I must say the Leeds Liverpool Canal boasts one of the
longest lasting vistas of beauty I’ve encountered on the inland waters. Yes, I’ve
crossed the Pennines before, but that was on the Rochdale Canal. The filth and
apparent squalor encountered on that route far overshadowed any patches of
marvel. The Llangollen really is lovely, through it’s entire length really, but
it just isn’t nearly as long. Far-reaching views across dell and dale accompany
you the majority of the time. Grotty industrial parks, both past and present,
just didn’t seem to feature to any great extent. Rolling hills enlivened by
gambolling lambs were my constant companions. Ancient, wide limbed trees spread
their arthritic branches to catch the glorious sunshine. Dotted around vast
green lands, their gnarled torsos protected by wooden fencing, it resembled
estate parklands rather than farmland. And the weather did a fine job
perfecting the whole scene, no wonder so many boaters were crawling out the
woodwork. Though the majority seemed to be hire boats, especially between Leeds
and Gargrave, which about defined the practical limits of half a week’s travel
from the hire bases. (Photo: One of the many swing bridges between Leeds and Gargrave - Leeds Liverpool Canal)
Waterfowl were particularly plentiful, and as I progressed I
witnessed everything from moorhens to swans nesting, and in due time the, oh so
cute, youngsters of all the different birds. Up to twelve ducklings hatched,
the numbers had to be high because ducks are not the world’s best mothers. Or
is it that ducklings are rather stupid? Ducks will attempt to lead perspective
predators away from their young, but ducklings tend to get flustered, spread
out, get lost and become easy targets anyway. Moorhens have less chicks, and
they keep them better hidden. The tiny black chicks I generally saw hiding amongst
the reeds and vegetation near the bank, close on mother’s tail. Goslings and
cygnets have the advantage of being cared for by two parents, mating pairs of
geese and swans stay together and take a more active role in protecting their
offspring. One male swan actually attacked my side fenders as I cruised past,
completely unperturbed by the size of the boat or noise of my engine. I half
expected him to target me as I drew alongside his mate while she sat on the
nest. 
I assume it was the male who patrolled the immediate area,
and the female who sat on the nest incubating her eggs. The males would take
nesting material to her while she sat there gradually expanding the large mound
of reeds she nested on. Geese didn’t nest on the water at all, they chose open
space away from the bank, generally on flat ground. Their nests were nowhere
near as prominent as swans. In fact they seemed to put very little effort into
nest building, relying on seeing approaching threats and their own plucky
nature for defence. Due to the continued effort in raising their young there’s
no need to invest so heavily initially, therefore clutch numbers are lower
compared to ducks. Five or six seems about average for them both, but where
swans keep to the water with their newborn, geese spend more of their time on
dry land. I must be honest I don’t actually think of geese as water birds, they
mainly graze on grass. Swans do graze a fair amount on grass but their diet
includes a lot from within the water. It’s funny watching swans take off, so
much noise and effort to get airborne. Some use both feet together trying to
launch their bulk skywards, like bunny hops, others alternate, so it’s more
like running on the surface of the water. 
Spring really is a magical time to be amongst nature, new
life abounds. I couldn’t help but feel infused by the miracle of new life.
First the plant life, with dense displays of snowdrops, followed by various
delicate bulbs, never in more than a small cluster, half hidden by tufty grass
on the canal bank. And then, my favourite, wooded slopes inundated with carpets
of bluebells, a riot of blue cascading down through the shade of the trees.
Though maybe not as visually overpowering the delicate waft from thick stands
of wild garlic flowering is a delight all of it’s own. May blossom fills the
hedgerows earliest, quickly followed by elder flowers, while at the verge
between path and shrubs meadowsweet blooms like creamy candyfloss. It seems
forever since I encountered spring in it’s full glory, I guess that’s what you
get for spending most of the year abroad. Even when I’ve been home I’ve not
been exploring the countryside anywhere near as much as when I had a dog to
walk. 
I do miss the company of a faithful friend, a constant
companion. It isn’t that I feel dreadfully lonely, just that dogs are such
wonderful additions to your life. Unfortunately they haven’t fitted into my
lifestyle for years now, otherwise I’d have succumbed long ago. In many ways I
long to commit to a more settled life, yet I’m still unsure whether or not the
time is right. There is still so much of the world I’d like to experience, so
many places I’ve yet to visit. The wanderlust has yet to leave me, despite
pangs to enjoy my own home, the easy company of good friends. Asked, as I often
am, whether I get lonely at times, the answer is simple. For sure! But we can’t
rely on the presence of others to heighten the enjoyment of life. If you can
find it within yourself to feel content, then company of any type is a
wonderful bonus. If you can’t be happy in your own company, then you’re reliant
on others, which I feel is too much responsibility to put on your friends. I’m
lucky, I have many wonderful friends, whose presence and support I truly value.
However, I’d hate to think my happiness was dependant on them. 
OK, I’m about to get a touch morose. There is nothing worse
than finding out about the death of someone who matters in your life. It may be
many years since you saw them, but the loss is still of great sadness. In the
last few weeks this has hit me hard. First a valued friend in Scotland died of
cancer, I was shocked because I knew nothing in advance, despite recently
renewing our acquaintance. But the news was nothing compared to travelling up
for the funeral. I haven’t been to Scotland since Cai died, it held many
memories, so much so it knocked me off kilter completely. It was like a time
warp, transporting me back, having to deal with my previous loss, while
compounded with a host of others. Paddy (Pandora) had been the linchpin of my
live in Perthshire, her son Robin Cai’s closest boyhood friend. Yet I couldn’t
even recognise him or the other kids in Paddy’s family. Hey, they’re hardly kids,
being well into their twenties. Christ my heart went out to them, but I
couldn’t distinguish between current grief and the all-pervading grief from
losing my own son. And meeting friends in that area for the first time in nine
years did nothing but exacerbate the situation. 
Realising a number of friends had passed away in the interim
was a shock. How could I expect it not to? It was like four friends dying in
rapid succession, even though it had been over a number of years. It’s crushing
to hear of youngsters suffering accidental death, but more common in recent
years has been the occurrence of middle-aged friends and family dying from
supposedly natural causes. Cancer, brain tumour and heart attacks abound.
Whatever happened to the advent of longer life? Why are so many of us dropping
before our time? I thought life expectancy was increasing, so what’s going on.
I know my generation has been a pretty hedonistic one, but it’s also been one
of improved lifestyle, diet and attitude. For me it’s raised many questions,
what the hell is going on? At this rate our parents are going to outlive most
of us. I know death is the ultimate consequence of life, I know I should have
hardened myself to this ultimate truth. Truth is, I can’t! Each and every one
is like another strand of life’s web severed, and every time I’m left further
adrift. Hence trying to negate my reliance on the lovely people who’ve filled
my life. 
Let’s face it, no matter how pre-ordained death is the grand
finale of life, it still hurts for the survivors, especially in the western
world. As a huge generalisation we carry the pain of loss further than much of
the world. In my mind this is largely because we are not as adept at openly
grieving. Is it not a luxury to grieve ad infinitum? For most of the population
of this planet the daily demands of life outweigh the loss of a loved one. A
brief caterwauling of grief, even a contracted display of pain and loss, and
then the basics of survival take over. There are still mouths to be fed, crops
to be harvested, bills to be paid. How lucky we are to be able to lose
ourselves in grief. And it is a privilege we should appreciate. Like myself,
many westerners lose track of time, life and meaning with the loss of a loved
one. I don’t criticise this, but do see it as a luxury, one that I wish was
available to everyone throughout our world. Just because you are poverty
stricken and lose a child, mother or father, doesn’t mean it hurts any the
less, but circumstances dictate you get on with life. When I rode through the
Sierra Madres in Mexico, just after losing Cai, I came across a funeral cortege
and desperately wanted to join it. In my mind it was to show respect,
initially. I quickly became aware it was purely as a release for my still pent
up grief. And I hate to admit, but each and every death I experience brings me
back to Cai, a death I will never overcome. 
But enough of that! The pain will not go away, though it
need not rule my life. I owe it to myself, and those still alive, to make the
most of what is left. I only wish to maintain my son as a very important part
of my life, one I do not wish to forget, or ignore. How wonderful it would be
if mutual friends would venture forth with memories of the good times, rather
than sink into awkward silence when I mention his name. Hey guys, I know so
much time has gone by, but loss is loss, he hasn’t done a JC and resurrected.
My memories are all I have left, so don’t shun or feel awkward at the memory of
Cai, join in with my jubilation at a son I treasured so deeply. And on that
note I must mention the crematorium services of recent deaths. Sorry folks, but
I can’t bring myself to attend. The formality of the occasion is dreadful. I
know there is some positive aspect to a good turn out, but the formality of
situation is heart-breaking. To stand and accept hand after hand, platitude
after platitude, I find it awful for the family. I can’t bring myself to be yet
another well-wisher, another nail in the coffin. 
And so I bring us back to the canal system, my life of escapism,
my chance to chill out and not kowtow to the daily grind of our modern society.
Not that it’s all easy going, a life of luxury and no stress. Bearing in mind
most stress is self-imposed, we are our own worst enemies, but also our own
salvation. While moored at Wigan, at 5.30 am, I heard a scraping on the roof of
my boat. A quick moment on wakening, before I realise someone was up to no
good, and I darted to the mid-hatches. Only to find a slaphead chav, 100 metres
and increasing, frantically pedalling my bicycle down the towpath. My first
though was oh well, quickly followed by angst at being robbed. Acceptance
wasn’t far behind, maybe he needed a bike, maybe he was late for work. But his
screech of, “fu*k you c*nt,” as he furiously pedalled really infuriated me.
What a complete and utter tosser, if only I’d had my air gun loaded and ready.
No I don’t agree with instigating violence upon others, but I’d have happily
shot him with whatever weapon I had at hand. It wasn’t the loss of property it
was the contempt that he poured upon me. 
By and large life on the canal is filled with friendly
interchanges, which is exceptional. But you mustn’t allow it to drop your
guard, you’re never far from humanity, and humanity is far from perfect. Leave
your tiller pin outside over night and it may well get stolen, as might your
boat hook, or punting pole. You’re never far from the ne’er do wells. I might
accept such reprobates are around, but I desist from allowing them to rule my
way of thought. I guess I believe in karma, and refuse to let the scum of our
world dictate my terms of living, By doing so I leave myself open to abuse, not
often to my face, it’s always the underhand scumbags who benefit. However much
I try and ignore their influence, I can’t. Chasing off stone throwing kids with
an air rifle, or facing up to gnarly youths on the towpath, I’m game. I believe
in live and let live, but if that fails, an eye for an eye is good enough for
me. (Photo: There be angels where you least expect 'em - On the hidden waterways of our glorious land, hehe!)
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