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Steam narrow boat President

Only one F in Foot. by Roger Prior.
Dates:	25th to 30th June 2006
Crew:	Captain: Dave Stott; Driver Dave Speer; Crew: Richard Prince, Babs Parkin, Roger Prior, Bob Crompton and other visitors. Various Gifford personnel. Sue Day and “Queenie”.
Journey:	Ellesmere Port to BCLM

The Prologue.

The Canal Entre Deux Mers is a lovely place to be; just ask Rik Stein. It runs from Bordeaux on the French Atlantic coast to the Mediterranean near Agde, and across the Camargue to Marseilles. Having previously cruised the Canal du Midi section (Toulouse – Beziers), we spent two glorious weeks in the summer of the year five enjoying the good life on the Canal Lateral de La Garonne and the river Baise to Condom. Titter ye not, this lovely mill town in the Gers region has, with typical Gallic pragmatism, become the international centre for research into HIV/AIDS.

A penichette is also a good place to be crippled; I developed an extremely painful instep and narrow gangways and plenty of handrails made the Long John Silver routine at least possible. When I could no longer put foot to floor I crawled to a taxi at the Locaboat base in Agen and visited the local hospital. I was examined, given a prescription for a heavy dose of Prednisolone, had it made up at a pharmacie, (or rather the taxi driver did) and was back on the boat before the rest of the family had finished their supermarket trip. Now, I’m not saying this couldn’t happen here…………

The steroids worked like a switch. Back home, the specialist couldn’t make a definitive diagnosis – “come back if it flares up and is swollen and we’ll draw some fluid…”. It didn’t.

 

Sunday 25th June 2006

My wife Edie and daughter Charlotte ferried me to Ellesmere Port, picking up Dave Stott en route. We arrived at the North Western Museum of Inland Navigation in time for lunch at the very swish, very new and expensively appointed café. After meeting the rest of the crew I explored the site. It was thronged with people enjoying the IWA celebration rally, with brass bands, exhibits and lots of stuff going on in the smart buildings which have appeared since I last visited in 1977. Most of the boats however were a sorry sight, having simply deteriorated in the interim. Obviously it’s easier to get funding for fast food than slow boats.

I was casting around for a pub nearby to watch the World Cup footy. The lady at the café information point didn’t know of one but eyeing up my cool FOP fancy dress asked “Are you with the IWA party?”. I mentioned President, Gifford, and didn’t actually lie. “OK then go to the Tom Rolt  Centre, but don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all turn up.” Another fine building, a smart, staffed but deserted bar, and in the next room someone setting-up a TV, projector and screen. Four of us watched England’s finest fumble their way to a 1-0 annihilation of mighty Ecuador. Nobody had blabbed.

By now the bar was full of the President’s men and woman, discussing the cruise. Kildare being rebottomed, Dave Speer and Babs Parkin had kindly brought Dave’s boat Hazel Valley as crew/support boat, so we didn’t have to sleep on the coal and eat firewood.

In place of Kildare, President had an 80 year old Thomas Clayton tar-boat to tow. Giffford is kept at Ellesmere Port and beautifully cared for by the Boat Museum Society. From the same fleet as Usk, on which I was taught boating by ex “number one” Len Wilson, she carried gas oil from the Shell refinery at Stanlow on the MSC to Clayton’s depot at Langley Green near the top of “the Crow” locks near Oldbury.  (My first visit to Ellesmere Port had been from Walsall with Len and Waterways Activity Group as a recreation of his working run on the horse-boats.)

Gifford was due to attend the 40th anniversary of Clayton’s boatyard closing, held at the BCN Society’s rally at Titford Pumphouse. We were to tow her to Nantwich, Sue Day from the Horse-boating Society would take her to BCLM with “Queenie” hauling, and Stour would complete the journey to Titford in a re-run of a pairing from 1955.

Monday 26 June.

Alarm 6am, watered up and let go by 7 with whistles and waves; President towing Gifford in clouds of steam under lowering skies. I followed steering Hazel Valley, being confined to light duties with a sprung rib (it’s been one of those years). After half a mile President was firmly aground under bridge 143. I brought HazelValley gingerly past to tow, and with much snatching and poling we were off by 8 in a trio. President was cast off at 144, promptly aground at 143, towed to 142, and we processed in this stately fashion until at 138, after covering 3 miles in as many hours, we hit the blanket weed which stopped Hazy in her tracks, prop spinning ineffectually in a glutinous green soup.

President’s huge screw fared better so we continued with President towing Gifford towing Hazel Valley; very slow. When the bottom more nearly approached the top, which was often, progress was barely perceptible. By 11.45 at bridge134 we’d covered 41/4 miles. The towpath was nicely maintained though. Weary crews were revived by Babs’ bacon, tomato and mushroom butties, and despite the level being 4” down we managed 2mph at times, Hazy running solo once more.

It couldn’t last; and it didn’t.

On the turn before Chester bottom lock at Tower Wharf President stuck fast and no amount of rocking and poling would release her. BW were called to help and in the meantime Babs and I would take Hazy up through Northgate staircase (3), and buy supplies. It was 2.40.

At 4.15 President and Gifford appeared, we had lunch(!) and set off through the middle of Chester in the rain, past new apartments, warehouse conversions and the splendid old (Lion?) lead works where the shot tower still stands. Liquids in free fall (e.g. rain) do not form a teardrop shape; they are perfectly spherical, so molten lead drops were released from the top of the tower to cool into perfect shot by the bottom.

Chester has plenty to offer the visitor, from high-end retail therapy to walking the city walls, but we had other plans; five wide slow-filling locks and good water through the suburbs before tying up at Christleton for the “Cheshire Cat” at 7.15

11 miles 8 locks 12 hours.

Tuesday 27 June:

We set off at 7.30 in rain, through the Cheshire Plain; flat, lush and green, with herds of cows grazing while gazing with curiosity at the snorting fire-breathing monster passing by. Usually cattle shy away from President  (whereas horses seem attracted and often run alongside) but these were unfazed. Perhaps with all the footballers and their WAGs scorching around hereabouts in their supercars it takes a little more than a mere steamboat to disturb their ruminations.

We were still on the old Chester Canal; built to barge dimensions with gentle curves, wide bridge-holes and wide locks, which all helped us keep the immaculately painted Gifford unmarked. At Beeston Iron Lock we had to penn through singly, however. It was built of cast-iron flanged plates because of the running sand below, and the walls have bowed inwards. BW men supervised, between bouts of paint-chipping, as one lower gate is also out of kilter, and we were all finally through by midday.

We continued onward and upward with the main-line railway for company to Bunbury Staircase(2), the last of the wide locks. After the excitement(?) of yesterday, steady uneventful progress was a boon; passing Barbridge (Middlewich) and Hurleston (Llangollen) junctions and safely negotiating the endless linear moorings and the tight turn before the aqueduct at Nantwich.

At 5.50, just south of the town, we said goodbye to our friends on Gifford; they to await Sue Day and her horse, we to catch an appointment at Audlem.

We tied up at the “Shroppie Fly” at 8.15, rushed our ablutions, grabbed a bench, and attacked the Landlord. The bar staff were friendly and Timothy Taylor’s brew slipped down nicely. We dined en plein air thanks to Babs’ wizardry in Hazy’s galley after a day of coaling and boiler and engine tending; what a star! Pudding was red wine.

22 miles  11 locks 12 ¾ hours.

Wednesday 28 June.

Up at six for the ascent of Audlem locks, ominous familiar ache in left foot.

When we let go at 7.30 a strange phenomenon occurred; seemingly sleeping crews suddenly sprang into life on hearing our approach. In a frenzy of activity, engines were raced, mooring pins left forgotten or slung in a heap of tangled rope on cabin tops, and half-dressed steerers rushed to push off ahead of us. There followed the delicious irony of our having to help them through so they didn’t hold us up too much. Apart from these slowcoaches and a by-wash scour at the foot of #2 which needed a big flush to get us over, the climb was very pleasant, the crews meshing well; just like with Kildare but without the bow-hauling. We broke fast at the top at 9.30 under lightening skies and were only slightly peeved when President came to a sudden stop under bridge73; dead centre of the channel. Once again, the usefulness of a motorised “butty” proved itself; after only 35 minutes of snatching, poling and rocking we were off. Perhaps we should routinely cruise in convoy with a tug. Whilst we were having such fun a BW mud-hopper was being unloaded 300 yards away.

Shortly after, midway up Adderley locks(5), we we met a hire-boater who owns the only steam-powered sawmill in New Zealand.

Market Drayton was busy, busy, and Tyrley locks provided entertainment with vicious overflows flinging the unwary into the offside trees; even President had to be aimed a full boat width right of the chamber and powered in. After lunch at the top we were in proper Shroppie territory; the intimate other-worldliness of Woodeaves cutting, green upon green like slipping through a rain-forest, followed after Cadbury’s wharf at Knighton by the long views from Shebdon embankment over to the Wrekin in glorious sunshine.

Steering President solo is different; quite dead and heavy, without the help from the butty steerer, but at least there were no cross-straps to worry about, always falling off Kildare’s stem at the most critical moments. By 6.20 when we tied up at the “Anchor” at High Offley, responses had got more than sluggish. We then spent ‘til 9 extracting a large quantity of clothes, bags and plastic wire from the prop; all the time being gently mocked by a song-thrush singing his repertoire (including curlew imitations) from the top of the tallest tree.

We slaked our thirsts with a few drops brought from the cellar in a foaming jug; the “Anchor” is a rare gem among pubs. Refreshed, we fell on Babs’ chicken veg rice and garlic bread like locusts, dozed through a Fred Dibnah dvd, and so to bed.

16 miles 22 locks 11 hours.

Thursday 29 June. Fine, dry sunny.

The song-thrush was at it again, and continuing in the holiday spirit, we slept in and let go at 8.30. We crept through the green tunnel of Grub Street cutting with its famous bridge-borne telegraph pole, and saw several kingfishers. We even treated ourselves to an hour and a half for breakfast at the Norbury Junction café, before taking to the sky on the great Shelmore embankment which gave Telford so much grief in its construction. The sun shone strongly and even bridge 37, which had caused trouble on the journey north, let us off lightly.

We were temporarily inconvenienced when the steam injector valve threw a thread and tried to spoil the party, but Capt. Stotty had its measure; cannibalising bits from the steam whistle valve, a few dilithium crystals, and before you could say “firebars”…..

The schedule was so relaxed that we also took another 90 minutes for lunch, moored outside the “Hartley Arms”, before joining a queue of two for Wheaton Aston lock, then crossing over the A5 on Stretton Aqueduct to tie up at bridge 14 for the “Bridge Inn” at Brewood.

We then did something silly. While we were cleaning President’s cabin top the Buckby can found its way into the cut. Out came the Sea-searcher magnet and a growing crowd on the bridge watched a new pastime; Can-Upping. There isn’t a great density of steel in a Buckby can and we retrieved all sorts of rubbish before finally finding it and gingerly easing it to the surface, half an hour later. I gave my worsening foot an icing by dangling it in the canal for a while, before we repaired to the pub for a memorable meal.

13 miles 1 lock 5 ½ hours.

Friday 30th June. Overcast/sun warm

After a fitful night I woke in a muck sweat, the foot now exquisitely tender. An hour later I’d finally got my boot on; it was obvious I was to play no more useful part in this trip. Two hours’ cruising brought us to Cut-End and I transferred to President’s cabin top, and we said goodbye to Babs and Dave who were taking a well-deserved break down the Staffs and Worcs hoping to see Wombourn Pumping House in steam. Hazel Valley had been President’s support boat since 13th June as tug, galley and dormitory. Dave’s boat and time made the cruises possible and Babs was a powerhouse; coaling stoking driving, and spoiling us rotten with victuals. Thank you both so much.

We had bankside help up the “21” and made good time apart from an enforced wait halfway for some new fire-bars. We took the opportunity for a bacon butty breakfast and I ‘phoned home for a lift. At 12.30 I hopped off and left the able-bodied to take President home.

To Wolverhampton Top lock: 8 miles 22 locks 5 hours.

Postscript:

Gout is great fun if you haven’t got it.

Apparently Port is not the culprit; that was poisoning due to it being stored in lead flasks, and red wine is no worse than anything else. The main disposition is genetic but yeasts can be a trigger, e.g. real ales and blue cheese.

In France Charlotte and I had been polishing off a packet of Roquefort every lunchtime before my first attack, and there was a lot left after her birthday bash just before the cruise, and I do so abhor waste!…..

So that’s that then; nothing to do with beer.

Roger Prior>