Leaving the Dale of Roaches behind

Handling locks is an essential part of dealing with most journeys on the UK canals. There are limits to what can be considered as reasonable though. I joined the Rochdale Canal at lock No. 83, I’m now facing my last three before joining the Aire and Calder Navigation. As No. 4 has mysteriously vanished it means I’ve done eighty-two since leaving Manchester (a distance of 30 miles), and a total of one hundred and sixteen in the last two weeks. Faced with these sort of numbers it has to be handled with complete aplomb, otherwise the chore would be too much to contemplate. Weekends have been treated as such, a couple of days of much needed rest. Days haven’t been about miles covered or hours cruising, it’s the number of locks. Which is why I’ve harped on about them so frequently. But yesterday was a breakthrough, how many locks I had to negotiate didn’t enter my mind. I picked a mooring on the map, in a quiet looking spot, and dealt with whatever locks as they appeared. At one point I realised I hadn’t a clue as to how many I’d done or how many lie ahead. I’m pleased to say the really heavy concentration of locks would seem to be over now, at least for a while. (Photo: Looking back Manchester direction - Two locks from the Rochdale Canal Summit, Nr the town of Summit)

Only another five boats on the move have been encountered, and one of them was only been taken to its local boat yard. There’s rarely anyone to get in my way, no waiting at locks for others to come through, though many mooring spots are chock-a-block. Whether on an official mooring or over staying on the open canal, most people have snuggled down for the winter. A fair few are living on them, though many stand empty. Certain areas seem graced with a resident group of water-bourne travellers; you know, the one’s who occupy a space until they’re moved on. The social politics is strong, various factions of society thrown into the same small world. On the canal there are no barriers to ward off unappreciated neighbours, whilst the majority are innocuous the undesirables are still around. By and large I’m happy to let whoever get on with it as they wish. I can’t say I think a cluster of rotting hulks looks very appealing, but I don’t have to moor in that vicinity if I feel overly snobbish. Being on the move all the time overcomes social pressures, those I do meet are out of my life in minutes anyway, and I can tolerate the worst of people briefly. (Photo: Starting the descent after passing the summit - View down the Calder valley)

Despite the nefarious reputation of the Rochdale Canal I’ve encountered no hassle what so ever. I did pass the occasional youths loitering under bridges, a friendly greeting seemed to do the trick. There are many tales of malcontents hurling various missiles at passing boats, and more distressing, boats being burnt out. Is it any wonder the urban sprawl the canal creeps through is dreaded? People insist it’s just Manchester, but the suburbs continue all the way to the other side of Rochdale. Other than a few sparse patches of pasture or parkland it’s almost an unbroken chain of domestic residences. The odd mill house still graces the canal side, shamefully most stand sadly neglected, condemned because they fail to meet modern building standards. Of those treated to restoration, albeit into flashy apartments, hinges the vestiges of our industrial heritage. It would appear the aesthetic quality of old industrial buildings is being preserved because some are recognising the inflated price such converted properties fetch. So shall we have more of our architectural heritage turned into yuppie apartments for those with my money than sense? Why sure, if people want a sterile modern environment, interior designed according to the latest fad, why not? If they want to cram themselves in like sardines so be it. At least in these cases the buildings are preserved. (Photo: Exquisite railway viaduct, supported by castellated turrets - Entering Todmorden, Somewhere in the twilight zone between Lancashire and Yorkshire)

After Rochdale the abundance of domestic waste stopped, as if by magic. No more bottles, buckled bikes, bags or boots. From an overwhelming variety of plastic artifacts, wheelie bins, fuel tanks, assorted trays and discarded toys, to natural obstructions like bulrushes and branches from the overhanging trees. Every lock into and out of Manchester had been a gathering point for the detritus, often gates wouldn’t shut properly because various objects had got jammed behind them below the water level. People criticise the river borne pollution in less developed countries of the world, yet the dregs of our own society are still ignorant. The big difference is that here there is an alternative. There are recycling centres, bins in public places and local authority waste collection. So I noticed when suddenly there was a marked absence of rubbish fouling my waterway. The water no longer looked mucky either, it was dark and difficult to see clearly through, but without light reflecting on the surface you could actually see the bottom. And no sooner had I experienced this transition, when the Pennines opened up before my very eyes. (Photo: "The Tod Wall". Railway on't top, canal belaw - Todmorden)

Of course, as the panorama opened in front of me, it left me exposed to a sudden side wind. Being long, of shallow draft and flat-bottomed narrow boats are particularly prone to the vagaries of the wind. Once caught on a sideways drift it can be murder to correct their course. I pushed the tiller hard over, upped it a few notches on the throttle control, and managed to get power to the prop on the right side of the drift. It brought me back onto an even keel, heading in the desired direction. And if I may say so, I found it quite exciting. Narrow boats can’t really be said to have any positive handling characteristics; they’re slow, sluggish and handle like stuck pigs. That said, it was a pleasure to find it’s not always true. With my roof boxes and load of wood piled up top it makes the sideways stability a touch more sensitive. I was literally drifting sideways, banked over, powering out the bend. Unlike a motorbike though, if I’d have cocked up the worst that would have happened was a slight bump and all my possessions redistributed throughout the interior. But come on, thrilling isn’t a word you’d really use for controlling a narrow boat, that one brief moment was a rare one, so I’d best savour it. (Photo: My first guillotine gate at a lock. With this one you had to manually operate the paddles,  before pushing the all important, "thunderbirds are go" button.) 

Coming up through the Midlands, The Potteries and the vast metropolis of Greater Manchester the most common building material is red brick. Houses, Mills and most commercial premises are now faded, stained and crumbling. It smacks of the rapid industrial expansion of times gone by, factories, mills and housing sprouted quickly throughout the region. Even though I’ve just completed my Pennine crossing it never gave a strong impression of being isolated. There was lots of open hillside to be seen, and quite far reaching views. But the canal itself wound through town after dreary town, a succession of densely populated hovels with few saving graces. To a poor southern lad like myself, it all had the heavy hint of Coronation St about it. Rows of tall weather beaten terraces, grungy ginnels lined with overflowing wheelie bins. These are more often the environs I pass through, worker’s accommodation was generally built close to work, when the work was based on the canal so would the workers. Which makes for a continuous string of old, eroded housing following the canal. Joined by a railway, road and river it’s a surprise they found room to build houses in the Calder Valley at all. It is a busy place in many ways, though with the evidence of neglected and tumbledown premises I can only imagine it to be much quieter today than at the peak of local industry. (Photo: Tastefully converted mill, in the quiet stillness of a misty night - Somewhere in the vicinity of Todmorden)

Once leaving the city of Rochdale behind building materials suddenly changed from manufactured brick to sandstone blocks. Not the crammed social housing endemic to our industrial past, they are obviously still of cheap, time worn red brick. In almost every other building sandstone is favoured. It looks far less foreboding than widespread use of dark ochre, even when pitted and scarred it fails to look as decrepit as old brickwork. I must question the practice of scouring buildings clean though, being spotless makes them lose their mature character. A farmhouse in the process of being power blasted looked out of place, it could have been any new build. It sat near the top of a hillside, and must have blended in perfectly with its location. The outer walls weren’t that weather worn, they suited where and what they were. Grime is a mark of time, like grey hairs, should we try to disguise such maturity, or maybe show pride that we’ve stood the test of time? I’m the last one to preach about growing old gracefully, disgracefully ore like it. But I like the materials and styles of architecture from that early industrial age. It saw unprecedented expansion, but unfortunately also marked the advent of the modern work ethic. Company housing may have been of huge relief for workers, but it also bound them to the strictures of the clocking in machine. (Photo: And a tastefully rejuvenated waterfront at Hebden Bridge)

Town centres here are thriving places, supermarkets are few and far between but a host of Olde Worlde shops are to be found. With little space along the valley floor through roads are heaving, making very busy roads close to the canal. Most towns have made some effort to accommodate the canal passing through, making for some sections that haven’t actually changed architecturally. The proximity of a town gives a burst of activity along the towpath, but the distance between them is so limited the route is never deserted, whatever day of the week. Which is good, there are a lot of people who appreciate the canal, and very few are canal users themselves. From all walks of life, with little in common, the canal is their taste of nature. They may have the Pennines surrounding them, but the towpath allows a very easy option. What they have in common is the delight of seeing a boat out on the water, especially negotiating a lock. At popular spots they’ll be lined up watching the process, which is infinitely better than the sociable ones who insist on holding a conversation while you’re trying to deal with the lock and boat all on your own. With these I’m kind enough to acknowledge, and chat when convenient. I have been known to turn my back on people, but only with an apology. They are so chuffed if you ask them to help. The extent to which I trust an innocent passer-by is to close the gates after me, leaving me free to leave the lock and continue without further delay. (Photo: Flaps down!)

I don’t venture into many of the towns, topping up supplies is reliant on what’s available within walking distance of the canal. Pubs are a different matter, they rarely need any effort to reach, as so many are found along the course of the canal. Not that I go into many, the odd pint now and again is sufficient. It isn’t often a pub conversation proves to be exactly exhilarating. There are enough chats about boating, living afloat, and canals in general along the towpath. Hebden Bridge was slightly different, there were actually some resident boaters. It didn’t mean the subject veered far from boats, but at least it lead to more informed conversations. I’d describe is as being with kindred spirits, but so many of the ‘normal’ people I meet are with me in spirit. It’s when I leave the canal environment and come face to face with every day society that I find myself feeling alienated. The feeling is obviously heightened by my own mind, but I feel like a duck out of water. Is it my imagination, or are people looking at me as if I’m a bit of an oddball? Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t make eye contact and greet people I pass. Naaa, I am an oddball, I should be proud of it. (Photo: Deepest lock in the country - Sowerby Bridge)

I’d better recap on my route, make it traceable on a map. Leaving Middlewich I headed towards Nantwich on the Middlewich branch of the Shropshire Union. I detoured down the Llangollen, right to the end and back, before heading south on the Shropshire Union again. At Wolverhampton I joined the Staffs and Worcester, which I took northeast to the Great Haywood junction with the Trent and Mersey. Continuing in a vaguely northerly direction I passed through the Potteries as far as Kidsgrove, then headed towards the Pennines on the Macclesfield Canal. At the Marple junction I used the Peak Forest Canal to link up with the Ashton Canal, taking me west into the centre of Manchester. Another junction, this time with the Rochdale Canal, turned me back north-easterly, over the Pennines and onto Sowerby Bridge. Now I’m on the Calder and Hebble Navigation, not a canal over its entire length, there are sections of river and a number of automated flood gates to operate. It’s my first sortie onto a river of any sort, I must admit to feeling a touch apprehensive over it. I’ll manage though, my engine doesn’t have to fight against the current, it’s all downstream. Gulp! It’ll be OK, I might even procure an anchor before I hit the wild water. (Photo: Quiet night by the old ruins - Nr Elland, on the Calder and Hebble Navigation))

One adverse effect of sandstone is the lichen etc that gets ingrained, it makes for very slippery lock sides. Extreme care needs to be taken, it doesn't do to resort to brute strength when handling the boat. I've also stopped skipping gaily across the gate beams, they also get very slimy in damp weather. Apart from that the weather is treating me remarkably well. The cold and damp creeps into my moor broken bones, my joints creak and grate in protest, but they cope with the workload. As long as I keep my supplies well stocked I can batten down the hatches in really bad weather, and ride out the worst of it in a nice cosy cabin.

Avoiding the official blockade

Aaar me hearties, I be scuppered in the end, but only after a pre-dawn manoeuver through the authority’s first line of defence. I were dawdling along, biding me time to reap the rewards of patience as regards a new debit card from the scurvy scum in the banking system. It were only a slight delay, leading to another, and curse the swine, a third one to follie. T’was just after last full moon, when the knaves gave their word, yet still I await the evasive card. At every step progress was hampered by the sheer incompetence of those landlubbing scum at the NATWEST. Finally I could bide me time no more, with the authority’s blockade closing in around me I had to make me move. T’is a brave man to tackle the system face to face, so I snuck out of dock two hours before dawn, and penetrated the enclosing net they caste to catch me out. A steady thick drizzle muffled each and every sound, giving the sleeping civilian population and Her Majesty’s lackeys not a clue as to what I be doing. As the crack of dawn lightened the leaden sky I were forging ahead strong, bearing down with speed to break my way through the enemy fortification. It were close, but I broke through at the last minute, catching the troops loading supplies rather than manning the gates. Curse the winter closures, they near caught me out, at least I hadn’t to turn tail and run yelping like a scalded dog. (Photo: An impressively restored mill house - Between Congleton and Macclesfield, Macclesfield Canal)

 And that was the Marple flight, sixteen locks in one stretch of little more than one mile. Two locks were due for maintenance, and therefore closed for a period during winter, so as not to inconvenience the fair weather canal users. Though publicised to close at 8 am last Monday morning, I only found out the afternoon before. With a mind full of problems for weeks, it was one of those things that had slipped my mind so often it had been completely forgotten about. A chance comment from another boater brought it to the forefront of my mind quick enough. Unfortunately I’d totally ruined the desire to cruise through the Standedge Tunnel. The locks leading up to and away from the tunnel also closed for the same period, in practice closing down passage along the Huddersfield Narrow Canal. If I’d not got my skates on that last morning I’d have faced a detour of over a week. So it was desperation really that saw me rise at 4 am. An hour later I was poised to descend the locks, determined to beat the blockade. I failed to complete all sixteen before time, but true to form the workers were still loading materials onto the workboat when I finally passed. Sixteen locks before breakfast time, not bad eh? It had all gotten a little manic until the last four, so I deserved a relaxing coffee and smoke in the bright autumn sun. (Photo: Goyt Mill, still apparently in industrial use, though only as smaller individual units - Nr Macclesfield)

There are only three canals that traverse the Pennines, as the Leeds Liverpool Canal also suffered winter closures, over the same period no less, my only choice was the Rochdale Canal, which meant detouring through central Manchester, and reputedly some of the worst urban areas to traverse on the canal system. When you’re warned not to moor between to points from everyone you meet you’d be a fool not to pay heed. Luckily there are a few safe moorings in the centre of the city, otherwise you’d not be able to ensure safe passage from side to the other. I had to approach on the Ashton Canal, and leave heading north on the Rochdale. From Ashton-under-Lyne there are eighteen locks taking you into the city proper. They were more spread out than the Marple flight, and vandal proof systems made each step of the way an even lengthier process. Every paddle had to be unlocked before use, then relocked after. It may seem petty of me to begrudge genuine attempts to decrease wanton damage to the canal system, but I can’t really see it’s made that much difference. The extra effort was time consuming, making the day more than an hour longer. Which in itself would pose no problem, if it wasn’t so critical reaching a safe mooring spot. All approaches towards Manchester bear the same drastic warnings, it isn’t safe to moor overnight except in specified places. It’s essential to keep doors locked while you cruise, better to start very early in the morning, and is generally to be avoided during school holidays. (Photo: Start of the Marple flight, straight down through the middle of a housing estate - Marple, junction of Peak Forest Canal and Macclesfield Canal)

 Many of the locks on the Ashton Canal had no mooring posts, I couldn’t attach them to anything between locks, so I’d be working two locks at once, ever cautious about leaving the boat unattended. If it were ever out of sight for the briefest of time the rear doors were shut to deter interest. The rubbish in both canals is disgusting, bottles, cans, nappies, wheelie bins, car parts, to name but a few of the offending articles. They are without doubt the dirtiest waterways I’ve seen for domestic waste in the UK. A couple of times the boat became lodged on large objects obscured by the murky waters; I had to pole myself around whatever one of them was. Lock gates wouldn’t close due to bucket loads of floating debris lodged behind them. Kids plugged anti-vandal locks with paper so you couldn’t get the key in. There were one or two brief interludes where the canal happened to pass through an open park area. Bright coloured kiddies play equipment and manicured greens, a spartan leisure facility to accommodate thousands of families. No wonder I feel so far removed from those surroundings. It is like another world out there, off the canal, time has no meaning. The number of locks, or bridges, is what determines the day. The need to reach any particular place is dependant of the need to resupply, water is the most frequent requirement, ironically. (Photo: Twinned structures railway viaduct and canal aqueduct - Below the bottom lock, Marple flight)

When a daily destination is set, and it’s a challenging one, I often find myself feeling hurried, trying to rush it. The level of exertion is tremendous, I almost run myself into the ground. I also have a tendency of keeping up the pace for days at a time, until reaching said destination, or exhausting myself and having to stop for a break. Though eighteen of them, and being fairly well spaced out, at least the Ashton flight were only single locks. Once turning north on the Rochdale Canal I came face to face with my first double lock. I huge brute of a thing, with gates suited more to prevent the sacking of Jerusalem than let canal boats through. They were double mitred gates, often being so enormous they needed to be wound open using pulleys. Paddles are commonly hydraulic, which involves a lot of winding for very little movement. The volume of water held in each lock is immense, and takes a long time to fill or empty. There are no ways to hurry the process, not when alone. Merely casting my eyes over one brought dread rising within my heart, I had nineteen of these to negotiate before the end of the day. It was daunting entering the maws of that first lock, it made my boat feel very small and insignificant. Being about eight metres longer than Pankina, and more than twice as wide, there was a lot of room for the boat to be battered about by the turbulence of filling the lock. I’ve yet to fine-tune my method, using only the mid-rope to secure the boat allows it to get knocked about inside the lock. There’s no damage done but my belongings inside the boat get thrown about a bit. To be honest I’ve felt too rushed to pay much attention to that particular problem. (Photo: Opened out tunnel - Nr Romily, Greater Manchester, Peak Forest Canal)

 Only one other boat has been seen moving on the canal in the last week, that was leaving the centre of Manchester as I arrived. Dusk was settling, streetlights lined the plush restoration of the inner city canal. Ornate caste iron bridges arched between spotless pedestrian precincts. People bustled to and fro, eager to be on their way, it didn’t matter where, just to get there, without delay. How everyone walks without apparent hindrance is beyond me, I’m forever having to dodge and weave to miss the onslaught of pedestrians passing. No-one else seems similarly afflicted, am I so out of tune with life I can’t even walk down a city street with ease? Operating the last two locks into the city centre I’d had a series of people wanting to talk about me and the boat, express their admiration of living this lifestyle. I could have lapped it up, played it for all it was worth, but I was too tired, all I wanted was some food and sleep. I must admit, the canal side is well restored in Manchester centre, it creates a lovely lamp lit scene. Pottering through at a snail’s pace feels quite fairy tale’ish. With snowflakes falling and sleigh bells ringing it would make the perfect Christmas scene. Unlike the bar I had a swift pint in while shopping, that didn’t impress me. Being unsure whether it was my imagination, or true perception, there was a distinct vibe towards me. When I considered my appearance I could guess why. Without being actually dirty, there was no doubt I was more unkempt than the average punter. Having a small pack of shopping on my back, also an over shoulder bag similarly filled, in my dishevelled state, I felt I looked remarkably like a bagman. (Photo: The sun sets on Manchester's industrial heritage, making it look appealing for a change - Approaching the heart of Manchester on the Ashton Canal)

Even in the inner city the welcome I’ve had on the actual canal has been exemplary. Almost everyone acknowledges my passing, people commonly stop to enquire about living on a boat, or simply where am I heading. For them it’s something out of the ordinary, a curiosity, but an interesting one. Unpleasant occurrences are ignored, or shunned, so I take pride in people’s willingness to interact. Take me out of context though and the difference is weird. Make eye contact, smile, nod, or acknowledge a stranger in any way and people turn weird on you. The look says it all, if they don’t avert their eyes from you. Maybe I’m getting paranoid, I like to think not though. When first seeing a person most of us subconsciously categorise them, into which groups will depend on the individual, but they will include those of interest and those who are not to be welcomed into their lives. Whether travelling abroad or on the canals, the role I fulfil for most I meet is one of interest, whether or not my appearance falls within local norms. In fact not conforming generally stands me in good stead with strangers I meet, in British cities I don’t feel this happens. Any contact seems to be taken as a threat, or an undesirable interchange at best. For me, every time I enter the land of suburbia I suffer culture shock all over again. I understand normal to refer to the majority of people, as far as behaviour goes, but I fail to accept that normal people are anything but weird. (Photo: Piccadilly Village, Manchester)

Architecturally Manchester has some gigantic mill houses from days gone by, unfortunately most seem way past their best and unlikely to be restored. Much of the time our modern world finds it easier to flatten old developments and create an up to date reproduction that never quite holds the same aesthetic pleasure. Piccadilly Village, a newly built residential area centred around the junction of the Rochdale and Ashton Canals, has been done very well, but I get more of a thrill cruising past the massive dilapidated mills. Of course there are quite a few, most of sadly neglected, especially those further from the city centre. The course of each of the above canals took me through some very run down parts of Greater Manchester. Of the many people who stopped to chat, the resounding opinion was not to stop anywhere near the area we were in. By and large the whole area has been built up, either derelict industrial complexes or sprawling residential areas. There have been no gaps, no breaks to moor a while and relax while supping a cuppa. Whether or not it was safe, there just weren’t any mooring rings or posts had you wished to moor. It isn’t easy knocking a mooring pin through concrete. (Photo: The far reaches of Greater Manchester in the background of Rochdale Canal's No.63 lock)

At the moment I’ve moored just above the north west corner of Chadderton, the nearest recommended place to do so. After doing 53 locks this week I feel I deserve a rest. It has been hard going, but I did that in only three of the five working days. It trashed two pairs of boots and left me shattered. The route ahead ain’t much better either, my next move involves ten locks the first day, but a mere six the second. I have to get my skates on too, it’s three days cruising to reach a water tap and I’m getting low. With any luck I’ll get my PIN no. tomorrow, then there will be no reason to hang about, maybe clip a day off travelling time. If I can handle twelve locks a day it won’t be a problem, depends where it leaves me each night. Hopefully it shows the extent to which I’m adapting to my mode of travel, or is it a different lifestyle. Personally it only seems a matter of living the way I do in the UK rather than abroad. Having to get somewhere always sticks in the craw, and it’s no different on the boat. Being an easy target is the same, for traders and malcontents. Trouble is something that doesn’t generally plague me when I travel, I think your attitude speaks volumes, and I’ve seen no hint of it anywhere on the canal. (Photo: Around every corner another interesting piece of architecture looms. Bridges and locks are stacked tight along the Rochdale Canal)

Let no-one ever try and tell you a life on the canals is an easy one, brief excursions being the exception to that statement. If you wish to get anywhere it takes forever, and could be impossible in the winter due to closures. There are no shortcuts, only lengthy detours. Locks don’t make life very easy, they can be very hard work, but you need to take them in your stride. Obviously the hillier the terrain the more locks you’re likely to encounter, a Pennines crossing for me means over one hundred locks from when I joined the Ashton canal. Looking on the bright side that must mean I’m close to being halfway there, actually a quick calculations says no, one third done, two thirds to go. Jeeezuss! It will happen, slowly and surely. It isn’t as if I’ve anything more important to do. Believe me, I have considered scooting off to hot climes for a couple of months, and might still do. It’s not the hardship, neither the aches and pains nor the weather that prove difficult for me. The boat itself is the burden, I can’t just leave it and go somewhere, whether overnight or for long periods. I’m tied to it, which I don’t generally mind, but it curtails my freedom, my independence. I don’t have anywhere particular in mind to go, but the option would be nice. Though secure moorings are obtainable, maybe at a price but not extortionate, it is still an expense rather than an income. (Photo: Why make it plain and boring when with a little panache you can make it in style?)