I’m glad to report my engine seems to be chugging happily
along, just about how it should be. I had one minor moment when the temperature
peaked higher than it’s regular 85
OC. I bled out the little spit of
air left in the cooling system, and, just like magic, it would appear the
problem has vanished. Of course I’ve made efforts to understand it’s temptation
to take a little air back into the system. My theory is that the volume of the
expansion tank is too small. With coolant topped to it’s lowest level at cold,
at normal operating temperature, the amount of expansion files the entire
expansion chamber, venting off any excess coolant. Once cooled completely, the
level of coolant is below the expansion tank, therefore at least some air has
sunk back down into the topmost part of the system. Topping it up carefully on
a morning seems to ensure there are no problems, it’ll run for many hours,
without stop, at a steady temperature. There is a bit of a diesel smell in the
engine bay, which I believe is stronger than previously noticed, but you can
kid yourself of anything when expecting the worst. And it hasn’t worn off yet, my
guard is still up, picking up on the slightest noise, smell or sign of anything
untoward. (Photo: A pretty looking coot)
It’s been some time since having visitors, so having company
for the weekend was a welcome distraction. A family of four and two dogs was
reduced to a lone male, so it was just two guys having a little adventure for
the weekend. That adventure being the Harecastle Tunnel, 2,675 metres of very
confined space in almost black out conditions. I do have a small light on the
prow to navigate through tunnels, and I have to be honest, it’s virtually
useless. Being fair I would not liked to have tried without the faint ray of
hope it provided. In height it gets as low as 6” 2’ (just under two metres),
which may not sound really small, but it is a canal boat you have to squeeze
through, not a mini cooper. I wanted to make it through without having to remove
the roof boxes, so there was a question as to whether I could fit through. Not
wanting to face the job of emptying them, complete dismantling and then fitting
everything inside, I actually considered turning round and retracing my route
round Nantwich and Middlewich to get north of Stoke. With such madness floating
round my confused little brain a handy ally would be invaluable, as long as
Steph didn’t know the possibilities that lay ahead, I wouldn’t want to scare
him off. (Photo: Working pottery, along with the tourist side)
Neither of us could have imagined what lay ahead for the
weekend, but at least dismantling roof boxes and cramming my boat full didn’t
turn out to be on the agenda. I’d pretty much been kicking my heels on the
approach to Stoke on Trent, wasting days in the vain hope of being reissued
with a valid bankcard. Why leaving my wallet in a shop meant my current card
was permanently cancelled is beyond me. In effect, if anyone phones up your
bank and reports your card lost it is immediately cancelled. Being reissued a
new card is the only solution, easier said than done living on the cut. Taking
up to five days to reach any given branch means a little forward planning is
involved, especially as I had to live off the cash in my pocket. Ambling from
Stone to Trentham I was poised to cruise straight through the heart of Stoke to
meet Steph at the upper fringes of the city. If ever things need to run
smoothly there’s a good chance they won’t. Three nights hovering around
Trentham and my card failed to reach me, finally I left on the Friday, empty-handed.
I expected to pass heavily populated areas of Stoke, run down and seedy.
Admittedly, there were a few such areas, but few and far between. The main sign
of human activity were scores of overpasses, heavy traffic, a busy and noisy
environment. It never really reached the canal side.
Stoke is actually an amalgamation of metropolis’, all having
built up to the point of making one huge megalopolis. The individual town
centres lay to one side or the other of the canal, which snakes around the
outer boundaries between them. The clean-cut lines of modern suburbia line one bank.
Willows run rampant in undersized gardens, boardwalks edge the waters, displaying
a variety of outdoor features, enough to make any home and garden mega-store
proud. Closer in are the crumbling redbrick council properties, also backing
directly onto the canal. I can’t claim to understand the concrete sheep and
goats on display, suffice to say the run down terraced housing wasn’t as well
presented. The disparity was quite startling, it shouldn’t be, I’m used to
wandering the margins between those that have and those that have not. Chugging
peacefully along, alone, allows time to notice the world about. It’s peaceful
on the canal, even in a lot of the inner city areas. Though never busy the
footpaths are well-used, constant dog walkers, more than the occasional jogger,
and a steady stream of cyclists. It’s like a leafy lane winding between old and
stained buildings. Penetrating deeper into the metropolis the housing more or
less stopped, large industrial complexes filled much of the space in what
appears to be recycled wasteland. Huge areas lay empty, ringed by busy trunk
roads and intersections.
Bottleneck kilns dot the skyline, disused commercial
properties became the norm. Decaying brickwork and filthy broken windows form a
blot on the landscape, it fills my view for long minutes at a time. The towpath
and tunnels become vamped up to provide
convenient underpasses. To this joskin it was mayhem, but I cruised through
sedately, in my own little world. There are also a number of locks to climb
through as you head north from the central Stoke area. Which is a bit weird.
Coming up in the lock I entered under a bridge, at a main junction of the road
above. Then, after sorting out the paddles, I bring my boat from beneath the
traffic, up to the same height. It was like a clash of worlds, a bit like
meeting a Mongolian camel herder on my modern BMW, but the other way round, if
you get my drift. In this case though, as soon as you putter out the lock
you’re back in your own world, a languid, leafy lane.
Not for everyone though! Leaving a lock open for the family
approaching I backed round a corner to top up with water. I assumed they had
some clue as to what they were doing, the daughter had already watched a couple
of boats go through. Ten minutes later I walked back round the corner, to find
their boat stuck hallway down the lock and the lower canal system flooding over
all the locks. The husband was at the helm, shouting instructions and abuse at
wife and kids, who were desperately trying to figure out what the hell to do.
Coming into the lock they’d thought they had to do something to the gate once
they entered, so they’d opened the paddles I’d rightly closed before leaving.
Then by opening the bottom paddles too they’d caused a free flow from that lock
down. I shouldn’t be too harsh with the guy, he wasn’t being too obnoxious, I
think I’d being losing it a bit stuck down in the boat totally out of
controlling the situation. I jumped to their aid and set all the paddles how
they should be, then explained to wife and kids how to do a lock. Due to the
flooding caused they got stuck for longer, the water lower down had to be
drained off before they could continue. That was their first lock, so I must
admit they did quite well handling the boat into the lock. How can you go into
the family politics of the situation? There’s plenty of argy bargy on the cut,
partners cussing each other in difficult circumstances. And so many guys get
their wives to set the locks, while they lounge at the tiller.
Normally,
when faced with having guests, the big bonus is having someone to crew for you.
Apart from the tunnel itself the only obstacle was one measly lock, so Stef was
due lots of excitement and very little work. Not only did we have a virtually
clear way ahead, but the roof boxes passed the height restriction at Harecastle
Tunnel. Approaching it, it seemed so innocuous. A fair sized portal and a small
docking area hove into view as we rounded the last bend, there was no other
punters about so we pretty much went straight through. I had to take my chimney
down and put the bicycle indoors, then we were caste into an enormous black
hole. At nearly three kilometers long I hadn’t expected to have sight of the
far end, but right from the beginning there was the faintest little speck of
light at the end of the tunnel. I lost sight of it often, and grazed the sides
of my roof boxes. The damage was slight, battle scars so to speak, and the trip
through was awesome. It kept getting smaller, then smaller still. Initially we
thought it was spacious, and it was compared with what was to come. At its
narrowest I could only just raise my head above the level of the hatchway, I
couldn’t see to steer, I merely let the sides of the tunnel lead me through,
with an occasional slight bump. It was really awesome, it only took forty
minutes and was worth every minute. So much so that I’m now heading up towards
Standedge Tunnel, nearly six kilometers long. Once more, will I fit through
without having to dismantle the roof boxes?
