The heat is on in the South Seas

Gradually I’ve been refining my technique through locks, always trying to ease my passage through. You’d have thought it was straightforward; moor up, set the lock, putter in, change the level, open up, putter out, moor up, close the gate and be on my way. But that is a lot of toing and froing, leaving my boat unattended for much of the process. So I’ve been experimenting. There’s no alternative to mooring up while I set the lock initially, unless my timing is impeccable and I arrive as another boat is coming out, therefore leaving the gate open for me. Part of the trouble leaving the boat unattended in the lock allows for a lot of movement, due to the turbulence created by the water being let in or out. It draws the boat backwards and forwards, often bringing it crashing into the lock gate, causing mayhem to those items inside I never remember to tidy away. I got fed up with it, drawers and cupboard doors swinging open and depositing their contents on the floor. As you can imagine, it becomes a touch tedious picking up the same things again and again.  So I vowed to put paid to the tedium once and for all. (Photo: Looking up the upper flight of locks at Audlem)

First of all I started to use my mid rope to steady the boat inside the lock, but that turned out to be a palaver. As I opened each paddle I’d be running back to the rope and hauling on it to stop the boat moving within the confined space of the lock. It made it a lengthier process if anything, often complicated when I didn’t reach the rope in time and it dropped back into the lock. A wet rope is nowhere near as pleasant to handle as a dry one, so all told I was moving further from a solution. I’d heard of people leaving their boats in gear, gently nosing into the front gate, while opening and closing paddles etc. For a while I wasn’t confident enough to try this, but once dealing with twenty locks in one day something had to be done, so I gave it a go. Hey presto, it was just the ticket. As the prow nestled against the lock gate I snick it into forward gear and step of, either using the ladder or via the roof of the boat. By judiciously opening the paddles the boat merely backs off a little before pressing its nose back against the front gate. Once the water level has evened out I can select neutral open the gate and take her out. And the final refinement is leaving it to exit all on its own. I open the gate, with her still in gear. She chugs slowly out the lock, once clear of the gate I close it and jump aboard before she vanishes down the canal on her own. Neat eh? (Photo: Sun streaked sky at dusk, enjoyed while scoffing broccoli cheese in the Shropshire countryside)

Neither do I waste time walking the length of the lock many times. I have a decent stride, so I step across the gap between the gates. A degree of care is needed, with the weather worsening it gets slippery, and it wouldn’t do to plummet into the lock with a propeller spinning at the stern. There really is no need to worry. The double gates are always some distance from where the stern of the boat is, at least when I’m hopping across them anyway. Actually the most lethal place for footing is the metal ladders to ascend from the boat to the lockside. Whatever the weather they are wet and slippery, but I’m already in the habit of jamming my foot against the side so it can’t slip off. Amazingly this has all become second nature in double quick time, it doesn’t take me much longer, if any, than boats manned with a crew. Recently I’ve helped as many others as have helped me. It’s all part and parcel of the game, it isn’t laborious unless you allow it to be. And believe me, twenty locks alone in one day is some going. I have to admit to taking a pub break part way through, it would have been rude not to. After all, there are two canal side pubs at Audlem, I couldn’t really have ignored them both. One brilliant phenomenon of canal pubs is that most serve decent real ales, and a good selection. Local breweries are well represented, many of the bottled ales I generally only see in stores can be bought on draught. (Photo: Lock-keepers cottage at Audlem locks)

 Correct me if I’m wrong (on second thoughts don’t bother), but you enter No.15 of the Audlem locks in Cheshire and get spat out of the last one into Shropshire. The actual county boundary is somewhere in the middle, though at that point there is no discernible difference. On the canal itself there is. It tends to be wider north of Audlem, and while it has its fair share of overhanging flora it tends to crowd you more once heading south. Referred to in boating terms as the Cut it becomes clear exactly why. Its cut through the landscape, and few places more so than in Shropshire. Avenues carved from bare rock have been hewn by hand by the gutsy, and desperate for work, Irish navvies. Those guys must have been built like brick shithouses to endure that sort of work, and no doubt they were paid a pittance while risking their lives on a daily basis. Without being sentimental about it they’re owed a huge debt for their achievements throughout the Victorian era of engineering. I know the credit is largely down to the likes of Thomas Telford and Brindley, to name but two, but without the tremendous labour of the navvies we’d have achieved very little. There again, with the nefarious Empire there would have been plenty of other lackeys to subjugate to a life of hard labour. (Photo: Tyrley Cutting, hewn from bare rock, from the top of the cutting to the bottom of the canal)

Throughout Shropshire and Cheshire the Shropshire Union Canal passes through mile after mile of empty countryside. The towns you pass were trading places, many made their money from the goods transported along the waterways. Indeed most the canals were constructed specifically to shift raw materials to places of manufacture, then the manufactured goods to lucrative markets. I’ve yet to see a disgusting hovel disguised as a town on my journey south. Most towns are desirable places to live, they are not cheap and shoddy. Architecture is of days gone by, and still maintained in very good condition. They are rich in a bygone culture, and preserved with more than their fair share of Listed Buildings. Nowadays you could say trade is no more on the canals, but you’d be wrong. They’re busy thoroughfares for those who have time and money on their hands. The pubs and shops that grace its path are not old and original in anything but outer appearance. Their interior, and in fact their ethos, are prefabricated versions of what the uniformed believe to from days gone by. Very few pubs are the alehouses of yesteryear, more like theme pubs created for the tourist season. No more so than any other boozer, and they do have the canal itself to lend some degree of credibility. (Photo: Opening out into Staffordshire, a brief break from open farmland)

Personally I think the black and white, timber framed buildings are lovely. As are the older styled red brick housing, and a lot of that was built to house the workers of highflying entrepreneurs in the Victorian times. Of course they were the conscientious employers, maybe it would be more accurate to refer to them as those who recognised the benefits of housing, health and education. Seems a shame we don’t have such people running our country now. But who am I to grumble? Having the time to wander at will admiring such works isn’t to be sniffed at. And admire I do. It never ceases to amaze me the feats achieved in those bygone days, nor how far advanced we have become nowadays. I must be showing my age to marvel at yesteryear, but the architecture and engineering feats of that age do seem so remarkable. It wasn’t just the practical side behind building that brave new world, the stark beauty I’m confronted with as I cruise along is staggering. Considering the canal systems were built over two hundred years ago, the manner in which they overcame all obstacles far surpasses what is achieved in much of the world now. As humans we could be said to have come so far, yet the rape and pillage of our natural world now is reminiscent of the dark ages. (Photo: The rather unique Lambarts, double arched, bridge - Nr Offley, Staffs)

Since entering the Llangollen Canal I’ve been struggling with my engine. Well, not the engine itself, the cooling system. No matter what I do I can’t get the bugger to run without overheating, or so it would seem. It’s fine for a few hours, or it was, then the temperature climbs until I must heave to and allow it to cool down briefly. Once done it will run fine again for hours at a time. Whoever I speak to has a different opinion as to what it might be, and most have no grounds for the advice they give. The bulk of it is hearsay, and can easily be dismissed as such. But there is often a lingering doubt, which leads to checking yet another part of the system, unnecessarily most of the time. As long as I could cruise a few hours at a time it didn’t matter, but it’s got worse recently. A few days ago the temperature gauge rose steadily from the minute I set off, I was limping along one mile at a time. The engine is meant to run at about 85^O C, so once it’s nudging 100^O I feel inclined to give it a rest. Air trapped within the system is the most common diagnosis, yet I’ve bled the system time and time again. Considering there is often still air to bleed leads me to believe it’s getting onto the system, but where?  A hose burst, and I thought that had been the fault, but it didn’t improve. I’ve stripped off all the hoses, cleaned the pipes, tightened jubilee clips, all to no avail. (Photo: Thank heaven for humour - Nr Tyrley Locks)

Yesterday I took a break from cruising and stressing about the problem, or that was what I told myself. Instead I removed all the panelling from the engine compartment, drained the system, and systematically checked everything. Finding a suspect hose I phoned Calcutt boats, the gurus for BMC engines who claim to have everything for them. Great, they don’t have any of the hoses I want. So they’ve gone back on, tightening them up doubly tight. That made no difference, so today I set off again regardless. Within a mile the temperature was up to 95^O. This time I carried on regardless, and it got no hotter. Cruising all day made it no worse, which I don’t know whether it’s good news or not. My thoughts were leaning toward the cylinder head being blown, now I have doubts about that. Maybe the bloody gauge is not reading correct, wouldn’t that be typical? Someone today asked whether I was enjoying my time despite this problem. I must say I’m at my whit’s end over this, but I do still appreciate the countryside I’m passing through. I get off on the magnificent bridges I pass under, marvel every time I see a kingfisher. There is a smile on my lips when I pass other boaters, even if they are pillocks. So am I making the most of it? I guess I must be. (Photo: Is it a moor hen or a coot? Maybe you can tell me)

Previously I mentioned how much narrower it’s become since heading south from Audlem. In many places it is only one boat wide, so it pays to check ahead, passing places are few and far between. Along one especially long, narrow section I was stunned to see what looked like a boat being manoeuvred as if to moor up. There was no question of turning round, and reversing would have been a nightmare. Continuing at tick over I could still see the boat moving from side to side, so assumed they were trying to make room to let me pass, a bold move if I may say so. As it happened, by using the rush choked wild side, I could just squeeze past. And I needed to, as there was no-one aboard. The boat was adrift, floating willy-nilly in the most constricted stretch you can imagine. My fist impulse was to leave it, as I’d got past it was no longer a problem for me. But I couldn’t be so complacent, so I stopped. Was it the temptation for another new experience or, the possibility of reward? No! It just made sense to tow it to a safer location, which is what I did. During the tow I did imagine someone seeing me and accusing me of stealing their boat, but you can’t let an overactive imagination stop you doing the decent thing. Later that day I got talking to a couple in the pub, they’d passed it and simply pushed it aside, unwilling to face possible accusations. Unbelievably they followed this information with a story of their own boat coming loose and how grateful they were that someone made it secure for them. (Photo: Approaching Curlew adrift -  Nr Shebdon)

I must admit it’s a bit surreal cruising through the outskirts of Wolverhampton. One minute I was in open countryside, the next passing through a modern housing estate. And yes, there was a shopping trolley, wheels up in the middle of the canal. I think this is traditional for urban canals, they don’t have the delights of historical architecture, or wonderful wildlife, so they need acts of wanton destruction to satisfy their humdrum urbane lives. In all honesty though, it’s the sort of thing I’d have done as a kid. Not out of any spite, not to create any hassle, simply out of boredom. They probably had fun first, pushed each other down the hill in it, tried to overturn it at speed. Who knows, there could well have been a kid in it when it took to the water. Maybe they picked up some awful lurgy, which would have made it all worthwhile if it gave them time off school. The first estate was the worst, consisting of terraced rabbit hutches, but surprisingly clean and well maintained, with the exception of the occasional burnt out shell. Once turning on to the Trent & Mersey Canal, and heading back up north, the quality of housing improved drastically. One side was semi-detached rabbit hutches, while the other had rear gardens lining the canal and weeping willows casting sun-dapples patterns on long luxurious lawns. No doubt they’ll be able to afford luxurious floating gin palaces when they retire. (Photo: Unusual parch for a heron)