The heat is on in the South Seas

Gradually I’ve been refining my technique through locks, always trying to ease my passage through. You’d have thought it was straightforward; moor up, set the lock, putter in, change the level, open up, putter out, moor up, close the gate and be on my way. But that is a lot of toing and froing, leaving my boat unattended for much of the process. So I’ve been experimenting. There’s no alternative to mooring up while I set the lock initially, unless my timing is impeccable and I arrive as another boat is coming out, therefore leaving the gate open for me. Part of the trouble leaving the boat unattended in the lock allows for a lot of movement, due to the turbulence created by the water being let in or out. It draws the boat backwards and forwards, often bringing it crashing into the lock gate, causing mayhem to those items inside I never remember to tidy away. I got fed up with it, drawers and cupboard doors swinging open and depositing their contents on the floor. As you can imagine, it becomes a touch tedious picking up the same things again and again.  So I vowed to put paid to the tedium once and for all. (Photo: Looking up the upper flight of locks at Audlem)

First of all I started to use my mid rope to steady the boat inside the lock, but that turned out to be a palaver. As I opened each paddle I’d be running back to the rope and hauling on it to stop the boat moving within the confined space of the lock. It made it a lengthier process if anything, often complicated when I didn’t reach the rope in time and it dropped back into the lock. A wet rope is nowhere near as pleasant to handle as a dry one, so all told I was moving further from a solution. I’d heard of people leaving their boats in gear, gently nosing into the front gate, while opening and closing paddles etc. For a while I wasn’t confident enough to try this, but once dealing with twenty locks in one day something had to be done, so I gave it a go. Hey presto, it was just the ticket. As the prow nestled against the lock gate I snick it into forward gear and step of, either using the ladder or via the roof of the boat. By judiciously opening the paddles the boat merely backs off a little before pressing its nose back against the front gate. Once the water level has evened out I can select neutral open the gate and take her out. And the final refinement is leaving it to exit all on its own. I open the gate, with her still in gear. She chugs slowly out the lock, once clear of the gate I close it and jump aboard before she vanishes down the canal on her own. Neat eh? (Photo: Sun streaked sky at dusk, enjoyed while scoffing broccoli cheese in the Shropshire countryside)

Neither do I waste time walking the length of the lock many times. I have a decent stride, so I step across the gap between the gates. A degree of care is needed, with the weather worsening it gets slippery, and it wouldn’t do to plummet into the lock with a propeller spinning at the stern. There really is no need to worry. The double gates are always some distance from where the stern of the boat is, at least when I’m hopping across them anyway. Actually the most lethal place for footing is the metal ladders to ascend from the boat to the lockside. Whatever the weather they are wet and slippery, but I’m already in the habit of jamming my foot against the side so it can’t slip off. Amazingly this has all become second nature in double quick time, it doesn’t take me much longer, if any, than boats manned with a crew. Recently I’ve helped as many others as have helped me. It’s all part and parcel of the game, it isn’t laborious unless you allow it to be. And believe me, twenty locks alone in one day is some going. I have to admit to taking a pub break part way through, it would have been rude not to. After all, there are two canal side pubs at Audlem, I couldn’t really have ignored them both. One brilliant phenomenon of canal pubs is that most serve decent real ales, and a good selection. Local breweries are well represented, many of the bottled ales I generally only see in stores can be bought on draught. (Photo: Lock-keepers cottage at Audlem locks)

 Correct me if I’m wrong (on second thoughts don’t bother), but you enter No.15 of the Audlem locks in Cheshire and get spat out of the last one into Shropshire. The actual county boundary is somewhere in the middle, though at that point there is no discernible difference. On the canal itself there is. It tends to be wider north of Audlem, and while it has its fair share of overhanging flora it tends to crowd you more once heading south. Referred to in boating terms as the Cut it becomes clear exactly why. Its cut through the landscape, and few places more so than in Shropshire. Avenues carved from bare rock have been hewn by hand by the gutsy, and desperate for work, Irish navvies. Those guys must have been built like brick shithouses to endure that sort of work, and no doubt they were paid a pittance while risking their lives on a daily basis. Without being sentimental about it they’re owed a huge debt for their achievements throughout the Victorian era of engineering. I know the credit is largely down to the likes of Thomas Telford and Brindley, to name but two, but without the tremendous labour of the navvies we’d have achieved very little. There again, with the nefarious Empire there would have been plenty of other lackeys to subjugate to a life of hard labour. (Photo: Tyrley Cutting, hewn from bare rock, from the top of the cutting to the bottom of the canal)

Throughout Shropshire and Cheshire the Shropshire Union Canal passes through mile after mile of empty countryside. The towns you pass were trading places, many made their money from the goods transported along the waterways. Indeed most the canals were constructed specifically to shift raw materials to places of manufacture, then the manufactured goods to lucrative markets. I’ve yet to see a disgusting hovel disguised as a town on my journey south. Most towns are desirable places to live, they are not cheap and shoddy. Architecture is of days gone by, and still maintained in very good condition. They are rich in a bygone culture, and preserved with more than their fair share of Listed Buildings. Nowadays you could say trade is no more on the canals, but you’d be wrong. They’re busy thoroughfares for those who have time and money on their hands. The pubs and shops that grace its path are not old and original in anything but outer appearance. Their interior, and in fact their ethos, are prefabricated versions of what the uniformed believe to from days gone by. Very few pubs are the alehouses of yesteryear, more like theme pubs created for the tourist season. No more so than any other boozer, and they do have the canal itself to lend some degree of credibility. (Photo: Opening out into Staffordshire, a brief break from open farmland)

Personally I think the black and white, timber framed buildings are lovely. As are the older styled red brick housing, and a lot of that was built to house the workers of highflying entrepreneurs in the Victorian times. Of course they were the conscientious employers, maybe it would be more accurate to refer to them as those who recognised the benefits of housing, health and education. Seems a shame we don’t have such people running our country now. But who am I to grumble? Having the time to wander at will admiring such works isn’t to be sniffed at. And admire I do. It never ceases to amaze me the feats achieved in those bygone days, nor how far advanced we have become nowadays. I must be showing my age to marvel at yesteryear, but the architecture and engineering feats of that age do seem so remarkable. It wasn’t just the practical side behind building that brave new world, the stark beauty I’m confronted with as I cruise along is staggering. Considering the canal systems were built over two hundred years ago, the manner in which they overcame all obstacles far surpasses what is achieved in much of the world now. As humans we could be said to have come so far, yet the rape and pillage of our natural world now is reminiscent of the dark ages. (Photo: The rather unique Lambarts, double arched, bridge - Nr Offley, Staffs)

Since entering the Llangollen Canal I’ve been struggling with my engine. Well, not the engine itself, the cooling system. No matter what I do I can’t get the bugger to run without overheating, or so it would seem. It’s fine for a few hours, or it was, then the temperature climbs until I must heave to and allow it to cool down briefly. Once done it will run fine again for hours at a time. Whoever I speak to has a different opinion as to what it might be, and most have no grounds for the advice they give. The bulk of it is hearsay, and can easily be dismissed as such. But there is often a lingering doubt, which leads to checking yet another part of the system, unnecessarily most of the time. As long as I could cruise a few hours at a time it didn’t matter, but it’s got worse recently. A few days ago the temperature gauge rose steadily from the minute I set off, I was limping along one mile at a time. The engine is meant to run at about 85^O C, so once it’s nudging 100^O I feel inclined to give it a rest. Air trapped within the system is the most common diagnosis, yet I’ve bled the system time and time again. Considering there is often still air to bleed leads me to believe it’s getting onto the system, but where?  A hose burst, and I thought that had been the fault, but it didn’t improve. I’ve stripped off all the hoses, cleaned the pipes, tightened jubilee clips, all to no avail. (Photo: Thank heaven for humour - Nr Tyrley Locks)

Yesterday I took a break from cruising and stressing about the problem, or that was what I told myself. Instead I removed all the panelling from the engine compartment, drained the system, and systematically checked everything. Finding a suspect hose I phoned Calcutt boats, the gurus for BMC engines who claim to have everything for them. Great, they don’t have any of the hoses I want. So they’ve gone back on, tightening them up doubly tight. That made no difference, so today I set off again regardless. Within a mile the temperature was up to 95^O. This time I carried on regardless, and it got no hotter. Cruising all day made it no worse, which I don’t know whether it’s good news or not. My thoughts were leaning toward the cylinder head being blown, now I have doubts about that. Maybe the bloody gauge is not reading correct, wouldn’t that be typical? Someone today asked whether I was enjoying my time despite this problem. I must say I’m at my whit’s end over this, but I do still appreciate the countryside I’m passing through. I get off on the magnificent bridges I pass under, marvel every time I see a kingfisher. There is a smile on my lips when I pass other boaters, even if they are pillocks. So am I making the most of it? I guess I must be. (Photo: Is it a moor hen or a coot? Maybe you can tell me)

Previously I mentioned how much narrower it’s become since heading south from Audlem. In many places it is only one boat wide, so it pays to check ahead, passing places are few and far between. Along one especially long, narrow section I was stunned to see what looked like a boat being manoeuvred as if to moor up. There was no question of turning round, and reversing would have been a nightmare. Continuing at tick over I could still see the boat moving from side to side, so assumed they were trying to make room to let me pass, a bold move if I may say so. As it happened, by using the rush choked wild side, I could just squeeze past. And I needed to, as there was no-one aboard. The boat was adrift, floating willy-nilly in the most constricted stretch you can imagine. My fist impulse was to leave it, as I’d got past it was no longer a problem for me. But I couldn’t be so complacent, so I stopped. Was it the temptation for another new experience or, the possibility of reward? No! It just made sense to tow it to a safer location, which is what I did. During the tow I did imagine someone seeing me and accusing me of stealing their boat, but you can’t let an overactive imagination stop you doing the decent thing. Later that day I got talking to a couple in the pub, they’d passed it and simply pushed it aside, unwilling to face possible accusations. Unbelievably they followed this information with a story of their own boat coming loose and how grateful they were that someone made it secure for them. (Photo: Approaching Curlew adrift -  Nr Shebdon)

I must admit it’s a bit surreal cruising through the outskirts of Wolverhampton. One minute I was in open countryside, the next passing through a modern housing estate. And yes, there was a shopping trolley, wheels up in the middle of the canal. I think this is traditional for urban canals, they don’t have the delights of historical architecture, or wonderful wildlife, so they need acts of wanton destruction to satisfy their humdrum urbane lives. In all honesty though, it’s the sort of thing I’d have done as a kid. Not out of any spite, not to create any hassle, simply out of boredom. They probably had fun first, pushed each other down the hill in it, tried to overturn it at speed. Who knows, there could well have been a kid in it when it took to the water. Maybe they picked up some awful lurgy, which would have made it all worthwhile if it gave them time off school. The first estate was the worst, consisting of terraced rabbit hutches, but surprisingly clean and well maintained, with the exception of the occasional burnt out shell. Once turning on to the Trent & Mersey Canal, and heading back up north, the quality of housing improved drastically. One side was semi-detached rabbit hutches, while the other had rear gardens lining the canal and weeping willows casting sun-dapples patterns on long luxurious lawns. No doubt they’ll be able to afford luxurious floating gin palaces when they retire. (Photo: Unusual parch for a heron)

Keel hauling on the Llangollen Canal

It wasn’t as if I had any idea how much it was going to cost to replace all the electrics in the engine compartment. But I was assured the electrician came highly recommended, her only problem was being inundated with work. Miraculously she appeared within the hour, the guys at the marina pull out all the stops whenever I’ve needed anything, and this was no exception. Sandra turned up and gingerly inspected the charred remains of my electrical system. Bless her, the whole engine compartment was covered in a fine blanket of powder, courtesy of the bloody fire extinguisher. For some reason, on boats powder extinguishers are the recommended type, even though they’re pretty useless at putting out electrical or flammable fluid fires. She did make a point of mentioning that a thorough clean would be necessary before she tackled the job. Nor could she undertake the task at Venetian Marina, which left me to get the boat to Middlewich. No worries though, Venetian’s engineer, Alec, volunteered to give up his Saturday to tow me. With kindness like that it's no wonder I got on so well with the staff in the marina, I couldn't have asked for better treatment. (Photo: Secluded spot along on of the Meres - Nr Ellesmere, Shropshire)

With three days interim there was plenty of time to scour the engine compartment clean, and it needed that long. Again, that powder gets everywhere, it’s a nightmare to clean up, I’m only glad it was confined to a relatively small compartment at the stern. I honestly think the clean up job is as bad as not using it. Vowing not to be so quick off the mark next time, alternatives were sought. Co₂ seems the answer, but it falls foul of recommendations because when used in a confined space it dispels all available oxygen. Big deal, try breathing in the midst billowing clouds of toxic smoke, in a confined space. I now have a Co₂ extinguisher especially for the engine room, the perfect solution for fuel or electrical fires. It was a health hazard cleaning up the, smoking forty a day would be less harmful. As much as possible was vacuumed out, to minimise the amount I breathed in, the hoover has never been the same since either. After, I brushed and swabbed down every accessible centimetre, removing the panelling to expose the compartment in its entirety. It kept me busy, for which I could be grateful, though I could think of any number of things I’d rather be doing. Inserting a pineapple up my rectum rough end first didn’t spring to mind at the time, but with hindsight it would be a close call. (Photo: Slight bottleneck, waiting for people to figure out the first lock from Llangollen)

This boating lark is a steep learning curve, and I seem to be encountering a host of lessons that are not exactly in the realms of normality. Being towed is another, though I have spotted three boats on tow in as many months. Like road vehicles it’s seemingly simple, but there is a lot of room for error. Attached bow to stern there’s little to concern yourself with when it comes to colliding, but some degree of competence handling the tiller makes the job lots easier for the skipper of the vessel in front. You also have to unhitch at every lock and manhandle the boat in and out. As big and heavy as narrow boats seem this isn’t really a big deal, once underway the effort is minimal. Alec had his wife along, so I even got treated to cups of steaming tea while manning the tiller, which isn’t a treat I enjoy when solo. They took me further along the Middlewich branch of the Shropshire Union Canal than I’d been before, and on to the Trent and Mersey, another first. In all I was marooned in Middlewich for six days. Like many of the small towns of Shropshire/Cheshire it’s an olde town, not just old, and quite quaint and quirky. The local shops are still local, the town centre thriving, local businesses selling local products. But it ain’t cheap, you pay for the privilege of sticking two fingers up to the multi-nationals, but it’s worth it! (Photo: Approaching the gloomy depth of Chirk tunnel - Chirk Cutting)

Of course after six days of being stranded I was gagging at the bit to be away. The kids were back at school and the waters were quieting down. It had been nigh on two months since buying the boat and the furthest afield I’d gotten was a few measly miles. With the work finished I still had no idea how much it was going to set me back. Sandra was particularly elusive; she hates the financial side of business, which is why she works almost exclusively through Middlewich boat yard. While waiting for the bill I tried to offer her an extra, a tip you could say, which horrified her. It gave me the impression she didn’t want to dirty herself by handling the money, keeping herself pure to work her magic with the electrics. Which she did do, I’d challenge anyone to show me a better electrical system installed. But it was all down to time by then, I wanted to make tracks. Despite not settling the bill until gone 8pm I set off into the twilight, determined to leave the lights of civilisation behind and moor up on the cut, with the stars to keep me company. Hire boats are forbidden to cruise in failing light, but of course I own my boat, and I can do what the hell I want with it. Using the small, underpowered headlight I cruised for a couple of hours. Not in any hurry, just chugging along, happy to be on the move. And, when finding my own private little spot, I pulled in and enjoyed a star spangled night with only the whisper of nature for company. (Photo: Misty morning overlooking the Shropshire plains - Platt Lane, Nr Whitchurch)

The intention was to merely call in at Venetian Marina, an overnight stop, it was on my way to the Llangollen Canal and there was some doubt as to whether or not there was any outstanding debt for my mooring. After a month of gratis mooring Lee had been a touch flippant about the charge for an extra month, and I’d left it at that. They’d treated me so well I wasn’t about to query everything, a bit of trust goes a long way. And true to form the guys shrugged and wished me happy cruising, extracting a promise to grace them with my presence when next I passed through. And so off I went, cruising into the sunset, bound for the Welsh hinterlands and the promise of deep tunnels and scary aqueducts. Reputed to wind through some of the most beautiful countryside and astounding architectural feats I was sure of some sensational experiences. The first of which is Hurleston Locks, a series of four locks rising steeply through. They’re not a true staircase lock, each is operated individually with a transfer pool between them. Generally there’s a lock keeper on full time duty. Lucky for me, I got to stay at the helm and let him do all the work. Then the way was clear for a gentle putter through the lands of the bygone Marcher lords. (Photo: The mere - Ellesmere)

In medieval times this land was hotly disputed. Then, as now, it was fertile farmland and much sought after. It also borders the more mountainous lands of Wales, therefore providing a good base for excursions into Welsh territories. As such it gave ample opportunity for land grabbing, but also needed defending against the Celtic raiding parties. There is plenty of evidence of such skirmishes, earthworks abound, testament to warring factions and the need for defence. Nowadays all you’re likely to see is cows with bloated udders and extensive arable farming. Whether or not it’s on the increase I was surprised to note the amount of corn being grown, for some reason I always seen it as more of a foreign crop. But whatever use the land is put to, it is open, fairly flat land. There’s little to spoil the rural splendour, very few villages, only sprawling manses favouring the high ground. It reeks of wealth, you’ll find few shabby properties, but plenty sporting stables and paddocks for the family horses. So have times really changed? There are still the privileged landowners, with small enclaves of riffraff to be taken advantage of. I guess in modern mechanised times the riffraff are the nouveau riche, desperately trying to look the part of landed gentry. (Photo: Another cold and misty morning, both beautiful and deathly silent - Ellesmere)

Timing is everything on the Llangollen, it is amongst the busiest of waterways in the UK. I hadn’t actually realised how busy until I got there. It hadn’t looked so bad initially, but much of the traffic is confined within that particular canal, especially between Ellesmere and Llangollen itself. The concentration of hire companies is high, the number of hire boats far outnumbers that of those privately owned, and the consideration and control of the average boat shows it. I found myself getting exasperated by the speed at which people ply the route. When passing moored boats it’s polite to slow down, to minimise the wash and therefore the disturbance to fellow boaters. There’s little chance of that on the Llangollen. In my first few days I had to have words with myself, to save my own peace of mind. While moored up, painting and building my new roof boxes, the movement created by unnecessary wash got to me. I started getting annoyed and voicing my anger at the inconsiderate imbeciles as they passed. But what’s the point, it isn’t going to change many of them? Maybe the occasional one, who I communicated with positively, but not by getting shirty with them. It’s a big lesson to learn, don’t vent your hostility and expect a positive response. Unless I practice more tolerance I’ll become an unwelcome, grumpy old git, and I can’t be having that now, can I? I went through the same phase riding motorbikes, if you rant and rave at the idiot who cuts you up it merely reinforces their negative view of the average biker. But to stop and approach them in a thoughtful and controlled manner, well, that really gets the point across. (Photo: Sunset treat, clear skies, gaggles of geese and uninterrupted beauty - Somewhere in the Shropshire countryside)

Back to canals though! Most have little in the way of flow, all the sections are level. That’s what the locks are for, changing levels without a strong flow of water. The Llangollen is different, every day they release up to twelve million gallons of water, and that’s British gallons, not to be confused with the short measured American gallon. As the canal is pretty damned narrow, even for a small canal, and notoriously shallow it means there is a considerable flow to contend with when travelling towards Llangollen. Some stretches are only one boat width wide, as these are for a considerable length it can pose problems. Before even setting off I was informed, by a well intentioned busy body, that I would not manage the Llangollen on my own, because of this problem. Well I did, without anyone scouting ahead to verify the coast was clear. If the immediately visible way was clear off I went, leaving up to those coming the opposite way to scout ahead and warn their helmsmen of my presence. My poor little Pankina though. When it becomes really narrow the flow is quite severe for a narrow boat, at least with an antiquated engine like mine. I struggled at times, revving higher than ever before and hardly making any headway. (Photo: Making headway, the second roof box finished and stocking up on winter fuel - The middle of nowhere, Shropshire)

The depth posed problems for everyone. Sometimes my rudder was skimming along the bottom, and that was in midstream, where it’s deepest. Unless you’re pretty cautious it’s all too easy to run aground, so care is needed. My policy was to treat everyone else as though they were completely incompetent, which the majority actually were. Through one reed ridden section you could see the canal bed, it was uneven and very shallow. Suddenly, coming round a blind bend, a hire boat appeared and seeing me instantly lost all control. His natural reaction was to ram the boat into the side, up into the reed bed. From behind another hire boat appeared, going much too fast to take any evasive action. He swerved to opposite direction, running aground diagonally in front of me. And yet another boat appeared, they were basically nose to tail, running blind and incapable of avoiding trouble. Forgive my sense of humour, but it was hilarious. People were jumping off and struggling with mooring lines, desperately trying to gain some aspect of control over the various boats. I gently ran aground, then eased her into reverse, extricated myself and, once the others had cleared enough space, softly puttered through the shallows to clear water. As I chugged merrily on my way the skipper of the lead boat was revving the guts out of it, trying to force it over the shallow obstruction. I was kind enough to shout out instructions, to shift the passenger weight to port and reverse out. (Photo: One way traffic only at least it should be - Closing in on Llangollen itself)

Forgive me, I’m not biased against hire boats, just bad boatmanship. We all have to learn, myself included, and I’m far from perfect myself. The main redeeming factor is how friendly everyone is with each other. They may have no idea what to do or how to do it when it comes to the boat, but almost without fail they will smile, wave, and bid you good day as a matter of course. Which is lovely, it also goes a long way to diffuse any adverse situation. People feel obliged to display the most charming side of their character. There are bound to be the odd one or two who are simply unpleasant, it doesn’t matter what they do in life, they will still be miserable. And that’s alright, it’s their choice, just as it’s mine to give them a beaming smile and cheerily wish them good fortune and the happiest of days. I’ll even refrain from muttering miserable shit as I pass, because that’s how they want to portray themselves. Whether or not this is something personal I couldn’t say. I do know that the sight of me with the dreads and tattoos, for some, is seen as a personal affront. And that is even more reason for overbearing happiness and good wishes on my behalf, let them live their own misery, I prefer to be happy. (Photo: My first lift bridge - Wrenbury Mill)

As I‘ve mentioned, handling a narrow boat, alone, involves quite a lot more than with the aid of a crew. It’s all manageable though, if you take your time and deal with the various obstacles methodically. Locks are the most common throughout the canal system, and I’ve about got them sussed. My methodology could do with a little tweeking, I’m sure I can improve how I deal with them. Not that I have any problems, but it can be a bit of a palaver, with a lot of walking back and forth. Lift bridges on the other hand left me stumped initially. Confronted with my first one I had to sit back, study it, and work out my method of approach. Theoretically you moor up, lift the bridge, cruise through, moor up again, lower the bridge then continue on your merry way. The only trouble is the mooring posts are on the opposite side of the canal to the winding mechanism to raise and lower the bridge. Which, in case you’ve not cottoned on, means that once raised you can’t cross the bridge to get back to the boat. The only solution is to manhandle it up to the bridge rather than moor up, push it through once the bridge is raised, hold it on the stern line, allowing the bow to wander haphazardly, then lower the bridge before setting off again. I can see why they’re designed this way, to ensure the bridges are lowered, but they’re not designed for single person use really. Mind you, the electric one at Wrenbury was quite exciting. You have to stop traffic on the road by means of the safety barrier, with klaxons blaring, then operate the control panel yourself. It’s like being the signal man on a railway crossing. (Photo: Pontcysyllte Aquaduct - Nr Froncysyllte)

But of course the big highlight for me was traversing the Pontcysyllte Aquaduct, 1007ft long, 126ft high, in a caste iron trough, with no safety barrier. The engineering feat was spectacular when finished in 1805, and it’s no less so now. Spanning the River Dee the views down the valley are amazing. If you suffer from vertigo I can only advise you to steer well clear. It would be mean to laugh at the wobbly-kneed tourists inching their way across, and they have railings on their side. It’s the first time I’ve ever been across, by boat or on foot. Many times I’ve seen it when passing on the A5, and always wanted to travel across. It didn’t disappoint, I likes it so much I talked some friends into joining me and made a second return trip across. That time I allowed someone else to take the helm so I could fully appreciate the view, standing on the edge of the gunwale, peering straight down into the distant valley below. It must be one of the most famous feats of canal building, and rightly so. I must admit the Llangollen deserves its reputation as one of the most beautiful canals in the country, and I can see why it is one of the most busy. If you only ever have one canal experience, you wouldn’t be disappointed with the Llangollen. But if you dislike hordes of tourists don’t do it over the summer season. I’m glad I waited until the kids went back to school, it was still busy, but manageable. (Photo: Looking down the Dee Valley - From Pontcysyllte Aquaduct)