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

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.

Slow Boat Under Birmingham

The canal network stretches throughout the heart of England, and used to carry much of the country’s goods. After years of neglect, enthusiasts have managed to restore much of the system, and it now carries a different cargo – holidaymakers. Amongst whom, this summer, were a motley collection – Mum, Brother, the Temporary Dog, the Temporary Dog’s real owner, and your humble correspondent. One week, four people, a singularly unenthusiastic dog, 95 miles, 93 locks, and one lost foot of height.




bargedog, but not by choice....

With a canal holiday, you book the boat, take food, and plan your route day by day, aiming for a reasonably accessible pub in which to spend the evening. Fortunately this is not hard! You can’t go fast – around 4 miles an hour (partly to protect the banks from erosion, and partly to prevent the poor souls in boats that are tied up from being thrown around too much!) Locks take around the same time as a mile of travel, so you calculate in ‘lockmiles’. Going through a lock is an interesting procedure – and can be a little Edgar Allen Poe-ish….

On Being Locked Up.

Half-ton gates slam behind me. Dank, slime-covered stones rise above my head, mosses and liverworts dripping coldly down my neck as I turn to see what’s coming.
Somewhere above me, there is a clanking as hidden doors are opened; water starts gushing into the narrow chamber. I am thrown forward and backwards by the torrent, fighting to hold my position and stop myself being hurled against the gates by the water’s force.
I rise on the flood to the top of the chamber, into sunshine now, and engage forward gear. The gates ahead open - we’re clear of the lock.

You get the picture?


Ryder's Junction

The boat is easy-ish to handle – you have to remember it’s around 60 feet long and turns like a brick, and although it has a very shallow draught, sometimes the canal is even shallower….OK, we got stuck a few times, and had to resort to pushing off with a long pole, but that’s why they give you a long pole in the first place! There were some stretches of canal that were better kept than others, too – navigation by means of avoiding sofas, shopping trolleys and children’s bicycles – and I hereby warn all those who venture onto the waterways to avoid the Wyreley and Essington (otherwise known as the Curley Wyreley) unless you have a particular fondness for stopping every half mile to unload the weed hatch….. a singularly unpleasant business where one halts the boat, vanishes under the rear deck-plates, unscrews the hatch lock, and goes headfirst down the subsequent hole with one’s arms in freezing water, groping around the propeller to disentangle a variety of substances, from weed to rope to angler’s line to plastic herons and thorny twigs……

Other stretches were pure delight, with kingfishers, wagtails, and shoals of fish darting amongst the weeds, and it was a simple joy to hang over the side and watch the world drift past below your fingertips, interrupted only to note what new bank vegetation the current helmsperson had just dragged you through!



So why pick on Birmingham?

In truth, it was the revelation of the trip. There are more miles of canals in Birmingham than in Venice, and waterways thread their way through the heart of the city, looping around, though and under the buildings.



It is a very weird feeling to be climbing through a series of locks that lie beneath a building under construction, or to sail past a restaurant that lies between locks – knowing that on the up-lock side, the restaurant wall holds back millions of gallons of water…



There are odd places down there, under the city. Urban mythology lies in wait. Under the Telecom tower, beside the canal, there is a wide area of gravel, beyond which is a wall, with a series of openings. Each opening has a gate of wrought iron, each with a different design. It’s not hard for the imagination to see these as holding pens for trolls, or as merchants’ market stances, waiting for the late night secret market where rare, dangerous, and esoteric items are bought and sold…..

To rise from a series of locks into a narrow gap between buildings, windowless faces staring blankly high above your head, to find a vast, colourful mural depicting the history of the canals in the city – just for your delight – is a reassurance that there are still people to there who understand the fun of the unexpected and unnecessary. At night you tie up (for free!) in the heart of the city, not far from the Indoor Arena, in the upmarket waterfront yuppie-zone, adjacent to pubs, clubs and café-culture.




Then the following morning you set off and find yourself somewhere under Spaghetti Junction, in an alternate – maybe parallel – world where there are thundering juggernauts overhead, and slow, peaceful waterways below, and below that, a river or a forgotten road.



Fishermen know these places, and keep them to themselves. Locking-down, you suddenly realise that the sheet of metal to the side of the lock and towpath is a motorway sign. An aqueduct carries you along beside the M6. Do the drivers, rushing to work, caught up in the frenzy of meetings and time-keeping, ever notice the slow-boat-people?

And the lost foot of height? Well, I did the research afterwards, and found we'd gone UP 309 feet in height, and DOWN 310 feet.... so am I now living a foot below everyone else?

Thanks again to my brother for some of the photos...

Being a Tourist – 16 October

Duties concluded, we are free to sight-see! This may take some time, so I recommend you get a cup of coffee (or the beverage of your choice) and settle in for a while.

I decide to have another lie-in; you understand, these are not late lie-ins, merely to about 9.00 am, when the noise of traffic, trams and people outside drives me out of my bed to the shower! I forego breakfast in the hotel and decide to do the real tourist thing – to find a café and sit outside, watching the world go by whilst sipping on a café au lait.
I set out to find the cathedral. Of necessity born of joint damage, I move slowly, so it’s a gentle amble, checking out the shops as I go, (and beginning to understand Liz’s fascination for the shoe shops!) and soak in the difference of the place. It reminds me of York, in a way, trendy shops giving way to the more tourist-trap versions as I near the cathedral itself. It rises from the houses much in the way York Minster – or indeed Beverley Minster in my home town – does; there is no clear view of the building, just glimpses of facades through gaps between other buildings. I find a road leading to the North doors, and stop to take it all in.



It seems to be red sandstone – the only time I have seen this before is St Magnus in Orkney – of course I may be wrong, not having a geological hammer with me (and I doubt I would have been allowed to take samples!), and the details in the carving are still very clear, which I wouldn’t expect in something subject to the weathering of centuries. The North Porch (apologies if I get this wrong, but I’m guessing direction!) is fascinating, and I stop at a café, order petit dejeuner and sit down outside to take in the view.
Croissant, café au lait, et cathedral.
On one side, the Wise and Foolish Virgins look smugly at each other. On the other, the Vices backstab the Virtues. Above the door, the Virgin Mary dies and is buried. Higher still, Kings on horseback ride around the sides of the towers, and above all – gargoyles. Crowding each buttress, each cornice, they hang out halfway to the sky, open mouthed at the antics below.



I love gargoyles! The chief beauty of Gothic architecture, for me, lies in the gargoyles. I wish our modern architecture had room for them, it would be so much more fun!
Off to my left, an old merchant house looks more German than French, reflecting the mixed nature of the Alsace region.



A strange noise attracts my attention. There is a man with a barrel organ to my right, and another group that I can only describe as the local equivalent of a mariachi band to my left, but another, deeper, more visceral noise underlies it all. Finishing my coffee, I pay the bill and go to find out what’s happening.



Russian horns! They look more like old brass telescopes, but the sound is wonderful. They play classical music, sounds Russian to me (but what do I know!) and it clashes deliciously, in a way that makes me want to laugh out loud, with the accordion/mariachi version of ‘Delilah’ that is still playing around the corner.
I wander back to the tourist office to meet up with Liz and Lucy, who are halfway through the walking tour, cleverly guided by mp3 directions. We head for the cathedral to see the astrological clock, only to find that demand means that the doors are closed before the 12.30 pm ‘performance’. So we wait for it to finish (quietly cursing!) on the steps below the outer clock.



Once the doors open, we make our way inside. The clock is a masterpiece of automata; created in the 1400’s, and repaired and extended in the 18th century, it has some of the oldest moving mechanical figures in Europe. But the first thing that meets the eye as you enter by the (probably) West gate is the Angel column. It represents the Day of Judgement, gospel writers below angels below archangels and holy figures, and it’s quite beautiful.



OK, back to the clock. It’s absolutely huge, and I don’t know if the picture gives any idea of how big it is. I apologise for wobbly bits in the picture, as I’ve stuck two together to show you what it looks like. What are we looking at?



Top left – a rooster, which crows – apparently represents Peter’s denial. Below this, a lot of mechanism which drives (bottom left, behind the grille) an ecclesiastical clock – which, I guess, is something that will tell the date of Easter or something of the sort – it goes into epochs and all sorts of things. The pictures are of the muse of astronomy, Urania, Copernicus and…umm. Guilty, don’t remember!
Top right – and below – the stairway that rises for the maintenance man (very narrow steps!)
In the middle: at the top, I think, it’s the figure of Christ and the apostles parade past him each day at noon - hence 12.30 – the clock works on astronomical time rather than official time (remember Leap Years?). Below that figures representing the ages of man parade at intervals – childhood, youth, maturity and old age. Under them, a black and gold globe shows the phases of the moon, and below that, the astrological signs revolve around the heavens. At the foot of these sit two cherubs, one with a bell (which rings the quarter hours) and one with an hourglass (which turns on the – half - hours?). Between them, there is a clockface with two sets of hands, one showing official time, one showing ‘real’. Under these - (I told you it was huge!) – and this is under the dark shelf at the lower third of the picture – are a series of Roman chariots representing the days of the week – today it’s Luna, in a chariot drawn by stags (how appropriate!).
The big disc below that shows the Earth, with hands that reflect the length of the day at this time of year. I’m guessing that the globe revolves to show the side of the Earth facing the Sun. Behind the man who is inconveniently standing in the middle is an orrery, mapping the heavens.
And one small detail, which I love and which I have failed to represent clearly, is the light coloured band to the right bottom corner. This has the months of the year on it, from top to bottom and back up again (and the appropriate sign of the Zodiac) and in the door to the right of it is a slit, which makes the midday sun shine on the appropriate time of year. I love this clock!!!!
On either side of the big disc at the bottom are the emblems of Night and Day. Day is a chap in Roman armour, who points at the current time. Night, on the other hand, is to be quite frank, a bit of a floozy. I mean, look at that frock…



Liz and Lucy head off to finish their tour, and I set out around the cathedral to se what they’ve already seen. It’s gorgeous, and not that huge – it bears comparison with either Minster – and has a number of rather enchanting features such as this -




On the left, a representation of the preacher’s dog, put there to keep him company during long hours in the pulpit! And then there’s the organ loft, hung like a swallow’s nest high in the vaulting, (I doubt it still works, but it’s amazing! And think of the organist climbing all that way up there…) After a while, I venture back into the word outside, blinking in the sunshine, and take a trip on the wee tram that runs round the old part of the city. It travels through the more picturesque streets, bucking over the tram lines, squeezing through the narrow lanes of Petit France, crossing and re-crossing the river. It’s a nice way to see the sights.
I met up with the others back at the cathedral, for quick refueling stop consisting of patisserie, and we head down to the river to take in the sights on the boat trip. The day has become warm and sunny, and we opt for the open top boat. For the first part, we cover relatively familiar ground, seeing the old part of the city from the water, traversing a couple of locks, passing the old washing stations and the tanners’ houses, before turning upriver towards the more modern elements of the European Parliament buildings.





It’s a relaxed and relaxing way to see the sights, (and you can get off on certain trips and see things more closely) and we finally wander back ashore with thoughts of shopping and coffee. Liz heads off shoe-shop-wards, and Lucy and I decide to be a little more leisurely and find yet another café –this time with a more Germanic flavour. But before we split up, I find another gargoyle, this time on the downspouts of the Rohan Palace…



Tomorrow we head back to Scotland, via Orly and Charles de Gaulle, over the cloud covered land, before dropping down through the grey layers to an Aberdeen little different for our absence. Tonight, wandering back towards the hotel, before a final meal at our favorite haunt, we see that we have made some form of impact on the city. In a plant-pot on one of the main shopping streets, Excalibur waits for the Once and Future King…



Random memories?

The panic of trying to by a tram ticket and finding the machine broken – and the delight in discovering how to get it to tell you what to do in English! And the tram system itself – regular, efficient, and cheap. And clean!!
The bats swooping over the Music Hall.
Small, silent, smiling children.
The Eiffel Tower, lit up and glittering at night.
Finding words in French that I didn’t know I knew suddenly at the front of my brain.
Sunrise through mist, and the cathedral rising through it, clad in scaffolding that looked like part of the building – a lacework tracery edging the steeples.
Discovering – as if I should have thought different – that kids are very much the same, wherever you are.
A wealth of very charming men!
Sun on the water.
Plane trees, reminding me of the old slogan – plane trees aren’t.
Market stalls, farmers’ market on Friday, antiques market on Saturday, neither of which we had time to see (or spend money in!)
Politeness.
The Eiffel Tower during the day, from the window of the coach between airports.
Nightfall rushing towards us across the clouds.
A crazy idea, that seemed to work!

Home again, how long ago it feels…