After a gap in my blog entries it’s always tempting to delve
straight into the present day and recap on the intervening period, but that
would bring me straight into Christmas musings, and that’s best left with a
hearty farewell and festive platitudes.
Locks on the Calder and Hebble canal have their own little
peculiarity. Many of the paddles are operated by a handspike, a metre length of
4x3 shaped for ease of handling. It’s needed to insert into a cogged wheel,
meshed with a toothed rail fitted into the stem of the paddle. The process is
slow and laborious, each time you insert the handspike it will only turn
through one hundred and twenty degrees. So it takes a while of heaving on the
spike for each paddle, needless to say I tried to rely on using the fewest
possible paddles on each lock. This is also the case on many of the flood
locks, which in my mind means a more complicated procedure at a time of maximum
duress. The flood locks I encountered on this stretch of Navigable waterway
seemed cursed with sketchy docking points, manoeuvring onto a high wall of
slippery sandstone, without a ladder and having to climb up onto the mooring
from the roof didn’t inspire confidence. At least that wasn’t my first flood
gate experience. My first stretch of river was encouragingly easy, levels were
normal and the floodgates were open on arrival, which meant puttering straight
through. (Photo: Unspoilt by modernity - The Calder and Hebble Canal, Sowerby Bridge area)
Where the canal joins the river in sections, or leaves it,
there are indicators for river levels to show whether it is safe to proceed.
Green means everything is normal, carry on. Amber, that river levels are higher
than normal, if you proceed take extreme caution. to and though the next lock.
Red, river levels are dangerously high, locks are closed, do not proceed under
any circumstances. My first excursion onto natural waterways was at normal
river levels, the indicator was on green, hence the open floodgate and sailing
straight on through. The second event was a little more exciting. I woke to
heavy drizzle, after rain for much of the night. Being moored just above a
flood lock, progress was dependent on water levels. Indicators read amber, and
it was still raining. I decided to leave it a while to see whether it was still
rising, the rain had abated a bit. After another hour it was still wet but the
level had stayed in amber, so I went for it anyway. It was a bit faster
flowing, I checked by throttling off, using reverse to discover how much pull I
had against the current. I think the single most important realisation for my
trepidation was that I could swim comfortably to the riverbank should I really
need to abandon ship. Which is a good example of the trepidation I felt over
tackling rivers, especially at this time of year with rain in the air. (Photo: Winter foliage on a willow - The Calder and Hebble Canal, Brighouse area)
Leaving a lock into open river for the first time felt
significant, and reassuring. I didn’t get swept away, didn’t spin out of
control or become unstable in the rush of water. You could say it was an
anti-climax, I’d call it a relief. At that point I still had no anchor, I knew
should anything go wrong I would be adrift. And it’s a different matter on a
large body of flowing water, particularly one festooned with very large weirs.
Had there been anchors available recently I’m sure I’d have bought one, but in
all honesty there has been very few outlets for equipment in recent weeks.
Hindsight just doesn’t cut it though, forward planning would have prevented so
many stressful thoughts. People had reassured me that at normal water levels
the rivers were no problem, but with heavy, overcast skies I could never feel
free of the threat of rain. Considering the length of river sections such
worries are unwarranted, if the levels are fine when you enter they are
unlikely to change in an hour or so, not significantly anyway. However I
rationalised it, close exposure to a big intimidating weir was exhilarating,
especially as I screwed up my first attempt at docking with any precision. (Photo: First foray onto the river - The Calder and Hebble Canal, Nr Brighouse)
It was all a matter of confidence and experience, and I had
little of either. The enormous chain of flotation devices did provide a decent
looking barrier, but I had no intention of putting it to the test. Unwilling to
drop the revs too much across the flow entering the weir, I overcooked it a
touch, as a reverberating thud from the floodgate bore out. There wasn’t even a
boat’s length of dock to moor against, and moor I must as the levels were in
amber and the gates firmly closed (even firmer after I used them as a buffer). Everything
about that floodgate was a hassle: the paddles were stiff and awkward to use,
the gates very heavy and overly sensitive, an extremely large pound between
gates took forever to fill and equalise water levels, and the canalside was
lined with fishermen, mooring amongst people and equipment can be a precarious
business. It went surprisingly well I guess, there were a lot of variables to
consider, which made it feel more of a chore than it actually proved to be.
Bearing in mind the number of warnings, signs and stories about the hazard of
weirs they are bound to topmost in your thoughts. And I could feel the flow of
water as I crossed the channel leading to the weir. I know, excuses are flowing as quick as the River Calder, if not quicker. Truth is I hadn't a clue what to expect, the effect of flow on my poor little boat, would it cope, or would something give up the ghost. (Photo: Antiquated style of paddle, with handspike inserted - The Calder and Hebble Canal, Brighouse area)
I’ve seen the arse end of countless industrial estates.
Between towns there appears as much industry canal side as there is
countryside. Old and new alike cluster along the canal course, broad expanses
of dirt encrusted red brick and miles of spiked railings at various stages of
oxidation. No more is the canal at the business side of business’, it lies
forgotten, a thread of derelict water where once it was the lifeblood of local
commerce. I imagine this view is distorted, seen through the eyes of a solo
boater plying the waters into the eye of winter. During summer months these
same waterways are chock-a-block with boats. So I’m lucky, getting to see it
without the tourist tinsel. Without that interest the enthusiasm for
restoration of the canals would never have happened. They were no longer commercially
viable, amateur enthusiasts are responsible for their rebirth. By and large
canals fallen into disuse have been restored for the leisure market, the
stretches running through the remnants of industry remain neglected, being
hidden behind the security measures protecting against intrusion from the canal
or towpath. A canal’s eye view hasn’t exactly been long reaching, hence the
distorted opinion of some beautiful countryside. Just because you traverse some
excellent areas doesn’t mean you can see it from the cut. (Photo: Multi-purpose junction; canal, river, railway and road all cross at the point - The Calder and Hebble Canal, Wakefield area)
River navigations do open the waterway up, exposing more of
the countryside. Apart from their sheer size, compared to a manmade canal, they
are clearly shaped by nature rather than a clever Victorian engineer. Though
the structures constructed to span the wider realms of rivers dominate the
scenery, they give it definition rather than overshadow the natural landscape.
After the narrow confines I was used to, it all felt quite huge. The boat and
me were dwarfed by the surroundings, mere specks, not even big enough to be
blots on the landscape. Both river and canal only increased in size as I
navigated in a vaguely easterly direction. Large, disused wharfs came and went,
until recently aggregates, coal and oil had still been carried along the Aire
and Calder and the Calder and Hebble Navigations. Now the sand and gravel is
taken by road, as is the coal. I had thought the last few oil barges had ceased
to operate, but apparently not. There are still power stations taking delivery
via these canals, which would make sense, there are enough of them in close
proximity. I’ve only passed them moored at a defunct dock, seemingly still
attended by at least one member of crew, or caretaker. Puttering past
commercial quays is another lesson in feeling humble. My little narrowboat
looks tiny against everything else, a dwarf amongst giants. (Photo: Unspoilt by modernity - The Aire and Calder Navigation, Wakefield area)
From Wakefield I joined the Aire and Calder Navigation, and
the nature of locks changed for the better. To deal with the commercial traffic
they were bigger again from the double locks on the Rochdale and Calder and
Hebble canals. Best of all they are all mechanically operated, all you have to
do is push buttons to open the paddles and gates. If you’re lucky there will
even be a lock-keeper to do that for you, the few commercial barges left rely
solely on the lock keepers for operating them. I could probably get nine boats
the size of
Pankina in one lock, I
assume the barges fit quite snug. There aren’t as many locks as I’ve become
used to, thank god. But there are frequent lift and swing bridges, which means
having to stop traffic on some well used roads, for ten minutes or more. You
can see the people seething inside their cars, glaring at you, impatience in
their eyes. There isn’t any hurrying it though, again they’re operated by a
control box and will only go at a set speed. I’ve yet to have any driver
actually acknowledge me or show an interest in what’s happening. Are we all so
wrapped up in our every day lives that something out of the ordinary is barely
tolerated? Or maybe the heavy use over the summer months creates frequent
delays on these roads, hence the air of hostility over delays caused at the
whim of the idle rich and their playthings. (Photo: Is this a boat planes without the wings attached? - The Aire and Calder Navigation, Stanley Ferry area)
The first night we suffered sub-zero temperatures proved
less uncomfortable than I’d have imagined. My solid fuel stove does an
excellent job. When traversing the length of the boat first thing it’s a
welcome relief to feel the warmth still permeating the living space. Mind you,
I could see my own breath easily in the bedroom. On these really cold nights
I’m still snug in bed when I sleep, but it’s a good idea to keep your thermal
layer in bed with you for the morning. The area that needs heat the most is the
bottom 60cm, which remains chilly however hot the stove gets. Bearing in mind I
sit on my sofa at about outside water level it’s easy to see the problem.
Without underfloor heating, which you can have fitted on boats, the only
solution is chunky socks and cutesy slippers. Unable to procure cheap footwear
other than old fashion mule slippers, that’s what graces my feet. All the
towpaths are disgustingly muddy now, so indoor footwear is a must. For quick
dashes into the boat I use a pair of carrier bags tied over my boots, now I
only need to provide them for visitors, then the boat will be a lot easier to
keep clean. (Photo: On the River Aire proper, it felt huge - The River Aire, Nr Castleford)
After all the comments about a lack of long range views I
arrived in South Yorkshire, a wide open flatland where the wind whistles across
the huge acreage of arable land. Clusters of power station stacks dot the skyline,
there’s nothing to hide them behind. I always saw Yorkshire as a hilly terrain,
even though I’ve known people Doncaster way for many years I’ve not
familiarised myself with the local landscape. I’m in a slight gap between major
urban conurbations, it must be a freak oversight by the planning department.
Being surrounded by water this may not be such an oversight. The River Don
floods its bank regularly, and the canal interweaves with it through Rotherham,
Doncaster and on to Sheffield. When you see the flood defences it seems
unimaginable that it could burst its banks, the volume of water must be huge.
An aqueduct carries the canal over The Don, which can be closed off by two iron
guillotine gates. When The Don gets too high the gates protect the canal from
secondary flooding. And this is just around the corner from where I’m moored. It
seems only a moment in time, but I’ve been here for three weeks now. (Photo: Putting the nature of canals into perspective - Ferrybridge power station, Aire and Calder Navigation)
I’ve been fortunate in finding a friend with an empty
mooring, I can now loiter for a few weeks and do a few jobs to the boat. Doncaster
area has been a vague destination for the last few months, a far distant goal,
something to focus on. Leaving the Llangollen Canal I never dreamt it would
take so long to get here, despite going via Wolverhampton. It’s been a bit of
an epic for a first experience on a narrow boat. So I feel I’ve achieved
something, and deserve a break. Since I’ve got here the flood locks going back
up towards Leeds have been closed more than open, water levels have risen in
the Pennines, canal traffic on the River Aire has come to a standstill. As I’d
seen a mere handful of boats in the last month I can’t see it will make any
difference. It sits well on my mind, I’m settled on the boat, warm, dry and
happy to relax. Christmas and New Year came and went with nary a glitch to my
life of lethargy. I’ve eaten well, drank little and enjoyed outdoor excursions
every day. I’ve also ripped out the rest of the panelling midsections, so I
have no flooring down, therefore exposing the hull. I must admit to finding the
sight of water gathering below the waterline a touch daunting. I’m hoping it is
only the residue of my earlier water leaks. (Photo: Mink, the foreign scourge of our natural habitat, though they look amazingly beautiful, intelligent, adaptable and playful - Bramwith Lock, Nr Doncaster.)
But anyway, it’s a new year, and the best of it to you all,
friends new and old, close and far, I hope it treats you all well.
