Into Brum

We had only reached the second lock in the flight of 16 before we hit problems. Having shut the first bottom gate, it had swung open before I had walked around the close the other gate. I closed the second only for that one to swing open too. Aoiffe offered to give me a hand, but I had to work out how to do it alone. I quick look around
for something to wedge them open proved fruitless and I suspect it wouldn’t work anyway. Plan B was soon hatched. With the centre rope I tied the boat to a bollard to stop it drifting out of the lock then opened a ground paddle from the top gate sending a flow of water through the lock, then dashed to the bottom gates and closed one. Thankfully the flow of the water kept the gate shut, then raced around to close the other gate before too much water was wasted. Success, job done.

We made good progress with me doing all the work, Aoiffe being my insurance policy incase anything went wrong. We only met one boat coming the other way. It was like new, the owners having just picked it up from the paint shop 100 metres further along the canal. Mr New Paint Job did all the driving, Mrs New Paint Job was too afraid of scratching the thing and taking the wrath of Mr New Paint Job. I did my best to miss the thing and thankfully succeeded.

The locks were relentless, the closest two being no more than 10 metres between the gates, almost a staircase lock. Time passed quickly, we made it through to the top in exactly four hours, 20 minutes per lock, then stopped for a well earned lunch break, at least well earned for me, Aoiffe just sat on her arse talking to passers by and scarring the shit out of the kids in buggies. City kids are unfamiliar with friendliness from strangers, for some it was all too much. I think she saw it as a challenge to make them all cry.

The plan was to moor somewhere before the Delph flight of eight locks (photo), it was hardly appealing. You could have furnished a house from the canals contents of sofa, kids slides, double glazed windows, doors, a choice of TVs, clothing...I could go on. Standing proudly in stark contrast were four perfectly formed daffodils, so perfect they were probably plastic, another piece of junk not quite making it into the water.

I decided to go up the flight and moor a Dudley’s Waterfront, the race against time was on. I settled into a good rhythm as the locks were so close, hop off the boat before it entered the lock, dash back and close the gate on the previous lock, close the gates of

the lock we were in, fill it, run up to the next lock and open the gates, exit the lock and repeat the process for two hours. I worked up a sweat whilst Aoiffe continued socialising, this time with Ed and Katie.

“Which way are you heading?” I asked them.

“That way,” they said pointing in opposite directions. I offered them a lift so they joined us for the short journey past Merry Hill shopping centre, its car park full, queues heading out and a far cry from the peace of being the only boat on the canal.

Ed and Katie carried on chatting but turned down the offer of tea, Aoiffe must have told them how I wring out every last drop of flavour by the time a tea bag has made its sixth cuppa.

The Waterfront was perfect for a nights stop, though being mainly offices it was remarkably dead. The development, though impressive, cost a billion pounds. You don’t get much for a billion quid these days.

By five o’clock the following morning there was a guy fishing outside my beadroom, he too turned down the offer of tea, news spreads fast in these parts. Having climbed through 24 locks the previous day it was time for a rest, just a single lock and a tunnel of a mile and a half long. Being my first long tunnel it was a novelty, for the first ten minutes. The next 50 minutes were a bit of a bore! We passed a guy on foot on total darkness, splashing his way along the flooded towpath. I was happy to be on the boat.

Daylight at the other side revealed the wider Birmingham Main Line Canal, though Main Line needs to be taken with a pinch of salt as we only saw one other boat. We moved off centre line to pass each other, only for both of us to run aground.

So my home for a few days in outside the National Indoor Arena, a stones throw from Gas Street Basin. Chris visited yesterday so we went for a little spin which gave me the chance to move to a spot where I can moor for up to two weeks. My new home, though very close to my last, is not quite so classy. Here I pick up wireless networks on the computer such as Sky10888 whereas in the last place users were classier such as Cliff Richard and Mozart.

Birmingham reportedly has more canals than Venice, complete with boats taking tourists on trips and others acting as coffee shops and jewellery shop, though if I was involved in tourism in Venice I wouldn’t be getting too concerned. Birmingham’s best bit is not only very small, it is also only marginally more attractive than the worst bit of Venice. That said, I like it here and I’m easily tempted to stay for a few days, taking my time to wander the city streets I used to rush around in my lunch hour whilst working for Cap Gemini.

The off

Just before ten o’clock on Thursday morning, having said farewell to my neighbours and friends, I eased out of my moorings. They all stood and watched, the pressure was on not to cock it up. Suddenly Paula was waving and pointing down the narrow channel I was about to make a 90 degree turn into, a boat was coming the other way. I reversed up and waited for

them to come through, then got my angles all wrong and cocked it up completely. More reversing was needed, ending up too close to the boats on my left to be able to make the turn to the right. I drifted slowly in and pushed the bow out, now I could get away. Having made the corner a boat owner who I had never seen before clapped. Either it was ironic or she was genuinely impressed I avoided hitting anything, I suspect the former. At last I was away. Departures in a narrowboat are slow. I waved so long I thought my arm would drop off!

After 100 metres I moored up for diesel...and waited. An hour later I was at last on my way and rising up the deep York Street lock. I saw Graham, the friendly British Waterways guy.

“I am off for good, I wont be back until August,” I told him, “I am heading for Oxford.”

“Once you have been there you might as well go down the Thames and along the Kennet and Avon Canal, then back to London and along the Grand Union, then up the Trent and Mersey, down the the Llangollen and back to here along the Shroppy.”

“Okay, but what shall do you suggest I do next week?”

The sun shone, it was still, a perfect summers day. Anglers was spread along the bank, joggers jogged and cyclist cycled. I gave then all a nod like an old timer.

Broken branches lay in the water straddling the canal. I passed over them and a branch became caught on the bottom, surfacing and visible near the bank, the last few inches above the surface looking like a scene from Jaws. I had to pull up and drag the 20 foot branch out, the thought of it around the prop didn’t appeal.

I felt comfortable heading through the locks single handed. Aoiffe was at my side but not fit enough to crew, but perfectly able to tell me I made a lousy cup of tea.

Lunch was taken outside Tesco, so I took the opportunity to stock up with heavy and bulky items rather than transporting them by bike. I started to wheel the loaded trolly down the slope to the towpath and the wheels locked up, the thing wouldn’t budge. A guy watching pointed, “There’s a sign there for trolleys not to be taken beyond this point.”

“That’s clever. How does it work?” I was impressed and fascinated.

“Look at the wheels, those black things stop them turning.”

“I know, but what sets them off?”

“It’s to stop trolleys being taken away.”

“Yeah, I know, but how does it work?”

“It’s stops people chucking them in the canal.”

“Yeah, I know, but how does it work?”

“It stops the wheels turning.”

Thankfully the conversation was stopped when his mobile phone rang. I walked off thinking, “What a thicko,” and I suspect he did exactly the same.

We moored up at Wolverley, then I dumped Aoiffe in the wheelchair and set off for the village, far more interesting than expected with some of the houses cut into the red sandstone cliffs. The cliffs also formed an old pound for stray animals which were held until their owner claimed them.

The journey had started in earnest. A good day, successful day, things could only get worse.

Wolverley to Stourbridge brought a few more locks. With Aoiffe in tow I utilised her by practicing my single handing techniques, so if the worst came to the worst, she could bail me out.

The lock procedure for single handing through locks is slightly different to having a crew and is really a quicker easier process when alone. All the locks were heading uphill. As we approached the locks I would check them carefully through binoculars and if I could see the lock was empty I would ease the bow up the gates and gently nudge them open, then add a little power of open them fully, nice and gently. Open them too quickly and the gates would bounce and start to close. As the boat entered the lock I would put the engine in neutral, turn the tiller 90 degrees to keep it out of the way, then hop off as the stern entered the lock, this saved climbing onto the roof and up the ladder in the lock. The boat would drift slowly in and nudge against the far gate. Once the lock was filled, the top gate is opened and boat taken out, then just as the stern slowly leaves the lock I would put the boat in reverse and hop off. Whilst shutting the top gate the boat would continue forward, stop, then start reversing arriving back so I could step back on and motor away. Aoiffe presence gave me peace of mind through this process as I am not sure I would have had the confidence to try it alone as the boat goes out of reach for a short while and I would have felt a little silly if it had not returned.

At Stourton we climbed through four locks. There was a distinct lack of power whilst leaving the third, then the engine stalled. I restarted it a couple of times, it stalled each time. It was fine in neutral, so I guessed something was jamming the propellor. This is not unusual when boating, but this was the first time it had happened to me, it was time to clear the prop through the weed hatch. After

about 15 minutes of reaching as far as I could, my head almost in the water, I managed to clear the remains of plastic bag and some string. Thankfully the engine ran perfectly.

The Stourbridge Canal was definitely smaller and shallower than the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal, so shallow I grounded whilst going around a corner. Reversing off and taking the corner wider solved the problem without the need to push and shove with the pole.

So we are nicely placed below the 16 locks at Stourbridge. Tomorrow will be straight into the flight. Single handed I guess it will take between four and five hours and will probably involve more walking to and from locks than boating. I suspect we will only cover two or three miles tomorrow. It will be my first lock flight so should prove interesting and give me plenty of opportunity to improves my techniques.

The Final Countdown

Well I did it, I fitted the new water pump myself, and the boat is still floating. I guess it must have been a success.

Christine came all the way down from Glasgow to join me for a few days, my last chance to benefit from an experienced boater before I set sail alone. We met on the Grand Union Canal on one of my trips roaming the canals, looking for people to talk to, people to learn from before I jumped in with two feet (no, not like Cathy!) During her stay I thought about how our paths came to cross. It could be narrowed down to cycling up a hill in Istanbul, about 3 years ago. Had I been an hour earlier or later that day, we would probably never have met and it’s unlikely I would be living on a boat, for that is where I met Judith and Andre from Germany. We spent three months cycling together, then when

I returned home they came to England for a cycling tour. It was during our tour in the UK and crossing over canals that put the idea into my head. Thinking about it, Christine could probably quote a similar story about how she came to be moored up beside the Grand Union that day. What are the chances? It’s fascinating how paths come to cross, but on the other hand if I hadn’t spoken to Christine, some other poor soul would have been bombarded with questions from some weird guy on a bike, so perhaps is not so fascinating after all!

Anyway, we departed Saturday morning making our way north along the Staffs and Worc Canal. Beyond Wolverley I was treading new water (no, not the way you are thinking Cathy) and onto my first tunnel. Christine was at the tiller and took us through slowly and it was only when I took the boat through a tunnel that I realised how slow the boat goes. The tunnel was narrow, not much wider than a lock and unlike the wider canal, there is nowhere for the water to go, so the boat has to force its way through the water.

The canal at times was very narrow, one bank being sheer rock, red sandstone, a feature of much of the waterway. The day ended with rain, so neither of us were sorry to finally moor

up for the night using the chains to attach us to the metal pilings along the bank.

The morning greeted us with heavy rain. A lie in was called for. It did the trick, by the time we departed the rain had stopped and before long the sun broke through, shining down on us for the rest of the day.

We passed Stourton Junction, described in my book as being ‘in every boaters top 10 list of junctions.’ It stormed into my charts, straight in at No.1, probably helped by being my first junction. Come evening my stove started to play up, bad news as it had dropped to -4 degrees the night before. As I crouched down in front of the thing to Christine’s laughed.

“I have pictures of me doing exactly the same thing,” she told me. “It’s known as praying to the God of Fire.” Hmm, I don’t usually use such strong language when I am praying. May be I should for we got it working again.

After Swindon came a couple of staircase locks before we had to turn around at Wombourne sadly leaving the lovely looking Bratch locks for another day.

Heading back we were racing through the water (no, not literally Cathy,) progress downhill through the locks seemed much quicker. We reached my favourite junction much earlier than expected, so turned off along the Stourbridge Canal, straight into a series of four locks taking us up to 19 for the day. We were working well as a team which may have explained the increase in speed.

We arrived at Wordsley Junction, causing Stourton Junction to tumble from top of the pile to the very bottom, it’s now my least favourite junction.

Our last night was spent at Kinver, a village raved about by boaters and receiving high praise from books and magazines. I took a walk to the centre. It was okay, I couldn’t get excited about it. From there we cruised easily back to Stourport, before long entering familiar territory. Whilst stopped in Kidderminster for lunch a passing cyclist wanted to speak to us,

“I wouldn’t stop here for the night. The estate just over there is really rough, drug addicts live there and they come down to the canal at night, sometimes causing trouble.” I already knew Kiddy had a bad reputation, probably why I have never seen a single boat moored in the town. “A young girl hanged herself from the tree there last week.” I had seen the flowers and when I last passed a group of people were stood there hugging. It’s sad.

Having covered the ground a few times already it made me realise why so few boats go out for day trips. There are only so many times you can chug along the same stretch before it loses it appeal, making the longer trips into the unknown far more desirable.

So thanks to Christine, my learning period is over, the few days out were definitely beneficial to me as I now feel I have the confidence and enough knowledge to venture out alone, in fact I relish it. During the coming week I will leave Stourport for good. I have enjoyed my time here, but it’s time to move on, the adventure is about to start for real. Hopefully the blog will become

more interesting and I will try to update it more often. I can’t wait to tell you all about my disasters, there are bound to be a few.

Chris came over to visit during the week, just for the evening. We paid a visit to the Angel, (no Cathy, not my Guardian Angel.) It has a large room with a pool table which I have never seen anybody in. We changed that by having a few games and jolly good fun it was too. I am sure Chris wont mind me telling you the score was 9-1.

Stourport has come alive this weekend, helped by the excellent weather. Boats are on the move, those moored up are receiving their first visits from their owners since the winter, the streets are busy, people are walking along the river and filling the fairground, it’s taking on a very different feel. It’s all adding to my excitement of making a move. I will be sorry to say goodbye to the friends I have made here, but I am sure I will see them again in August when I return to put the boat in dry dock for blacking the bottom.

I said farewell to my Quaker friends yesterday, I shall miss them. It was the perfect place for me, all the men are called John. It makes life so much easier!

I have added a link for photos should your be interested or just have some time to kill. I'll add a new folder each month.

Ooops!

Having been a whistle stop tour including going back to the house for a night and over to Aoiffe’s, I am back at the boat. The highlight of the trip away was making custard. I love custard, but haven’t made it in years as it’s not the sort of things to cook when cycle touring. I followed Aoiffe’s instructions but it didn’t work.

“I can’t work out what you have done wrong,” she called out form the lounge. All I

was getting was hot milk, so I took out the custard powder to read the instructions to discover I had been using powdered milk by mistake. Ooops!

Having taken the boat out with experienced boaters it was time to head out with the inexperienced, so Cathy volunteered and came over, kindly giving me a lift back. All went well until the 4th lock at Kidderminster. As I entered the deep lock her face appeared above me with a silly grin.

“I have done something incredibly stupid,” she told me. My first thought was she had dropped her camera in, but surely not, she wouldn’t have that silly grin. I was wrong, that’s exactly what she had done, unfortunately it was still around her neck at the time. In her attempt to get a perfect picture of reflection in the water she had stood on the top lock gate, but not one to settle for second best she thought the picture could be improved, so took a step to the left. For some strange reason she must have thought it would look better from under water as she completely submerged herself.

Having asked her to bring as little as possible she had no change of clothing.

“I’ll be alright,” she said, “they will dry out on me.” I insisted she had a shower before we continued and lent her a few clothes.

The camera and phone were a right off. Even if she thought the picture would look better from under water, why would she want to make a telephone call from down there? Still, lesson learned: Don’t go boating with Cathy unless she has kiddy reigns and inflatable arm bands on.

The remainder of the trip was thankfully uneventful by comparison. We moored near Wolverley for the first night away from the mooring in Stourport returning the following day.

Mally brought Frances down at the weekend and we did a similar trip turning around north of Kidderminster, thankfully neither decided to go for a swim. Mally had to remove some debris from Cathy’s lock gate and thought the water was so disgusting she washed her hands immediately.

Kiddy is notorious for having trouble whilst mooring for the night. I could believe it as there are plenty of good spots to moor and a not a single boat in sight. As we returned through the lock the local kids had fun by jumping across. A slip would have proved costly with 20 tons of boat bearing down on them, driven by a guy who doesn’t know how to stop the thing.

Having moored up I dumped the satellite dish on the roof. To get a good signal it needs to be manoeuvred by fractions of an inch, yet this time is was perfect without any adjustment. What are the chances of that? Incredibly I did the same again back at the basin. My luck was in, I should have entered the lottery!

Today has seen my first real problem on the boat with the water pump playing up. Oh joy! It pumps water perfectly but pulses when the water is turned off with water being pumped out of the boat by the calorifier (hot water tank). The guys on surrounding boats hadn’t seen such a problem before, so it was time to raise the question on canal forum. I was impressed. Within an hour I had suggestions and ran some diagnostics. It appears the pressure valve on the pump has failed so continues pumping with the water being pushed into the calorifier, then forced out through the pressure valve. So tomorrow I have to buy parts if I can get them or failing that, a new pump. I am useless at DIY so I will consider it successful if I don’t sink the boat!