So, the big moment came when it was time to lower Pankina back into the water. Would all
the work actually hold true, or would we take in water and have to hurriedly
get it back onto dry land. It seemed like everyone involved, and many a curious
onlooker, came to witness the event. I guess it had sparked a little interest
around the marina, it isn’t every day some poor sucker has a complete welding
job done on the bottom and sides of a narrow boat. Once they’d taken away the
steps I was pretty much stuck on the boat while they shunted it back and forth
lining it up with the slipway. As you would have seen in the photos from the
last post, the lower section looked extremely tidy and well painted.
Unfortunately clouds of very fine dust lay thick over the whole boat, inside
and out. Preparation for welding is far from being a healthy environment, the
fine particles of angle grinded rust are unstoppable. All the soft furnishings
had to be washed, every surface relieved of a powdered rust veneer. There
seemed no end to the ruddy talc, everything I touched made me instantly filthy,
if I’d not done a thorough cleaning job it would have lingered forever more. (Photo: New development around Granary Wharf - Leeds City Centre)
Taking a couple of days extra at the marina meant having the
use of their facilities, and also allowing extra assurance that the hull was
watertight. I didn’t really want to hang around too long though. Whilst it had
been nice to have the luxury of shops within easy walking distance, the
temptations of real ale pubs liberally scattered around town, and the
companionship of like-minded people, it wasn’t enough to delay me much longer.
Once scoured thoroughly, I was content the boat’s appearance was as good as it
was going to be. It hadn’t really retained its tidy previously appearance, in
my eyes making it seem worse than it had been rather than so much better. Being
honest, that was a bit dispiriting. Not only had it wiped out the last of my
financial reserves, it raised doubts as to whether I’d manage to sell it
without losing vast amounts of money. This was, of course, my main concern for
when if came to selling the bloody thing. And the time had come. (Photo: Another new development that I found not unpleasant to behold - Leaving Leeds Inner City)
I no longer had a financial safety net, if another problem
occurred with the boat I’d be scuppered. I felt I had no choice but to consider
selling, sooner rather than later. But there was a lot more to do before I was
prepared to part with her, and I don’t mean work wise. The Leeds Liverpool
canal has been one of the first I remembered walking along, the first conscious
decision to have a canal jaunt at some stage in life. Such fanciful thoughts
don’t even strike me as dreams anymore, I have so many of them. Often I don’t
recall such thoughts until I’ve acted out a subconscious desire and remembered
the origins of the desire. Once realised a burning desire to get moving
overcame me. If I was forced to sell her I surely wanted to fully appreciate
having a boat while I still did. I’d stayed a lot longer than anticipated, so
with little more than enough time to load up with wood and say a few hasty
goodbyes it was a case of hauling anchor and setting off into the setting sun. (Photo: Two likely looking lads, grounded. I managed to pass in the deeper central passage - Kirkstall Lock, Leeds)
So me hearties; aarrr, I be back on track! I b’ain’t be’n on
an even keel, black clouds loom over an uneasy mind, but until they clap me in
irons and drag me screaming to the gallows I’ll spit in the eye of adversity
and sail free as a bird. Pressganging a likely looking lad we cast off before
the sun was over the yardarm. It were a storm tossed day, the wind fair whipped
across the open plain. Buffeted this way and that, me first mate were a boon to
our blustery passage. At each and every lift bridge or lock we got pinned
against the canal bank, steering was like wrestling the kraken from the ocean’s
depths. Left to my own devices I’d have been left high and dry. But we battled
on, working well together against the woeful wind. We made good ground that
first day. Then the heavens unleashed the devil of storms, we had no choice but
to batten down the hatches and sit out the tempest. The last two months had
been unexpectedly calm, even hot and sunny, Sod’s Law dictates it would kick
off for our departure. (Photo: Roe Deer, an early morning visitor whilst mooring at a secluded old quarry - Nr Riddlesden, N.Yorks)
We sailed as far as Ferry bridge before being forced to seek
a safe harbour. Water levels were high, the floodgates on closedown, and that
damned wind fair rocked my boat. After being tossed about for 36hrs I awoke to
relative calm. Me mate had jumped ship, scarpered when the going got tough
(though in all fairness he only had a few days to spare). River level was shown
to be in the red, too high for safe passage, but the light was on amber and the
automatic lockdown let me through. Without false bravado I must admit to being
a tad anxious having to fight the flow of water. I was heading upstream,
against the flow, and not fully confident of my engine. My worries were
groundless though, we made good speed. After Five Mile Pond, a quite long river
section, the flood lock light was on red. It shouldn’t have let people through,
but I think by approaching from the river rather than canal side it over-rode
the system. (Photo: Millhouse and workers housing all rolled into one, seen as built by a conscientious mill owner. It also gives the owner much power over the workers. - Saltaire Mills, N.Yorks)
Not so at the next flood gate, that was locked as tight as a
duck’s rear gantry. I sat patiently for half a day, watching in vain for the
water level to drop a couple of inches (5cm would have been enough, I’m not
prejudiced). A couple of middle-aged flyboys turned up with two boats lashed
together, they were delivering the one with no engine and were already way over
schedule. Despite their best efforts they couldn’t overcome the safety
over-ride of the system. In disgust they retired to the nearest tavern, from
which they failed to emerge till the darkest depth of the night. At the crack
of a sparrow fart the following morning the lock light was on amber, all
systems go. The level indicator still showed red, but it’s the lights that
count, and I wasn’t about to risk another delay. From Castleford to Lemonroyd
was a shorter section of river than the previous one, although both were quiet,
secluded sections, with little to disturb the natural ambiance. Well, almost
nothing. (Photo: The daunting approach to Bingley Five Rise staircase locks - Nr Bingley, N.Yorks)
All commercial traffic has now stopped, but it soon became
apparent where coal barges used to transfer cargo. The only sign was an extra
wide section on the river, and an elongated concrete wharf, higher than is
practical for a narrow boat. It was on a bend in the river, through which I
took a slightly wider turning circle. Normally the outside of a bend is the
deeper part, unfortunately not when befouled with generations of coal dust. A
long way out from the wharf I became grounded, at both stem and stern. I tried
my shunting pole, which disappeared into the mire without touching solid
ground. The whole area was silted metres deep with thick, blackened gloop; too
thick to cruise through, yet not thick enough to shove off against. I tried, oh
how I tried. I nearly phoned the waterways to cry for help, but I hadn’t tried
nearly hard enough to admit defeat. Forwards and backwards, time and time
again, inching out a miniscule amount each time, first bow, then stern.
Steering with my back on the tiller, wiggling the shunt pole against the stern,
and patiently revving one way then the other. Until, hot and bothered (both the
boat and me), we reached navigable water. 
The rest of the way into Leeds was progressively more built
up, but mercifully without incident. Like many renovated city centres, Leeds is
an interesting mix of the new and the old. Much has been based around the
various waterways, and they’ve kept it this way. While nice to see, it isn’t
the type of mooring I’d normally choose. With prior warning I wasn’t about to
risk the Badlands, a 4 mile stretch from the city centre with a notoriously bad
reputation. So it was only a one night stop, one in which I politely turned
down an offer to go on a pub crawl. I was at the beginning of the Leeds
Liverpool canal, I wanted to be off early again the next day. Easter bank
holiday was about to begin and I was determined to clear the city before the
mayhem started. It was already busy enough and only half the premises were
open. It wasn’t clear whether the commercial premises were still being
developed or whether they were only operational part-time. Mind you, they do
very well with their water taxi service. I never did find out where it went,
but it had a full load every time it called in at the Royal Armouries. 
I imagined filth, decay, urban squalor and constant hassle,
such is the reputation of the Badlands. And what did I find? Pleasantly
peaceful tranquillity! OK, it was imperative to navigate that stretch before
the bank holiday weekend, when the hoards would be out and the hooligans
rampant. By leaving early morning on a school day the likelihood of adverse
attention was negligible. And so it proved. The canal wound through densely
wooded slopes, alongside a well-maintained towpath whose wooded fringe obscured
the red brick maze of terraced housing. For a city its size there was little in
the way of rubbish, either flotsam or jetsam. In fact the only hassle to be
found was a lock pound devoid of water. Apparently two flyboys (yes, the same
two I’d encountered before) had broken through the overnight locking system and
failed to reclose the paddles allowing the water to drain between two locks.
They were stranded, and the waterways workers were in no hurry to lend a
helping hand. Instead they helped me get through the near empty section,
operated the series of three locks for me, and waved me happily on my way.
Angry with the behaviour of the other two, I was informed it would be quite
some time before they were afloat and escorted through the locks.
And so I made it into the Dales proper for the Bank Holiday weekend.
I felt in no hurry so made the most of beautiful sunshine, friendly people and
a convenient pub. I even mingled slightly, but preferred to sit with a cold
beer on the boat and watch the world go by. There is a long way to go on this
particular canal, many more photos and good times ahead.
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