Closing Chapters

Obstinate winter illness and problematic under-boat fouling drag at progress in the short winter days; lethargy and confusion at the invisible cord that seemingly holds the boat back in the water. My feet are heavy and spirits sometimes low, the days typified by more road travel than boating miles despite the shortened distance to home. In the chill air, all the exuberance of summer weekends is wicked away like so much steamy breath into the ever-darkening skies.

Leaving the Haywoods and Colwich I am pounded by heavy storms which bite at the skin and probe the stitching of winter coats recently brought out from the cupboard again. Wolseley bridge carries the A51 over the cut on the bend and Bishton Hall pops out of the trees to surprise me with it’s proximity; it must have raised some eyebrows and some voices when the canal was cut through the gardens of the then newly-rebuilt house in the eighteenth century.

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As the big house passes from view I see Dave Freeman’s yard as the light begins to fade. He came up and did the original survey on the boat when I bought it, and none too impressed with the state of the metalwork as it was, it was his report that prompted the vast expense of the plating work done in the spring. There is nobody visible here today, so I don’t call in for a chat. The deep puddles on the towpath hardly encourage stepping off the boat, either.

Rugeley pops up over the horizon, the cover offered by low buildings and tree-lined footpaths a welcome respite from the exposure of the flood plain to the north of the town. Here is the spot where poor Christina Collins was murdered, the story much confused with that of the Kidsgrove Boggart at Harecastle Tunnel, who we met in August.

Whatever it is snagged in the swims of the boat is tugging at the craft; there is no sign of it in the weed hatch but it’s definitely there, and definitely an unwelcome passenger. Every so often the blockage clears, and we leap forward, the path skidding past at pace again, before once again slowing to a near stall. It’s frustrating, mostly because at each point at which I decide to get in and clear it, it seems to solve itself, only to reappear a little later. We push on, out of Rugeley in the gloaming, and with only a torch for light (my headlight is currently in need of refitting) pass through the former tunnel at Armitage, huge sandstone cliffs all that remain of the former underpass.

The next day is clear and bright, and I wish now to make the junction of the Coventry Canal; to mark some passage of chapters. Armitage, the name not at first striking any connections mentally, at least until I pass under the sight of the canalside pottery works. Eventually the penny drops, Armitage Shanks, the chosen porcelain of piss pots the world over! I chug on, under the gaze of several pairs of eyes from within. As I pass again under the road I spy a huge CCTV camera flanked by two huge spotlights on a pole; to my satisfaction it appears to be malfunctioning- pointing directly at a featureless corner of the building. ‘Good. Look at your own navel’, I think as I pass under it.

Out into the flat countryside again, the farmland blasted by high winds that pin me to the bankside as I try to pass King’s Bromley marina. The day is again interspersed with boat trouble, not so limiting to make one do something about it immediately, but enough to provide an annoyance. The sweeping loops of the cut here open out to comely views time and again; avenues of Beech and Birch, hedgerows of young standard Oaks with billowing gorse between. The landscape attracts one in the most unexpected ways; the avenues seem misplaced, like some Victorian parade of a town stolen away in the night. There is an air of structure to the place that belies it’s agricultural nature. Here and there are pockets of something that might once have been grand, the formality of this former industrial infrastructure incongruous in the countryside. That this is now a ‘heritage’ landscape , a cosplay relic of something at once cutting-edge and hard-of-life, lends something of a ghostly quality to it. The emptying out of spirit from a world where working families once laboured for their pay, replaced today by the floating dominions of retirees. An empty cottage at Woodend Lock personifies the feel of the piece, Heras fencing holds people at arms length from the plot whilst the field behind the garden is emptied out for aggregates or sand. I drop down the last few locks to Fradley and after one last fight with a complaining propeller swing hard out to the right and take my leave of the Trent and Mersey Canal. My planner tells me it has been 66 miles since Preston Brook Tunnel, where we joined the canal from the Bridgewater. That day, back in June, now seems much longer ago than it is. The summer has come and gone, the days stretched out and now compressed again. At Gaydon the materials for the new floor and roof lie on pallets, and the forges sit ready in their shed. It is time to get this last leg finished.

The Coventry Canal now spools out in front of me, perhaps not the most spellbinding of names to those who know the city itself; but it represents a new chapter of the journey. The coming pound is long and flat, not a lock in sight until Tamworth. I tie up on the first moorings I see, and immediately find a likeminded soul.

Eddie lives on a big blue boat with his dog, and without second thought or payment offers to take me back to my van, up at Rugeley. People like Eddie are the lifeblood of the canals, it was men and women like him who first looked after me when I became a liveaboard all those years ago. They showed me the ropes, helped with breakdowns, warned me of all the places to avoid leaving your car or boat. In a life of passing through they were the ones who made me feel part of a community, part of something that was not just me. They are rarer now, pushed out of the way by navigation authorities who do not want them to live this life. Many were reluctant boaters to begin with, coming to the water after the Criminal Justice Act first drove them away from a life on the road; and so the coalescence of this linear community has been fleeting. For a while it seemed solid, tangible, and they are the people I look for everywhere I go. When I find them- wherever they are- I am both energised and reassured that we still exist; often out here at the perimeter. The trip back to my van is hugely enjoyable, a lot of shared life, Eddie and I. It’s a shame the drive wasn’t longer, but I hope we will cross paths again.

Next up, the subsurface hanger-on must be dealt with. I need to bite the bullet and get in the cold water, finding and untangling whatever it is so that I may get on without hindrance. It’s not a nice job in prospect; the boat is in busy, dirty water, and it is cold. I have been an outdoor swimmer for most of my life, but now in my mid-40s and out of condition for it I will suit up for the job. It never happens in the summer, this sort of thing.

Note to readers: there seems to be a bit of an issue with uploading videos to these pages at the moment. I am working on it, and hope to have some of the backlog, which are ready to go, posted in the next week or two…

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