Past the South Portal

It seems such a long time ago already. First August, then September, now October already flying past in a blur of non-boating activity. I won’t labour the point too much here, but in the past six or seven weeks all notions of scheduling and progress have gone the way of many a person’s dreams. The long, hot days of early August saw Murphy’s Game pass through Kidsgrove and into the notional ‘Midlands’, signalling the opening of a distinct third chapter of the trip. Far from heralding the kicking-on of the run however, this distinctive new phase has been typified by only stuttering progress.

It started well enough; on a baking hot morning I once more did the elaborate dance of van-and-bike and zipped down the towpath to the south portal of Harecastle Tunnel where we last saw movement. Stoke-on-Trent lies in the near distance, the way ahead and behind marked by the rust-brown waters which are a function of the iron ore rich geology of the area, tapped into by the now-closed Brindley Tunnel. Timeless plans to plant the disused tunnel portals with water-cleaning reed beds are still yet to come to fruition, so for now the lurid toned canal water endures, staining everything that touch it in bright orange swatches.

Cast off on this particular Wednesday and away for a brief shove south past newly created nature reserves; their wide flat footpaths dotted with walkers and cyclists in the manner of architect’s renderings the world over. This is an area transformed since my last transit here, the greater Stoke area now resembling something of an unfinished Lazarus project for the northern Midlands. Here and there the leftover landmarks of past industry line the way; the potteries at Middleport half-abandoned half-preserved, their curved kiln towers now home to Buddleia and Alder shoots, yards and factory buildings overgrown and peppered with litter.

Here and there the signs of current labour are more prominent; small workshops huddle up to the coping stones of the canal, piles of car parts, stillages of steel and jumbled components. The unloved or unfinished launches of any number of locals bob about at the end of nylon ropes, the manifestation of many an unrealised boating dream and a warning to us all.

Here is liminality; the old world has gone, the new not yet fully in its place. Generations of potters plied a world-famous trade from these bankside factories. That they would today lie empty, brickwork fractured and windows missing, would be unbelievable to those high industrialists. As the world turns, it evolves, however; and the time of this place for this work has passed. Rounding the wide curves into Etruria the change becomes more prominent; last time we passed here the whole area to the west of the canal had been cleared; but now the razed ground is packed-tight with low office blocks. On that October passage the wind whipped across the site, carrying with it the near-horizontal rain that stings the face and wicks all heat from the hands. It was so fierce that all attempts to move had to be abandoned for three entire days, the wind pinning the boat to the side of the canal and preventing any meaningful progress. We holed up in the pub- to my mind the Toby Carvery by the lift bridge and marina- drank ourselves silly and ate mountainous plates of cheap gravy-drowned dinner for the entirety of the weekend.

Today the area is shaded and leafy; the village of glass-clad offices of the modern landscape part-obscured from view by tall trees and tight, defensive hedging. The denizens of this district walk-and-talk their lunch breaks as I pass; narrow-cut trousers and pointy shoes the new uniform for young men with the world to conquer from their desktops. My needs and desires being more prosaic, I tie up next to the pub once more; though in this time and place there is no need or desire for a carvery dinner. I am amused to see that there are plenty there who disagree, the chef’s carving knife arcs busily by the trays of meat, his composure wilting like cabbage under the heat lamps. One could be forgiven for failing to make the link between this pub and the from past journeys, but it is surely the same one. To my mind it was once called something like the China Dragon, but that could easily be the work of a confused mind after so long.

Soon the flight of locks through Trentham appear and we traverse the low ground past Stoke City FC’s diminutive stadium. I am spoiled for these things, more used to the soaring heights of the new White Hart Lane at Tottenham, this ground looks like a model in comparison; and the huge betting sponsorship makes me feel distinctly uneasy. I have a personal hatred of the pernicious modern betting culture, not for these pages but not something I will ever not despise.

Here the first matters of concern for some weeks rise up from the back deck; inexplicably the boat starts to billow smoke from the engine bay, and there is a distinct smell of burning plastic and hot oil. We pull up sharply alongside the city’s recycling plant as the symptoms are hastily examined. It seems that the headwind and the increased width of the cut here have combined to overheat the engine. This little twin-pot Lister is good for pottering along but where the canal behaves like a river it struggles to make headway. Today the effort of shoving the boat into the wind and against the flow has been too much, so a gentle final push out into the emerging green space is sensible before tying up in the lee of an enormous distribution warehouse.

Next up is the Staffordshire countryside, down to Stone and Stafford before swinging to the east of Birmingham on the Coventry canal. There are a lot of miles and a lot of locks still to go, but home is beginning to hove into view. Then it will be time to start with the work of fitting out the craft for its new life; for now, however, I have away-work to attend to. The now annual History of England Podcast tour as a guest of the marvellous David Crowther and then the small matter of a drive to Italy and a dig at the wondrous ruins of Pompeii.

One day I’ll get on top of my to-do list; that day is not today, however.

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