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.