Giant Slalom

With a target of reaching Skipton by tomorrow evening, we divided up the journey in line with a recommendation from CanalPlan, and made a reasonably early start.

We were on the summit – the highest section of the Leeds and Liverpool.

First point of interest was the Foulridge tunnel. This is 1640 yards long and takes about 15 minutes to get through. It wasn't all that much more gloomy than the general weather on the hill-tops.

It's one-way traffic, and there's a 10-minute period every hour when the traffic lights allow you to enter. We'd timed our start for the 8.30 slot and just made it.

At the far end there's a café serving breakfast, but we'd had ours, so we just filled the water tank.

Off to the side of the tunnel are the Foulridge reservoirs, but the local topography doesn't allow the passing boater to get a view or a photo. So we carried on for four miles to the first of the three locks we'd planned for today.

The Greenberfield locks are the first going downhill since forever (actually, since Dutton Stop Lock, where the Trent and Mersey joins the Bridgewater Canal, but since that's only about 6 inches, the last downhill lock was really in Middlewich, on 22nd June). They have a stunning location. Going down a lock is far less bumpy than coming up one, especially these wide locks. The main thing to watch is the cill at the back, because it's hidden under the water as you drop, and these locks are 10 feet shorter than those we're more used to.

The other noticeable feature of this stretch is the way is twists and turns as it follows the contour.

It involves you in some very sharp bends (one of 160˚).

Here it doubles back on itself around the head of a little valley, with the opposite arm just 100 yards away.

After some interesting structures…

we arrived at what we'd thought would be our stop for the night – just before the top lock of the Bank Newton flight.

However, we hadn't reckoned with the helpfulness of CRT volunteer Hugh, who was just assisting two hired widebeams through the top two locks. We were well past lunchtime, but it seemed too good as opportunity to pass up. So down the flight we went, assisted by Hugh and some others, all six locks.

Thank you, Hugh. You're a star!

Would there be moorings at the bottom of the flight? We were assured there would. But when we got there we found they were long-term, not visitor moorings, so we had to push on. Before we knew what was going on, we'd arrived at the top of the next set of three going down into the village of Gargrave. Oh well, we thought, in for a penny, in for a drachma.

So down we went and fortunately, given the lateness of our arrival, found a mooring in a delightful spot in the middle of the village.

So then, that was twelve locks instead of three, no lunch and some sore bodies. But at least we've reminded ourselves what it's like to zig-zag downhill!

Top o' the world

In the battle between the already-made decision to stay put on Monday (making use of the rainy day to fix my sound insulation panels) and the need to get somewhere where Erin Mae's dodgy alternator could receive some TLC, the alternator won. We decided to make our way up the Barrowford locks.

The Met Office had promised it would be raining hard by 8 a.m., so we thought about delaying the start until things had cleared a bit. But it still wasn't raining by 9, so we felt we were onto a good thing and got going. No such luck. As soon as we started, so did the rain. Mind you, by Lancashire standards I don't think you could call it heavy rain, though it made taking photos more complicated than usual.

We're a bit torn about whether we like company / help on these wide locks, or not. On our own, we establish our own routines, and have our own standards for how much of a bashing we're prepared for Erin Mae to take with the currents swirling in the locks. On the other hand, both gates and paddles seem to require an inordinate amount of work for my best beloved, even though she'd still rather be out there than controlling the boat both entering and while in the locks. That's when extra muscle is useful, and we have to put up with someone else's ideas about managing the mechanisms.

Eventually we arrived at the last group of three, up to the top lock…

and emerged onto the pound that is the summit of the Leeds and Liverpool canal.

Having down so much uphill work to get here, you feel as though it must be the highest point on the whole canal network. But that honour belongs, it seems, to the Huddersfield Narrow Canal, with the Rochdale coming a close second. In fact there are eight canal summits higher than this one, and not all of those are in this neck of the woods – three belong to the BCN network (Birmingham Canal Navigations). It is high enough, however, for the pressure at the water point to be minimal (especially, we were told, when the person in the lock cottage is doing a wash or taking a shower!).

Looking back from our mooring we can see the Barrowford reservoir, which stores water surplus to requirement for the summit. The summit pound itself is fed by streams coming off the hills.

You'd think rainwater would be clear, wouldn't you. All day it's looked pretty grey to me.

Tomorrow we'll hopefully get to a boatyard where they can do something about the electrical problem being flagged by my auxiliary warning light. I posted a question on the CanalWorld forums last night, and the answers suggested worn brushes or a dying diode in the domestic alternator. Interestingly, this is where having fitted my Stirling gizmo a couple of years ago has paid dividends – not in terms of the wonderful things it is supposed to do, but in virtue of the fact that, as part of the installation, you feed the output from both alternators to it, and it combines them. So as the domestic alternator gives a problem, the engine alternator provides charge for everything. Without that, I think we'd be in more trouble than we are.

Isn't that good!

Sunshine and showers

Approaching Gannow tunnel is tricky – a very sharp left-hander as you hope that nothing is coming the other way.

All was well – no paintwork damaged and the whole 557 yards clear for us to proceed.

At the other end there is a wharf with a pub and notices inviting you to tie up and come in. We've come across plenty of places where we'd be less likely to do so, but this was extremely unappealing. On the other hand, when we arrived in Burnley a mile or so further on, the sun was shining and Burnley Wharf seemed positively welcoming.

The Inn on the Wharf already had a few, friendly customers, but we were particularly interested in the museum in the old toll-house building, also on the wharf.

It's dedicated to the "Weavers' Triangle", a compact area which used to be at the heart of the cotton industry when Burnley was weaving more than anyone else.

That took us a while to go round, and finally we moved off up the stretch known as the straight mile, which sits on an embankment 60 feet above the rest of the town.

You look across the rooftops to the centre where the authorities have been doing a great job of improving appearances,

and on the other side across the rooftops to the moorlands.

But Burnley was not a place we wanted to stop for the night, and the wisdom of our decision was confirmed as we came slowly round another very sharp left-hander to a bridge lined with a score of children of various ages, in the company of (but, I fancy, not under the control of) a woman.

When they saw I'd got my camera out, many of them retreated but then decided there would be little I could do. As we came under the bridge we were pelted with water-bomb balloons.

My best beloved stayed calm and responded with something about being grateful for the cooling effect. But I was anxious, and seething, and nearly grounded Erin Mae on the far side as a consequence. I had no knowledge of what they might have been throwing down – and how many years will it be before the impunity results in water-bombs being exchanged for bricks?

Up until this point I was thinking pretty kindly about Burnley, but now we're glad to be tied up as far away as we could get, just below the first of the Barrowford locks.

Two other things happened to cast a cloud over an otherwise enjoyable day. First, as I was removing the tiller, the tiller pin slipped out of my hand, bounced on the canvas dodger and ended up in the canal. I assume it's made of non-magnetic materials – I couldn't retrieve it wither the magnet or the litter-picker stick we carry. Nothing too serious, but I was attached to that pin!

The other thing was more worrying. As we came through Garrow tunnel I noticed that the auxiliary battery light was on. The manual confirmed that this indicates the domestic batteries are not charging. Now the state of this warning light has been variable throughout the day – not always on and, when it has been, not on full. I think the batteries have been charging, but I don't know what the behaviour of this light means. I think we need to get someone to check out what it's all about, and I'm not sure whether our new RCR membership will cover this issue. If any readers have any knowledge of boatyards up ahead, I'd be grateful for some recommendations. I see that just beyond Foulridge tunnel lies Lower Park Marina at Barnoldswick. After that there doesn't seem to be anything until Skipton. Anyone know anything about these?

Friends

Andy and Wendy came to visit today. Wendy had been a student of mine in the 90s and kept in touch, especially with my best beloved, after moving back to her native Lancashire. She'd popped down to see us when we were on the way to Liverpool last autumn, but this was the first time we'd met her husband Andy.

We initiated them both into the delights of steering Erin Mae, heading back from Hapton towards Clayton-le-Moors. This part of the canal has some stunning views towards the north, where their village nestles among the hills. We stopped for a leisurely lunch looking out at them.

We needed to find a good place to wind, and the first winding hole marked in Nicholson's guide certainly wasn't. We pushed on to the next. There was room, but only just, and there is so much weed and other rubbish in the canal that I was unwilling to run the engine hard either in reverse or to bring the stern round. Fortunately two hefty lads came along and willingly agreed to pull the stern around with the line.

Their efforts were much appreciated, though we crunched the stern gear a little against the underwater obstructions.

It was great to see Andy and Wendy – it''s part of the Erin Mae adventure to meet up with friends in this way. The homemade elderflower cordial they brought was excellent. And the Lancashire sky refrained from wetting us until it was time for them to go.

Hapton heritage

We've planned a day with friends tomorrow, so this morning we went up the canal for water, found a place to wind, and have come back to Hapton. Of this place Nicholson's guide says "A small and unmistakably northern village, with regular streets of terraced houses."

The terraces are faced with a beautifully warm-coloured stone.

The backs of the houses are nowhere near as attractive, but it's generally a fine prospect over the lower half of the village towards the hills to the north.

The village is bisected by what I take (but with no certainty) to be a cutting, holding both the railway and the M65. A couple of bridges span the resultant valley, and the character of the upper part is very different.

The houses are 20th century, brick or pebble-dash, and there are a few small estates of newer build.

It is in this part of the village that you find the parish church, built in the 1920s.

A note on the Hapton Heritage website indicates that the graveyard was consecrated in 1948, but I found a number of gravestones pertaining to deaths earlier than this. Since a number of them had multiple commemorations, it may be that they were only set up later, and that the graves of those who died earlier are actually elsewhere, or were moved.

One of them was Albert Pickup. The Co-op in Clayton-le-Moors is in Pickup Street, which struck me as strange at the time, but is now revealed as (probably) a local family name.

Also in this part of the village is a well-maintained recreation ground and, among the houses, this sign.

I followed it and found, indeed, a picnic site looking across the railway, motorway and canal to the hills beyond.

But it was back in the lower, older part of the village that I found the Methodist church, re-located at a date I did not discover from an older site. I couldn't make up my mind whether this marked a real, or merely imaginery, social division between the two halves, and whether it still persists.

And so back to Erin Mae where, for the first time, I think, I completely removed the panels from the back and one side so we could enjoy some shade on this very hot afternoon.

What is it that leads Nicholson's to describe Hapton as "unmistakably northern"? Other places have streets of terraced houses. I think that tomorrow I'll ask our northern friends to comment.

Budgie

This morning a budgie came to call. My best beloved called me to the front of the boat, where a passing walker had drawn her attention to the bird perched on Erin Mae's roof. But when I emerged, it flew off to the bridge. So I used the zoom at maximum to collect the evidence.

We're now on a section of the Leeds and Liverpool with no locks for many a mile – it follows the contours. This means you meander around, with some amazing views across the countryside, the expanse of which is, of course, very difficult to capture on a 3x2 photo.

Some of the hills are hills, while others, I think, are spoil from old industrial workings.

The signs of that industry are everywhere, alongside the 18th century transport route…

while the canal in this area constantly interacts with its contemporary counterpart.

 But who knows by what route this oddity ended up here?

In the end we tied up in Hapton, with this view from the towpath.

A beautiful, breezy evening – time to get the washing out!

It's been the best day of the week, and something of a relief after the energetics of the lock flights. It's going to be quite a while before those resume. But when they do, we're heading for the top of the world.

Ten thousand holes

Well, six locks and 10,000 ol' plastic bags. Blackburn, Lancashire (if you don't know the reference, ask a Beatles boffin) is a bit bottom right quadrant on our favourite places / excitement diagram. It certainly gave some excitement but doesn't rate as a favourite place.

The canal runs in a scruffy green corridor above the town, passing through a mixture of residential and small industrial areas.

Two minarets competed with the spires.

The flight of six locks was not very pleasant, with water overtopping the gates,

and lots of rubbish and weed everywhere, just itching to get wound round the propellor.

The water flows were pretty strong and had to be negotiated carefully.

It's normal to wait in a lock for a boat to emerge from the opposite one, when they are as close together as this…

but we fell into the same pattern, even when there was nothing coming the other way.

My best beloved would go ahead and open the bottom gate on the next lock, while I waited for Erin Mae to rise in the lock she was in, opened the gate(s) and brought her through. If conditions were OK, I was able to shut the gate behind me before my best beloved returned to do so, but it didn't help that there weren't any bollards to tie a line to. It's much easier to do all this with the narrow locks we're more used to, unless you have company.

Having finally made it through all six, and admired this chappie on the way, it was clear we had something clogging the propellor, so we pulled in at Eanam Wharf to clear large numbers of plastic bag bits, some rope and a load of weed. Whoever invented the weed hatch deserves a medal. We thought that would be that, but a few hundred yards further on came to a shuddering halt. It felt like more gubbins round the prop, but an investigation revealed nothing. On the other hand we now seemed to be stuck on the bottom. It took a lot of work with poles and gentle use of the engine and rudder to finally get us free.

We were quite glad to get this stretch behind us and moor up a mile or two out of town. At least the rain has stopped and it's a sunny evening. Time to catch up with Wimbledon.