First drawbridge

My desire to stay longer in Birmingham forced me to move for I was only permitted to stay at my first mooring for 48 hours. I moved 150 metres to where I could stay for 14 days.

The bollards were badly positioned for a 60 foot boat. Ideally the ropes from the bow and stern need to be at 45 degrees from the bank to hold the boat still whereas the best I could do was 90 degrees to the bank. To stop the boat from moving when boats passed I attached the two centre ropes to the two bollards alongside the boat. This not only kept the boat steady, but had an added advantage. Whenever there was a slight movement, the rope would pull through the guide on the edge of the roof

creating a lovely creaking noise like a wooden boat at sea.

Mooring in a new spot still feels strange. Unlike camping where you can tuck yourself away where nobody will find you, mooring a boat shouts out “Here I am!” to every Tom, Dick and Harry. In the middle of a city you question whether you are safe. I was, I needn’t have worried. The only hassle I had was from a couple of Canada Geese who turned up at eleven-thirty each night and tapped, rather annoyingly, on the side.

I stayed in Birmingham to wander around old haunts, taking time in places I had rushed through during my lunch breaks when working in Aston. I rather like Birmingham, but it has a Jekyll and Hyde identity. That’s not quite right, it’s more of Jekyll, Hyde and friend identity. Little pockets of redevelopment are plush. Take the canal for example, the industrial warehouses of yesteryear have long since made way for swish apartments and even swisher bars and restaurants. Or the gleaming glass of the Bullring standing proud, enticing all in to empty their wallets, these are nice places to be, even with an empty wallet. Then there are the old bits, majestic old buildings outliving the hideous constructions on the 60’s and will probably outlive the developments still unfinished. These are pockets too, but walk between the pockets of old and new and there are shabby old buildings lying derelict, awaiting their turn to be pulled down and replaced with modern offices. It will be like painting the Forth Bridge, by the time all the new building has finished we will look at what is being built now and say, “How did it ever get planning permission. Pull the thing down.” On the other hand it may warrant reconstruction due to inadequate building techniques, they aint built to last.

I caught up with old friends. Wayne and Andrea are still working at Cap Gemini and came over to the boat. They worked late (some things never change) and hadn’t eaten, so we walked to one of those swish restaurants where they were known and made at home. I enjoyed their company, but my lifestyle doesn’t permit me to splash out on such luxuries. I felt uncomfortable, a fish out of water, though I know I really had no need to feel that way whilst in the company of Wayne and Andrea, they are good friends and do not judge me on what I have, or more to the point what I don’t have.

Chris also came out to visit me. On Saturday with Chris, I moved the short distance to Edgbaston, the leafy, tree lined mooring beside the university cleverly disguising the fact I was still only a mile and a half from the city centre. At night it was silent, but by day the towpath was busy with walkers and students jogging. I began to realise why boat with portholes are favoured by some rather than the airy large windows I have opted for. There was a constant stream of people until the rain arrived. It rained hard, the towpath changed. There was silence other the pounding of rain on the roof, the towpath deserted as if hit by the plague. I became restless, eager to be out in the rain, so I walked sheltered by a large umbrella. There is something special about walking in the rain, yet sheltered by a thin piece of fabric.

In the morning I rang at Birmingham Cathedral, another place I had seen so many times before. With an early ring at eight-thirty I expected few. It was packed. Over 30 ringers turned up, mainly because one of their best ringers had died on Friday, so they all came to pay their respect. Rod Pipe was a name I knew, I met his brother George whilst ringing around Ipswich. The brothers are very well known in ringing circles so his death had come as a shock.

I visited Edgbaston Quakers. Afterwards I spoke to somebody who lives on a boat very close to where I had been moored. We talked for half an hour but by the end was still unable to decide if they were male or female, they were certainly dressed as a female. The partner was female, but that didn’t really help in drawing a conclusion.

Despite being with others and single handing the boat, today was the first time I sailed alone. It was a tame introduction, six miles, no locks and one Sainsbury’s.

Beneath a bridge workmen were digging up the towpath, “I think you have got it right,” one called out, “what a life.” I agreed.

I passed through suburbia. On a factory wall were signs ‘Warning: fragile roof.’ I assumed they were there to warn trespassers and thieves. What is this country coming to? Soon we will be required to have signs on our houses, ‘Warning: Back window has been left unlocked, we don’t want you cutting yourself on broken glass do we.

Once you have taken all the valuables please close the window to keep the heat in (unless you have nicked the boiler as well, in which case don’t bother.)’

At Kings Norton junction I turned onto the Stratford on Avon Canal and immediately passed through the now disused guillotine stop lock (photo), built by the old private canal companies to protect their water supply.

At Shirley I reached the draw bridge (photo), the first of many I will come across, and something I have been dreading. They wont come any easier than this one. Narrows before the bridge saved tying up, the bridge was operated automatically by using a British Waterways key and pressing a button located on the towpath side of the bridge. Gates came down across the road, the bridge went up, I hopped on the boat, passed through and got off to drop the bridge and open the road. Piece of cake.

The mooring was chosen to be as close as possible to Pete’s house, another ex-colleague. His sense of direction is terrible, I doubted his ability to find the place, even with his sat nav. But find it he did, providing as always, an evening of interesting anecdotes and laughter. Pete was the last of the reunions, we have all chosen very different paths, we are all on our own personal journeys. I am crap at staying in touch, but I am glad to have made an effort.