlewich – a pretty sharp turn with locks involved. By the time we’ve navigated our way through the town, negotiating the masses of moored narrowboats at the yards, and stopped for water, we’re ready to stop for the night. Mooring is just before Big Lock (and it is!) and the conveniently placed Big Lock Pub. Of course we did, and very good it was too.
Big Lock pub, Middlewich
13 July. Now we’re on the Trent and Mersey Canal, and the first task of the day is Big Lock. Fortunately there’s someone else to go through with (it’s one of the double-width ones) and we’re away up towards Manchester. Some interesting features of the canal here are the flashes beside the channel (keep to the marked bit!) where there are the rusting remains of scuttled boats from the fifties. Many have been raised and restored, but some are beyond help.
derelict in Billinge Green Flash
The landscape takes an industrial turn after we go through Broken Cross, the canal passing under the pipes of the ICI works, where an unexpected club mooring makes things interesting.
After passing the Lion Salt Works (seen on the BBC’s ‘Restoration’ programme, we have lunch at Marbury Country Park, before going a little further to moor up at Anderton, where the shore party investigate the Anderton Boat Lift.
14 July. Timing is the thing, heading north from the Anderton lift. There are tunnels, and they are on a timer…first comes Barnton, and then Saltersford – you have a twenty minute slot between the hour and twenty past going north, and then it’s a two hour run to Preston Brook tunnel if you don’t want to wait around. There are no towpaths in the tunnels, and it’s easy to imagine the old boatmen ‘legging’ their way along while their horses went the airy route over the top. Passing the Black Prince boatyard is a bit of a squeeze, too. Just before Preston Brook is Dutton Stop Lock, with a grand fall of six inches…not so much a lock as a water control mechanism, but it seems very strange going through the motions for such a small change in level!
Dutton Stop Lock
Preston Brook Tunnel is impressive, with an almost cathedral-like space below the second airhole from the west; we emerged to find ourselves now on the Bridgewater Canal, and after passing under the M56, we head further north, past Daresbury ( a very modern ‘innovation campus’). The canal is wide, and although Mum’s search for a post office is in vain, the scenery’s not bad. There are no locks, and we chug peacefully along some way above the Manchester Ship canal.
Lymm (above) seems to be almost all marina, with a boat at the bottom of the garden the order of the day. We finally moor up at Little Bollington, on a windy canal bank.
Big Lock pub, Middlewich
13 July. Now we’re on the Trent and Mersey Canal, and the first task of the day is Big Lock. Fortunately there’s someone else to go through with (it’s one of the double-width ones) and we’re away up towards Manchester. Some interesting features of the canal here are the flashes beside the channel (keep to the marked bit!) where there are the rusting remains of scuttled boats from the fifties. Many have been raised and restored, but some are beyond help.
derelict in Billinge Green Flash
The landscape takes an industrial turn after we go through Broken Cross, the canal passing under the pipes of the ICI works, where an unexpected club mooring makes things interesting.
After passing the Lion Salt Works (seen on the BBC’s ‘Restoration’ programme, we have lunch at Marbury Country Park, before going a little further to moor up at Anderton, where the shore party investigate the Anderton Boat Lift.
14 July. Timing is the thing, heading north from the Anderton lift. There are tunnels, and they are on a timer…first comes Barnton, and then Saltersford – you have a twenty minute slot between the hour and twenty past going north, and then it’s a two hour run to Preston Brook tunnel if you don’t want to wait around. There are no towpaths in the tunnels, and it’s easy to imagine the old boatmen ‘legging’ their way along while their horses went the airy route over the top. Passing the Black Prince boatyard is a bit of a squeeze, too. Just before Preston Brook is Dutton Stop Lock, with a grand fall of six inches…not so much a lock as a water control mechanism, but it seems very strange going through the motions for such a small change in level!
Dutton Stop Lock
Preston Brook Tunnel is impressive, with an almost cathedral-like space below the second airhole from the west; we emerged to find ourselves now on the Bridgewater Canal, and after passing under the M56, we head further north, past Daresbury ( a very modern ‘innovation campus’). The canal is wide, and although Mum’s search for a post office is in vain, the scenery’s not bad. There are no locks, and we chug peacefully along some way above the Manchester Ship canal.
Lymm (above) seems to be almost all marina, with a boat at the bottom of the garden the order of the day. We finally moor up at Little Bollington, on a windy canal bank.
Slow Boat in the Sky - Part 2
Yes, well…before this year’s holiday overtakes us I reckon I’d better finish writing about last year! Where were we?
Oh yes, moored up at Llangollen, listening to Barbara Dickson…
8 July. Next morning saw a shore party heading off into the town to have a look at what was happening – dancing in the streets, and plenty of music. Back on the boat, the sounds of the Eisteddfod drifted across from the festival ground, all the international competitors taking part in the various competitions. The horse-drawn barges clip-clopped past on their way to the waterfalls, and the day was spent just chilling out, and looking at where our boat might take us over the next week or so.
round the town, and the horse-boats
9 July. Another high-in-the-sky day, with the excitement of crossing the aqueducts again. One thing about doing an out-and-back route instead of a circuit is you get a second chance at the photographs… there was the usual throng of boats at Trevor, though fortunately not so many dayboats causing chaos, and we waited to get into convoy across the Pontcysyllte. More tunnels and the Chirk aqueduct, and we were back to locks and an over night stop (and dinner) at the Jack Mytton pub.
on the Ponte (Drew)
between the tunnels.
10 July. The main aim of today was to get a pump-out. (Oh the romance of boating!) We found a helpful boatyard at the Blackwater Marina, and once that was done, took a side-trip up the Ellesmere Arm for some lunch and to replenish the stores. The highlight was Vermeulens’ Delicatessen, which provided a wonderful selection of delights; we’d recommend anyone taking the trip to make appoint of stopping and shopping! Drew made a very elegant three-point turn of the boat up by the new wharf (much to the disappointment of the gongoozalers on the bank) and we headed off again, through the open farmland and mosses to our overnight mooring at Grindley Brook, ready to tackle the staircase in the morning.
Ellesmere and around
11 July. Tonight finds us back at Hurleston Junction, in almost the same place as we spent our first night, planning new explorations. Farewell to the Llangollen Canal. We’ve got almost another week, and we’ve covered the ground (or water) we’d planned to do – so where now? We’ve done the countryside – how about some urban landscapes for a change?
Oh yes, moored up at Llangollen, listening to Barbara Dickson…
8 July. Next morning saw a shore party heading off into the town to have a look at what was happening – dancing in the streets, and plenty of music. Back on the boat, the sounds of the Eisteddfod drifted across from the festival ground, all the international competitors taking part in the various competitions. The horse-drawn barges clip-clopped past on their way to the waterfalls, and the day was spent just chilling out, and looking at where our boat might take us over the next week or so.
round the town, and the horse-boats
9 July. Another high-in-the-sky day, with the excitement of crossing the aqueducts again. One thing about doing an out-and-back route instead of a circuit is you get a second chance at the photographs… there was the usual throng of boats at Trevor, though fortunately not so many dayboats causing chaos, and we waited to get into convoy across the Pontcysyllte. More tunnels and the Chirk aqueduct, and we were back to locks and an over night stop (and dinner) at the Jack Mytton pub.
on the Ponte (Drew)
between the tunnels.
10 July. The main aim of today was to get a pump-out. (Oh the romance of boating!) We found a helpful boatyard at the Blackwater Marina, and once that was done, took a side-trip up the Ellesmere Arm for some lunch and to replenish the stores. The highlight was Vermeulens’ Delicatessen, which provided a wonderful selection of delights; we’d recommend anyone taking the trip to make appoint of stopping and shopping! Drew made a very elegant three-point turn of the boat up by the new wharf (much to the disappointment of the gongoozalers on the bank) and we headed off again, through the open farmland and mosses to our overnight mooring at Grindley Brook, ready to tackle the staircase in the morning.
Ellesmere and around
11 July. Tonight finds us back at Hurleston Junction, in almost the same place as we spent our first night, planning new explorations. Farewell to the Llangollen Canal. We’ve got almost another week, and we’ve covered the ground (or water) we’d planned to do – so where now? We’ve done the countryside – how about some urban landscapes for a change?
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Slow Boat in the Sky - Part 1
First part of the holidays – Bunbury to Llangollen.
It’s holiday time again. After tackling the Broads last year, we figured it was time to go back to the canals. With only three of us, we thought it prudent to try to find a route that wouldn’t have too many locks on it, so the Llangollen canal looked perfect. It also has the added lure of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, another masterpiece by Thomas Telford. Something we hadn’t thought about, of course, was that every year, at the beginning of July, Llangollen is the site of the Eisteddfod… quite what this would mean in terms of moorings and how busy the canals would be, we would have to see. It always helps to have more than one plan…
4 July: Bunbury to Hurleston Junction. Having picked up the boat (almost identical to the one we had two years ago), the first thing was to turn it round. First find your winding hole… (it’s pronounced ‘wind as in weather’, rather than ‘wind as in wrap up’) At this point, the rain starts. After a few close encounters of the branchy, leafy kind, we manage a several point turn, and head back past the boatyard to Bunbury staircase lock. This is the first one we’ve done that is wide enough for two boats; always an advantage if you can find another boat to accompany you – more people to work the locks! The weather improved, and it’s a short trip today, being late afternoon already, so we chug along down the Shropshire Union canal at between 3 and 4 miles an hour to a overnight stop at Hurleston Junction, just below the first flight of locks on the Llangollen canal.
5 July: Hurleston Junction to Willey Moor Lock. So the first thing we were faced with in the morning was a set of very narrow locks (Drew had been to investigate last night, and reported one boat that tried several times but eventually gave up!) and Mum’s first go at wielding the lock handle. Up we go, because from here it’s climbing all the way to Wales. The canal is fed by the River Dee, so there is quite a strong flow of water, which tends to push the boat around a bit; fortunately it’s a gently meandering route across the Cheshire plain, between herds of cows, who take a vague interest as we pass.
It’s pretty quiet, with a few locks, and the real excitement comes at Wrenbury, where we meet our first lift bridge. These require winding up for the boat to pass, and then one has to retrieve the crew member who must wind the bridge back down to cross and rejoin the boat. Even more exciting is the bridge in the middle of Wrenbury, which carries the main road. First, stop the traffic! It’s controlled by lights, like a level crossing; fortunately it’s also electrically powered. It’s quite a sharp turn round the corner, but I manage it without my usual pinball approach to locks and other narrow things!
There are more lift bridges to follow, though these are hand-wound, and we hopscotch along sharing the work with another boat. Tonight’s mooring is at the pub beside Willey Moor Lock, which also provides a convenient place for dinner and a pint or two.
6 July: Willey Moor Lock to Hindford. We start the day with another interesting set of locks – the Grindley Brook flight and staircase. Fortunately, there is a cheeky lock-keeper to assist and co-ordinate the boats going up and down, and we get through without incident. It’s a pretty place, and I would have taken pictures, but I was a little occupied with boat-handling. We moor up at the top of the locks to water up and have coffee, before heading onward.
There are more lift bridges to come as we pass Whitchurch, and start out across one of the largest lowland raised bogs in Britain, the Fenn’s, Whixall and Bettisfield Mosses National Nature Reserve, and we cross and re-cross the border between England and Wales several times.
As we approach Ellesmere, the weather decides there is not enough water around already, and it begins to pour with rain. Leaving Drew to steer, Mum and I take refuge in the cabin and peer out at the passing greenery.
There’s still plenty of daylight, and after Ellesmere, we pass through more peaceful rural scenery, slowly drying out as the sun comes back. We pass the entrance to the Montgomery Canal at Frankton; we thought about going up there, but it requires booking to pass through the locks at a particular time, and we’re seldom that organised. Add to that a comment from another boater that midge numbers were astronomical in the upper reaches, and we figured it was one to miss. Mooring was at Hindford, not far from the Jack Mytton pub.
7 July: Hindford to Llangollen. Only two locks today, and then there are no more until we meet these coming back. That’s not to say there are no interesting features today! There are lift bridges, tunnels, narrowings, busy boatyards and delinquent dayboats ahead, not to mention two aqueducts…
First there is Chirk Aqueduct.
This has a wide stone cladding, and runs beside the railway bridge, and goes almost immediately into the Chirk Tunnel. We emerge from the dark into a deep cutting, which leads into Whitehouse Tunnel.
Before the Big One – the Pontcysyllte itself – we have to navigate narrows before the village of Froncysyllte, where moored Waterways Board boats make things even tighter. Fron also has a lift bridge, and a lot of folks watching to see the boats go by.
Now comes the hairy bit… unlike the aqueduct at Chirk, Telford’s masterpiece has no stone cladding. The canal crosses the valley in a lead lined iron trough, and it feels a little like we are hanging in the sky. It is, of course, a difficult thing to take photos of. You’re on it, and there are very few ‘long’ views as you approach. It’s an astonishing thing. Eighteen stone piers hold up a thousand feet of waterway, up to 127 feet in the air. You have to cross in convoy, because once you’re on, there’s no going back.
We moor up at Trevor, so Drew can go back and take some more photos, and to look for postcards. While we wait to head up the last, narrow bit of the canal to Llangollen, we watch the antics of the dayboats. They don’t seem to recognised that it takes time to manoeuvre a narrowboat, and they don’t go backwards with any ease or grace; as a consequence there is often a little conflict when the space gets tight. Like going under a bridge on a corner…..
The canal runs halfway up the valley side, with glorious views away across to the Welsh mountains. It’s green and lush, with overhanging trees, and as we approach Llangollen, it gets narrower, with one-way working at some places, where the canal has been cut into the rockface. It’s busy, with a lot of boats strung out along the canalside moorings. There are a couple of places left in the marina, though, so we pay our mooring fee and pass the middle of the town, the slate rooftops below us.
We moor up, not without incident; the boat is heading beautifully towards the pontoon when a sudden gust of wind hits the slab side of it, and shoves us irresistibly into the side of another moored boat. No damage to either, and apologies seem to suffice. The Eisteddfod ground is only a couple of hundred yards away across the canal, and we have dinner listening to Barbara Dickson in concert. A fine evening, and a free gig… I’m not complaining! And it’s my birthday!
It’s holiday time again. After tackling the Broads last year, we figured it was time to go back to the canals. With only three of us, we thought it prudent to try to find a route that wouldn’t have too many locks on it, so the Llangollen canal looked perfect. It also has the added lure of the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, another masterpiece by Thomas Telford. Something we hadn’t thought about, of course, was that every year, at the beginning of July, Llangollen is the site of the Eisteddfod… quite what this would mean in terms of moorings and how busy the canals would be, we would have to see. It always helps to have more than one plan…
4 July: Bunbury to Hurleston Junction. Having picked up the boat (almost identical to the one we had two years ago), the first thing was to turn it round. First find your winding hole… (it’s pronounced ‘wind as in weather’, rather than ‘wind as in wrap up’) At this point, the rain starts. After a few close encounters of the branchy, leafy kind, we manage a several point turn, and head back past the boatyard to Bunbury staircase lock. This is the first one we’ve done that is wide enough for two boats; always an advantage if you can find another boat to accompany you – more people to work the locks! The weather improved, and it’s a short trip today, being late afternoon already, so we chug along down the Shropshire Union canal at between 3 and 4 miles an hour to a overnight stop at Hurleston Junction, just below the first flight of locks on the Llangollen canal.
5 July: Hurleston Junction to Willey Moor Lock. So the first thing we were faced with in the morning was a set of very narrow locks (Drew had been to investigate last night, and reported one boat that tried several times but eventually gave up!) and Mum’s first go at wielding the lock handle. Up we go, because from here it’s climbing all the way to Wales. The canal is fed by the River Dee, so there is quite a strong flow of water, which tends to push the boat around a bit; fortunately it’s a gently meandering route across the Cheshire plain, between herds of cows, who take a vague interest as we pass.
It’s pretty quiet, with a few locks, and the real excitement comes at Wrenbury, where we meet our first lift bridge. These require winding up for the boat to pass, and then one has to retrieve the crew member who must wind the bridge back down to cross and rejoin the boat. Even more exciting is the bridge in the middle of Wrenbury, which carries the main road. First, stop the traffic! It’s controlled by lights, like a level crossing; fortunately it’s also electrically powered. It’s quite a sharp turn round the corner, but I manage it without my usual pinball approach to locks and other narrow things!
There are more lift bridges to follow, though these are hand-wound, and we hopscotch along sharing the work with another boat. Tonight’s mooring is at the pub beside Willey Moor Lock, which also provides a convenient place for dinner and a pint or two.
6 July: Willey Moor Lock to Hindford. We start the day with another interesting set of locks – the Grindley Brook flight and staircase. Fortunately, there is a cheeky lock-keeper to assist and co-ordinate the boats going up and down, and we get through without incident. It’s a pretty place, and I would have taken pictures, but I was a little occupied with boat-handling. We moor up at the top of the locks to water up and have coffee, before heading onward.
There are more lift bridges to come as we pass Whitchurch, and start out across one of the largest lowland raised bogs in Britain, the Fenn’s, Whixall and Bettisfield Mosses National Nature Reserve, and we cross and re-cross the border between England and Wales several times.
As we approach Ellesmere, the weather decides there is not enough water around already, and it begins to pour with rain. Leaving Drew to steer, Mum and I take refuge in the cabin and peer out at the passing greenery.
There’s still plenty of daylight, and after Ellesmere, we pass through more peaceful rural scenery, slowly drying out as the sun comes back. We pass the entrance to the Montgomery Canal at Frankton; we thought about going up there, but it requires booking to pass through the locks at a particular time, and we’re seldom that organised. Add to that a comment from another boater that midge numbers were astronomical in the upper reaches, and we figured it was one to miss. Mooring was at Hindford, not far from the Jack Mytton pub.
7 July: Hindford to Llangollen. Only two locks today, and then there are no more until we meet these coming back. That’s not to say there are no interesting features today! There are lift bridges, tunnels, narrowings, busy boatyards and delinquent dayboats ahead, not to mention two aqueducts…
First there is Chirk Aqueduct.
This has a wide stone cladding, and runs beside the railway bridge, and goes almost immediately into the Chirk Tunnel. We emerge from the dark into a deep cutting, which leads into Whitehouse Tunnel.
Before the Big One – the Pontcysyllte itself – we have to navigate narrows before the village of Froncysyllte, where moored Waterways Board boats make things even tighter. Fron also has a lift bridge, and a lot of folks watching to see the boats go by.
Now comes the hairy bit… unlike the aqueduct at Chirk, Telford’s masterpiece has no stone cladding. The canal crosses the valley in a lead lined iron trough, and it feels a little like we are hanging in the sky. It is, of course, a difficult thing to take photos of. You’re on it, and there are very few ‘long’ views as you approach. It’s an astonishing thing. Eighteen stone piers hold up a thousand feet of waterway, up to 127 feet in the air. You have to cross in convoy, because once you’re on, there’s no going back.
We moor up at Trevor, so Drew can go back and take some more photos, and to look for postcards. While we wait to head up the last, narrow bit of the canal to Llangollen, we watch the antics of the dayboats. They don’t seem to recognised that it takes time to manoeuvre a narrowboat, and they don’t go backwards with any ease or grace; as a consequence there is often a little conflict when the space gets tight. Like going under a bridge on a corner…..
The canal runs halfway up the valley side, with glorious views away across to the Welsh mountains. It’s green and lush, with overhanging trees, and as we approach Llangollen, it gets narrower, with one-way working at some places, where the canal has been cut into the rockface. It’s busy, with a lot of boats strung out along the canalside moorings. There are a couple of places left in the marina, though, so we pay our mooring fee and pass the middle of the town, the slate rooftops below us.
We moor up, not without incident; the boat is heading beautifully towards the pontoon when a sudden gust of wind hits the slab side of it, and shoves us irresistibly into the side of another moored boat. No damage to either, and apologies seem to suffice. The Eisteddfod ground is only a couple of hundred yards away across the canal, and we have dinner listening to Barbara Dickson in concert. A fine evening, and a free gig… I’m not complaining! And it’s my birthday!
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Day Tripping at the Top End
Time to catch up!
Back in about May, we actually had a spell of really good weather, so I decided to take a day out and do a road trip I haven't done for years - all the way around the top end of Scotland. Not exactly a green activity, but the scenery is fabulous, and the trip practically impossible by public transport (certainly, you couldn't do it in a day!)
So off and away - later than I'd hoped, about 9.00 in the morning, and heading west towards Inverness and the Highlands. From here, I turn north, crossing the inner Moray Firth, across the Black Isle, and over the Cromarty Firth, with the tide right out and vast expanses of wader-friendly mud and sand.
Keep going north. The road follows the shoreline, the hills rising away to the left, covered in gorse and glowing like some crazed artist has splashed everything with chrome yellow. This is clearance country, a thin strip of farmland crammed between mountains and sea. The railway shares the route as far as Helmsdale, often running with its tracks almost in the water, before heading inland to Georgemas Junction and the northern towns. I follow the coast.
Passing a stand of conifers, it looks as if someone is burning off brushwood, or applying chemicals, but the yellowish fog spreads through the entire plantation, blowing inland on a strong easterly; I realise in amazement that it's pollen from the trees, windborn and guaranteeing a good crop of cones later in the season.
The road is quite winding and with some steep sections; not the place to find a gigantic slow-moving crane coming the other way. I pull in and let it roll down the hill.
Above the last valley, the road crosses an open and quite bleak landscape, treeless, hedgeless; for previous visits I remember fences made of flagstones and look for these, but most seem to have been replaced by the ubiquitous barbed wire. Older houses are roofed with the stone, though. Unlikely to blow off in the wind, I think.
I pass through Wick, on my way to the northern tip of mainland Britain. There are houses here that have been around for centuries; old fortified places that look more like small castles.
I'm on the way to Dunnet Head, the real northern point - but first, a more traditional and better known place - John o'Groats. It's busy on a day as fine as this, with bikers and happy-snappers, and souvenir shops. I don't hang about.
There's a haze along the horizon, which means the view across the Pentland Firth isn't as clear as I'd like, but some of the distant lighthouses can be made out on Stroma and Hoy, as well as some of the ancient sandstone seastacks; you can't quite see the Old Man of Hoy from here.
Dunnet Head is now an RSPB reserve, and there is time to chat with a group of birdwatchers; what have you seen? The lighthouse is as far as you can go by road, and overlooks a steep cliff thronged with birds, and the glinting, choppy water far
below.
Westwards now, and into the wilds of Sutherland. Mountains rise abruptly from wide Flow country - expanses of bog, where plover and redshank breed amidst pools of brown peaty water. Beyond Bettyhill, the mountains take over; the journey so far feels like I've been climbing from green soft shores to ever wilder and desolate country.
Ben Loyal is the biggest of the mountains laid out before me, forcing the road to follow the coastline, winding along the edges of the deep inlets, the Kyles of Tongue and Durness. There are gorgeous beaches along here, hidden gems of pale sand and unexpectedly blue sea.
At Durness there is no choice but to turn south. You can get to Cape Wrath from here, by means of foot ferry and a minibus along a rackety road to the far west corner, but it's well into the afternoon by now, and there's no time; instead I head down through the mountains towards Assynt. The name means something like rough land....
I'm running out of time. If I'd set off earlier, I might have made it as far as Ullapool; as it is, it's time to turn for home, and do the rest another day. At Ledmore Junction, I turn south-east, back towards Inverness, with the bulk of Suilven rising in my rear-view mirror.
Almost home now, and the light fading rapidly - well it is almost 11.00 pm! I pause at Cullen to take a final shot of the distant hills across the Moray Firth.
And people ask me why I want to live in Scotland?
Back in about May, we actually had a spell of really good weather, so I decided to take a day out and do a road trip I haven't done for years - all the way around the top end of Scotland. Not exactly a green activity, but the scenery is fabulous, and the trip practically impossible by public transport (certainly, you couldn't do it in a day!)
So off and away - later than I'd hoped, about 9.00 in the morning, and heading west towards Inverness and the Highlands. From here, I turn north, crossing the inner Moray Firth, across the Black Isle, and over the Cromarty Firth, with the tide right out and vast expanses of wader-friendly mud and sand.
Keep going north. The road follows the shoreline, the hills rising away to the left, covered in gorse and glowing like some crazed artist has splashed everything with chrome yellow. This is clearance country, a thin strip of farmland crammed between mountains and sea. The railway shares the route as far as Helmsdale, often running with its tracks almost in the water, before heading inland to Georgemas Junction and the northern towns. I follow the coast.
Passing a stand of conifers, it looks as if someone is burning off brushwood, or applying chemicals, but the yellowish fog spreads through the entire plantation, blowing inland on a strong easterly; I realise in amazement that it's pollen from the trees, windborn and guaranteeing a good crop of cones later in the season.
The road is quite winding and with some steep sections; not the place to find a gigantic slow-moving crane coming the other way. I pull in and let it roll down the hill.
Above the last valley, the road crosses an open and quite bleak landscape, treeless, hedgeless; for previous visits I remember fences made of flagstones and look for these, but most seem to have been replaced by the ubiquitous barbed wire. Older houses are roofed with the stone, though. Unlikely to blow off in the wind, I think.
I pass through Wick, on my way to the northern tip of mainland Britain. There are houses here that have been around for centuries; old fortified places that look more like small castles.
I'm on the way to Dunnet Head, the real northern point - but first, a more traditional and better known place - John o'Groats. It's busy on a day as fine as this, with bikers and happy-snappers, and souvenir shops. I don't hang about.
There's a haze along the horizon, which means the view across the Pentland Firth isn't as clear as I'd like, but some of the distant lighthouses can be made out on Stroma and Hoy, as well as some of the ancient sandstone seastacks; you can't quite see the Old Man of Hoy from here.
Dunnet Head is now an RSPB reserve, and there is time to chat with a group of birdwatchers; what have you seen? The lighthouse is as far as you can go by road, and overlooks a steep cliff thronged with birds, and the glinting, choppy water far
below.
Westwards now, and into the wilds of Sutherland. Mountains rise abruptly from wide Flow country - expanses of bog, where plover and redshank breed amidst pools of brown peaty water. Beyond Bettyhill, the mountains take over; the journey so far feels like I've been climbing from green soft shores to ever wilder and desolate country.
Ben Loyal is the biggest of the mountains laid out before me, forcing the road to follow the coastline, winding along the edges of the deep inlets, the Kyles of Tongue and Durness. There are gorgeous beaches along here, hidden gems of pale sand and unexpectedly blue sea.
At Durness there is no choice but to turn south. You can get to Cape Wrath from here, by means of foot ferry and a minibus along a rackety road to the far west corner, but it's well into the afternoon by now, and there's no time; instead I head down through the mountains towards Assynt. The name means something like rough land....
I'm running out of time. If I'd set off earlier, I might have made it as far as Ullapool; as it is, it's time to turn for home, and do the rest another day. At Ledmore Junction, I turn south-east, back towards Inverness, with the bulk of Suilven rising in my rear-view mirror.
Almost home now, and the light fading rapidly - well it is almost 11.00 pm! I pause at Cullen to take a final shot of the distant hills across the Moray Firth.
And people ask me why I want to live in Scotland?
Friday, 9 January 2009
Forge Valley
Well, you can't spend the entire holiday indoors knitting, can you?
So we took ourselves off to a regular haunt, to see what the birds were doing. Forge Valley is inland from Scarborough, on the south side of the North York Moors. The valley is probably glacial, and the River Derwent starts here somewhere. It's closely wooded, steep-sided, and has several stopping places, one of which is specifically for birdwatchers - there are lots of bird tables and hanging feeders, and after Xmas these are piled high with food for the local birds - and they are not shy about coming to take advantage of it. If you sit in the car, reasonably quietly, they ignore you; on occasion we have put food on the bonnet and had the birds queuing up on the aerial to feed! There is great variety, blackbirds, pheasants, woodpigeons, and loads of 'small stuff'... like these...
Treecreepers are one of the less common visitors, but this one seemed quite comfortable.
Long-tailed tits travel in flocks and don't often come to bird tables, but there was a small flock of about six or seven hanging about. In winter, they gather together at night in huddled groups to share warmth.
Great spotted woodpecker - if you're lucky, they'll even come down to the bird feeders... but not today. This was as close as this one got.
Of course, even with a lot of feeders, there is sometimes a queue.
And everybody has to wait their turn.
But there's enough for everyone. Blue tits aren't shy about a bit of push and shove.
At this time of year, the light fades too soon, especially at the bottom of the valley, so we headed home after about an hour, partly frozen but happy.
So we took ourselves off to a regular haunt, to see what the birds were doing. Forge Valley is inland from Scarborough, on the south side of the North York Moors. The valley is probably glacial, and the River Derwent starts here somewhere. It's closely wooded, steep-sided, and has several stopping places, one of which is specifically for birdwatchers - there are lots of bird tables and hanging feeders, and after Xmas these are piled high with food for the local birds - and they are not shy about coming to take advantage of it. If you sit in the car, reasonably quietly, they ignore you; on occasion we have put food on the bonnet and had the birds queuing up on the aerial to feed! There is great variety, blackbirds, pheasants, woodpigeons, and loads of 'small stuff'... like these...
Treecreepers are one of the less common visitors, but this one seemed quite comfortable.
Long-tailed tits travel in flocks and don't often come to bird tables, but there was a small flock of about six or seven hanging about. In winter, they gather together at night in huddled groups to share warmth.
Great spotted woodpecker - if you're lucky, they'll even come down to the bird feeders... but not today. This was as close as this one got.
Of course, even with a lot of feeders, there is sometimes a queue.
And everybody has to wait their turn.
But there's enough for everyone. Blue tits aren't shy about a bit of push and shove.
At this time of year, the light fades too soon, especially at the bottom of the valley, so we headed home after about an hour, partly frozen but happy.
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